An Anonymous Girl(56)

I freeze.

I know my next line: I’m sorry to bother you, but did you find a phone?

But I can’t speak. I can’t move.

The man in the booth isn’t a stranger.

I first encountered him outside the Met Breuer four days ago, when we both stopped to help the woman who was hit by a taxi. We were two strangers bound together by serendipity—at least that’s what I assumed.

I saw him again after he texted to tell me Marilyn was okay, and I suggested meeting for a drink.

He sets his newspaper on the table. He looks almost as surprised as I feel. “Jess? What are you doing here?”

My first instinct is to turn and walk out the door. My mouth is dry and it’s hard to swallow.

“I just—I mean,” I stutter. “I was just walking by and thought I’d grab a bite.”

He blinks.

“What a coincidence.” His eyes linger on my face and panic sweeps through me. “You don’t live around here. What are you doing in the neighborhood?”

I shake my head and push away an image of him leaning forward in the darkened bar just two nights ago, his hand grazing my thigh. After three drinks, Thomas and I went back to my place.

“Um, a friend told me I should come because the food was good.”

The waitress swings by with a carafe of steaming coffee: “Top you off, Thomas?”

“Sure,” he says. He gestures to me. “Do you want to sit down?”

The restaurant feels stuffy and overly warm. I unwind the taupe wrap from around my neck, leaving both sides dangling down the front of my jacket. Thomas is still looking at me suspiciously.

I don’t blame him.

I never learned what the morality test was in the museum. But in a city of eight million, what are the odds that I’d randomly run into the same person twice in four days, both times on assignment for Dr. Shields?

Everything feels so topsy-turvy that I can’t gather my thoughts. Another image intrudes: him kissing his way down my bare stomach.

I can’t say anything to Thomas that would explain my presence here. Who is he to Dr. Shields? Why did she pick him?

I feel sweat prickle my armpits.

The waitress returns. I’m still standing.

“Anything for you?” she asks me.

There’s no way I can sit across from him and eat.

“You know, I’m not really hungry after all,” I say.

I look at Thomas more closely—his green eyes behind his tortoiseshell glasses, his olive skin and his dirty-blond hair. It hits me that Dr. Shields assumed the guy I was talking to at the exhibit was Thomas, since she thought he had sandy hair. She lost interest as soon as she realized it wasn’t him.

So this is a do-over.

But what is Dr. Shields going to say when she learns I’ve slept with the guy whose phone number I’m supposed to get?

I’m aware I’m fingering the edge of my wrap. I break eye contact with Thomas and pull it off, tucking it into my bag and anchoring it with the paperback book I’m carrying.

“I need to go,” I say.

He raises his eyebrows. “Are you stalking me?” he asks.

I can’t tell if he’s kidding. I haven’t talked to him since he left my place around one A.M. yesterday morning. Neither of us texted the other; it seemed pretty clear what our encounter was.

“No, no,” I say. “It was just—I made a mistake.”

I flee out the door.

I already completed my assignment days ago. I have Thomas’s number stored in my phone. And he has mine.

When I’m a block away from the diner, I call Dr. Shields to tell her I’m en route to her town house. She answers midway through the first ring. Her silvery voice is edged with strain: “Did you find him?”

“Yes, he was right where you said he’d be.”

I’m about to duck into a subway station when the beep of an incoming call interrupts her next question. All I can make out is: “. . . phone . . . plan?”

“Sorry,” I say. “Yes, we have each other’s numbers.”

I hear the breezy sound of her exhalation.

“Wonderful, Jessica. I’ll see you soon.”

My heart is thudding.

I don’t know how I’m going to manage to sit across from her and tell her I slept with the guy in the experiment. I could say that I would’ve told her about meeting Thomas, but she cut me off when I was talking about the taxi accident during our last session.

I have to do it. If I’m not honest, she’ll find out.

I release a breath.

It’s silly to think Dr. Shields will be upset with me, I tell myself. I made an innocent mistake. She can’t hold it against me.

But I can’t stop shivering.

I check my voice mail. One message.

I know who it’s from even before I hear his voice.

“Hi, it’s Thomas. We have to talk. I think I know the friend who sent you to the diner. She’s . . . Look, just call me back as soon as you can.”

He continues: “And please, don’t tell her anything.” There’s a pause. “She’s dangerous. Watch yourself.”





CHAPTER


THIRTY-SIX


Sunday, December 16

You finally met my husband.