An Anonymous Girl(65)

I heard the same bright, energetic notes again later when I called Dr. Shields.

“It’s not what it seems,” he says. “Listen, you can’t just leave someone like Lydia. Not if she doesn’t want you to.”

His words send an electrical charge coursing through me.

“You said she preyed on young women like me,” I say. I swallow hard. My next question is the hardest to ask, even though it’s the one that has been consuming me. “What do you mean, exactly?”

He abruptly stands up and looks around. I realize Ben kept doing the same thing in the coffee shop.

Both men had strong ties to Dr. Shields, but now both claim to be adrift from her. More than that, they seem wary of her.

The Conservatory is nearly silent; there isn’t even the rattle of leaves blowing in the wind, or the chatter of squirrels.

“Let’s walk,” Thomas suggests.

I start to head in the direction that will lead us out of the park, but he reaches for my arm and pulls it. I feel the hard pinch through the fabric of my coat: “This way.”

I slip my arm out of his grasp before I follow him deeper into the gardens, toward a stone fountain with frozen water in its base.

A few yards past it, he stops and looks at the ground.

I’m so cold now that the tip of my nose is numb. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to contain a shiver.

“There was another girl,” Thomas says. His voice is so low I have to strain to hear it. “She was young and lonely and Lydia took to her. They spent time together. Lydia gave her gifts and even had her over to the town house. It was like she became a little sister or something . . .”

Like a younger sister, I think. My heart begins to pound in my chest.

A sharp cracking noise sounds somewhere to my left. I whip my head around but I don’t see anyone.

Just a branch falling, I tell myself.

“The girl . . . she had some issues. Thomas slides off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. I can’t see the expression in his eyes.

I struggle against the sudden, almost overpowering urge to turn and run. I know I need to hear what Thomas is saying.

“One night she came by to see Lydia. They talked for a while. I don’t know what Lydia said to her; I wasn’t home.”

The sun has set and the temperature feels like it has plummeted ten degrees. I shiver again.

“What does this have to do with me?” I ask. My throat is so dry it’s difficult to force out the words. And somewhere, deep inside, I don’t even need an answer.

I already know how this story ends.

Thomas finally turns and looks me in the eye.

“This is where she killed herself,” he says. “She was Subject 5.”





CHAPTER


FORTY-FOUR


Tuesday, December 18

How dare you deceive me, Jessica?

At 8:07 P.M. tonight, you call to report that Thomas has just telephoned you.

“Did you make plans for a date?” you are asked.

“No, no, no,” you immediately say.

Those extraneous “no’s” are your undoing: Liars, like the chronically insecure, often overcompensate.

“He told me he couldn’t meet this week after all, but that he’d be in touch,” you continue.

Your voice sounds assured, and also hurried. You are trying to send a signal implying that you are too busy for a sustained conversation.

How naive you are, Jessica, to think that you could ever dictate the terms of our conversation. Or anything else, for that matter.

A lengthy pause is needed to remind you of this, even though this is not a lesson you should require.

“Did he imply that it was simply a function of his busy schedule?” you are asked. “Did you get the impression he would follow up again?”

Under this questioning, you make your second error.

“He really didn’t give a reason,” you reply. “That’s all his text said.”

It it possible you simply misspoke when you described the method of communication first as a phone call and then as a text?

Or was this a deliberate deception?

If you were within the confines of the therapy office, perched on the love seat, your nonverbal clues might emerge: a twirl of your hair, the fiddling of your stacked silver rings, or the scraping of one fingernail along another.

Over the telephone, however, your subtle tells are not apparent.

Your inconsistencies could be called out.

But if you are being duplicitous, such scrutiny might have the effect of causing you to more carefully cover your tracks.

And so you are allowed to exit the conversation.

What do you do when you hang up the phone?

Perhaps you continue your usual nightly routine, smug in the knowledge that you’ve evaded a potentially treacherous conversation. You walk your dog, then take a long shower and comb conditioner through your unruly curls. While you restock your beauty case, you dutifully call your parents. After you hang up, you hear the familiar noises through the thin walls of your apartment: footsteps overhead, the muted sound of a television sitcom, the honking of taxis on the street outside.

Or has the tenor of your evening shifted?

Perhaps the noises are not comforting tonight. The long, anemic wail of a police car. A heated argument in the apartment next door. The scrabble of mice in the baseboards. You may be thinking of the unreliable lock on your building’s front door. It’s so easy for a stranger, or even an acquaintance, to slip in.