An Anonymous Girl(66)

You are intimately known to me, Jessica. You have consistently proved your devotion: You wore the burgundy nail polish. You quashed your instinctual hesitations and followed instructions. You didn’t surreptitiously glimpse the sculpture before you delivered it. You surrendered your secrets.

But in the past forty-eight hours, you have begun to slip away: You did not prioritize our most recent meeting, instead leaving early to attend to a client. You evaded my calls and texts. You clearly lied to me. You are acting as though this relationship is merely transactional, as though you regard it as a well-stocked ATM that dispenses cash without consequences.

What has changed, Jessica?

Have you felt the heat of Thomas’s flame?

That possibility causes a fierce rigidity in the body.

It takes several minutes of slow, sustained breathing to recover.

Focus is returned to the issue at hand: What will it cost to buy your loyalty back?

Your file is brought from the study upstairs into the library and set down on the coffee table. Across from it, Thomas’s paper-white narcissi rest atop the piano, near the photograph of us on our wedding day. A subtle fragrance perfumes the air.

The file is opened. The first page contains the photocopied driver’s license you provided on the day you joined the study, as well as other biographical data.

The second page consists of printed photographs Ben was asked to gather from Instagram.

You and your sister look like siblings, but whereas your features are finely drawn and your eyes sharp, Becky’s still hold on to the softness of childhood, as if a smear of Vaseline has coated the portion of the camera’s lens that focused on her.

Caring for Becky can’t be easy.

Your mother wears a cheap-looking blouse and she squints into the sunlight; your father rests his hands in his pockets as though they can help support him to remain upright.

Your parents look tired, Jessica.

Perhaps a vacation is in order.





CHAPTER


FORTY-FIVE


Wednesday, December 19

Thomas told me to behave normally; to proceed as I have been all along so Dr. Shields won’t suspect anything.

“We’ll figure out a way to get you out of this safely,” he said as we left the park. When we exited the gardens, he climbed onto a motorcycle, strapped on his helmet, and roared off.

But in the twenty-four hours since we parted, the uneasy feeling that crept over me in the Conservatory has ebbed.

When I got home last night, I couldn’t stop wondering about Subject 5. I took a long, hot shower and shared some leftover spaghetti and meatballs with Leo. But the more I thought about it, the less sense it made. Was I really supposed to believe an esteemed psychiatrist and NYU professor pushed someone to suicide, and that she could do the same to me?

Probably that girl had issues all along, like Thomas said. Her death had nothing to do with Dr. Shields and the study.

Hearing from Noah also helped. He texted: Free for dinner Friday night? A friend of mine has a great restaurant called Peachtree Grill if you like Southern food. I replied immediately: I’m in!

It doesn’t matter if Dr. Shields needs me that night. I’ll tell her I’m busy.

By the time I put on my coziest pajamas, my conversation with Thomas has begun to grow faint and distant, almost like a dream. My anxiety is being replaced by something more solid and welcome: anger.

Before I crawl into bed, I restock my beauty kit in preparation for a busy day tomorrow. I hesitate when my hand closes around the half-empty bottle of burgundy nail polish. Then I pitch it into my trash can.

As I draw my comforter up to my neck, feeling Leo nestle by my side, I listen to the jangle of my across-the-hall neighbor’s keys and think about how Dr. Shields suggested she might help find a job for my dad. But it seems as if she’s forgotten all about that. And while the money has been good, the turbulence Dr. Shields has injected into my life isn’t worth a few thousand dollars.

I sleep hard for seven hours.

When I wake up, I realize how simple the solution is: I’m done.

Before I leave for work, I dial her number. For the first time, I’m the one who is reaching out to request a meeting.

“Could I stop by tonight?” I ask. “I was hoping to get my most recent check . . . I could use the money.”

I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, but the instant I hear her modulated voice, I stand up.

“How nice to hear from you, Jessica,” Dr. Shields says. “I can see you at six.”

Can it possibly be this simple? I think.

I feel a twinge of deja vu. I had the exact same thought when I successfully snuck into the study.

The clouds are thick and heavy in the sky when I leave my apartment a few minutes later and head to the first of my half dozen clients. In nine hours, this will be finished, I tell myself.

I spend the day working on a businesswoman who needs a head shot for her company website, an author who is being interviewed on New York One, and a trio of friends going to a holiday party at Cipriani. I also duck home in the early afternoon to take Leo for a walk. I feel like I am easing back into my old life, anchored by the comforting weight of predictability.

I arrive at Dr. Shields’s town house a few minutes early, but I wait until six on the dot to press the buzzer. I know exactly what I’m going to say. I’m not even going to take off my coat.