An Anonymous Girl(73)

She gestures to a stool and takes the one next to me. We’re swiveled to face each other and we’re sitting much closer than we usually do. I twist my body an extra few inches so that I have a clear view of the room. Now no one can sneak up on me.

The faintest blue-violet shadows form crescent shapes under Dr. Shields’s eyes. She probably hasn’t been sleeping well, either.

“What is it, Jessica? I hope by now you know you can tell me anything.”

She picks up her wineglass and then I see it: Her hand is shaking almost imperceptibly. It is the first time I’ve witnessed a vulnerability.

“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” I say.

I see her throat move as she swallows. But she doesn’t rush in. She waits me out.

“The man from the diner . . .” I say. Something changes in her eyes; they narrow the slightest bit. I’m very careful with my words as I continue. “When he wrote back to my text, he actually said he wanted to meet me. He asked me to give him a day and time.”

Dr. Shields’s gaze remains fixed on me. She isn’t moving.

I have the fleeting thought that she’s turned to glass, sculpted from the same Murano material as the falcon she said was a gift for her husband. For Thomas.

“But I haven’t replied,” I continue.

This time I wait her out. I drag my eyes away from hers under the pretext of needing a sip of wine.

“Why is that?” Dr. Shields finally asks.

“I think Thomas is your husband,” I whisper. My heart is clattering so loudly I’m sure she can hear it.

She draws in a sharp inhalation of breath.

“Hmmm,” she murmurs. “What led you to this assumption?”

I have no idea if I’m traveling down the right path now. I’m hop-scotching through a minefield, but I don’t know how much she knows, so I have to give her a piece of the truth.

“When I showed up at Ted’s Diner, I realized I’d seen the man before,” I say. This is the tricky part; I fight back a feeling of light-headedness. “I recalled passing him on my way into the museum, when the crowd was gathered around the woman who was hit by the taxi. I only noticed him because I was looking at everyone there to try to figure out if they were part of the test. I’m sure he didn’t see me, though.”

Dr. Shields doesn’t respond. She’s expressionless. I have no idea how she feels about what I’m saying.

“When I told you about the man I spoke to in front of the photographs, it confused me that you thought he had sandy hair. I didn’t even connect your question to the guy in front of the museum. But then I saw him—Thomas—again at the diner.”

Dr. Shields finally opens her mouth to speak. “And those simple things led you to this conclusion?”

I shake my head. The next part sounded good when I rehearsed it earlier today. But now I have no idea if it will convince her. “The jackets in your coat closet . . . . They’re all so big. They clearly belong to a man who’s tall and broad, not like the guy in the photo in your dining room. I noticed them last time I was here and I double-checked again tonight.”

“You are quite the detective, aren’t you, Jessica?” Her fingers caress the stem of her wineglass. She raises it to her lips and takes a sip. Then: “Did you figure this all out on your own?”

“Sort of,” I say. I can’t tell if she believes me, so I continue with the story I’d planned: “Lizzie was just talking about how she had to order an extra costume for an understudy in a play who was much bigger than the original actor. That’s what made me think of it.”

Dr. Shields abruptly leans forward and I flinch. I make sure I hold her gaze.

After a moment, she gets up off her stool without a word. She reaches for the wine bottle on the counter and walks back to the refrigerator. When she opens the door, I glimpse only a row of Perrier water and a carton of eggs. I’ve never seen a fridge so bare.

“Speaking of Lizzie, I’m going to meet her right after this for a drink,” I continue. “Do you know any place nearby that’s good? I told her I’d text her when we finish.”

That’s another of my safeguards, along with the Mace I’ve put in my purse and my clear view of my surroundings.

Dr. Shields closes the refrigerator door. But she doesn’t come back around the counter to sit with me.

“Oh, is Lizzie still in town?” Dr. Shields asks.

I almost gasp. Lizzie left yesterday, but how can Dr. Shields know that? If she got to my parents, maybe she got to Lizzie, too.

I can’t even remember if I’ve told her anything about Lizzie’s holiday plans. Dr. Shields took notes of all of our conversations. I never did.

I start to babble: “Yeah, she was thinking about going earlier but some stuff came up, so she’s here for another couple days.”

I force myself to stop speaking. Dr. Shields remains across the counter from me. She’s studying me. It’s like she’s pinning me down with her gaze.

There are four other rooms behind me, including the powder room. Because Dr. Shields has repositioned herself across the kitchen, I can no longer look at her and keep watch on the doorways.

Instead, all I can see are the hard, gleaming surfaces of her kitchen: gray marble counters, stainless-steel appliances, and the metal spiral of the corkscrew she has left by the sink.