An Anonymous Girl(72)
Thomas accepts the gentle rejection gracefully. Too gracefully?
His sexual appetite has always been strong. The current enforced marital abstinence will stoke his libido, increasing his urge to succumb to temptation again.
After the door is closed behind Thomas, and the newly installed deadbolt secured behind him, the town house is returned to its usual order. Normally, these chores would have been completed after your departure, but time didn’t allow on this busy day.
The newspaper is gathered from the coffee table and tucked in the recycling bin. The dishwasher is emptied. Then the study is surveyed. The faintest scent of oranges perfumes the room. The bowl containing them is picked up and brought to the kitchen. The oranges are dropped into the trash can.
Citrus fruits have never held much appeal.
After the lights are extinguished on the main level and the stairs climbed, a lilac-colored silk nightgown and matching robe are selected. Night serum is dotted around the eyes with the gentle touch of my ring
finger, then a rich moisturizing cream is applied. Aging, though inevitable, can be managed gracefully with the proper arsenal.
When the evening’s rituals are complete and a glass of water brought to the nightstand, one task remains. The ecru file containing the name JESSICA FARRIS on the tab is lifted from the center of the desk in the small study adjoining the bedroom. It is opened.
The photographs of your parents and Becky are scanned again. In less than twenty-four hours, they will be aboard a plane heading hundreds of miles away. Will their absence feel more pronounced as the gulf between you grows?
Then, a Montblanc fountain pen, a cherished gift from my father, is lifted to a fresh page of the yellow legal pad containing meticulous notes. The new entry is dated Wednesday, December 19, and details of my dinner with Thomas are recorded. Special attention is paid to capturing his reaction to the suggestion that silver stacking rings would be a welcome gift.
Your folder is closed and centered on the desk once again, atop a second folder belonging to another subject. They are no longer being kept with the others. They were brought home a few days ago, after the new lock was installed on the front door.
The name on the tab of the folder beneath yours is KATHERINE APRIL VOSS.
CHAPTER
FIFTY
Thursday, December 20
I need to stick as close to the truth as possible when I see Dr. Shields.
Not just because I’m not aware of how much she knows. I also don’t know what she’s capable of.
I barely slept last night; every time the building’s old floorboards creaked, or someone climbed the stairs and walked past my apartment, I froze, listening for the scrape of a key in my lock.
It isn’t possible that Dr. Shields or Thomas could have obtained a key to my place, I tried to reassure myself. Still, at around two A.M., I dragged my nightstand over to block the door and took my can of Mace out of my purse and tucked it under my pillow, within easy reach.
When Dr. Shields sent a text at seven this morning summoning me to her town house after work, I immediately responded Okay. It was pointless to resist, and more important, I didn’t want to agitate her.
If I can’t get out of this trap by pulling away, maybe I need to lean into it, I thought.
I came up with my plan in the shower this morning as I stood under the spray of hot water that couldn’t seem to warm me. I have no idea how she will react to what I’m going to tell her. But I can’t continue like this.
I arrive at her town house at seven-thirty, following a busy day of work. All of my clients were festive, prepping for holiday parties and, in the case of my last appointment of the day, a young woman anticipating a proposal from her boyfriend.
I barely saw their faces as I did their makeup. Instead, visions of Thomas in April’s bed collided in my mind with my thoughts of what I would say to Dr. Shields after she closed the door of her town house behind us.
She lets me in instantly, almost as if she were hovering in the hallway, waiting for the sound of the doorbell. Or maybe she watched me approach from an upstairs window.
“Jessica,” she says by way of greeting.
Just that. Just my name.
Then she locks the door behind me and takes my coat.
I stand beside her while she hangs it in the closet. She steps back and nearly bumps into me.
“Sorry,” I say. She needs to remember this moment. I’m planting a seed for my cover story.
“Would you care for a Perrier?” Dr. Shields asks, leading the way toward the kitchen. “Or perhaps a glass of wine?”
I hesitate, then say, “Whatever you’re having would be lovely.” I make sure my tone carries gratitude.
“I just opened a bottle of Chablis, Dr. Shields says. “Or would you prefer Sancerre?”
As if I’d know the difference between varieties of grapes.
“Chablis is fine,” I say, but I’m not going to have more than a few sips. My mind needs to be sharp.
She fills two crystal glasses with slim stems and hands me one. My eyes dart around the room. I haven’t seen any evidence that Thomas is on the premises, but after the way they acted last night, I need to be sure he isn’t within earshot.
I take a small swallow of wine and then plunge right in, keeping my voice low. “I have to tell you something.”
She turns to regard me. I know she can sense my nervousness; it feels like it’s radiating off me. At least I don’t have to pretend to manufacture it.