An Anonymous Girl(82)

Then Thomas had said: I can get you into the house.

His tone told me there was a catch even before he continued.

But only if you agree to photograph all of Lydia’s notes on April for me. I need that file, Jess.

It didn’t hit me until after we’d hung up that maybe this was why Thomas pretended to still be in love with Dr. Shields: He was staying close to get April’s file.

Just a few minutes have elapsed since I entered Dr. Shields’s home, but it feels like I’ve been frozen in the hallway for much longer. I finally take ten steps forward. Now I’m next to the staircase landing. Still I can’t bring myself to begin to climb: Even if this isn’t a trap, with every progressive movement, I’m going deeper into this morass.

Other than the soft hiss of a nearby radiator, it is completely quiet.

I have to do something, so I put my foot on the first step. It groans.

I wince, then continue to slowly make my way up. Though my eyes have adjusted to the murky light, I place each foot down carefully to make sure I don’t slip.

I finally reach the top and stand there, unsure of which way to turn. The hallway stretches to the left and right. Thomas only told me Dr. Shields’s office was on the second floor.

There’s a light coming from the left. I start to head that way.

Then my phone rings, shattering the oppressive silence.

My heart leaps into my throat.

I fumble in my coat pocket, but my gloves slip against the smooth surface of the phone and I can’t get a firm grip on it.

It rings again.

Something’s gone wrong, I frantically think. Thomas is calling to tell me they’re coming home early.

But when I finally pull out the phone, instead of Thomas’s code name—Sam, the last three letters of his name reversed—I see my mother’s smiling face in the little circle on the screen.

I try to hit Decline Call but with my glove on, the touchscreen doesn’t work.

I use my teeth to grip the fingertips of the glove and try to pull it off as my phone rings again. My hand is so clammy the leather sticks to my skin. I tug harder. If anyone is upstairs, they certainly know I’m in the house now.

Finally, I manage to switch my phone to vibrate.

I remain immobile, listening intently, but there’s no indication anyone else is nearby. I take three deep breaths before I can force my shaking legs to move again.

I continue walking toward the dim glow of the light and arrive at its source: the nightstand by Dr. Shields’s bed. Thomas and Dr. Shields’s bed, I correct myself as I stand in the doorway, staring at the steel-blue quilted headboard and creaseless comforter. Next to the small lamp is a single book, Middlemarch, and a tiny bouquet of anemones.

This is the second time today I’ve violated such an intimate space. First April’s old bedroom, and now this one.

I’d give anything to be able to scour it for more clues about who Dr. Shields is, like a diary, old photos or letters. But I keep walking, toward an adjoining room.

It’s the study.

The folders are right where Thomas said he’d seen them this morning.

I hurry to the desk and carefully remove the top one, the one with my name on the tab. I open it and see a photocopy of my driver’s license and the biographical information I gave to Ben back on that first day, when I blithely walked into the study, hoping to make some easy money.

I pull out my phone and photograph the first page.

Then I flip it over and gasp.

The faces of my parents and Becky smile up at me from the second page. I recognize the photo that Dr. Shields has printed out: It’s from my Instagram feed, last December. The image is slightly blurred, but I can still see the edge of the Christmas tree that was in my parents’ living room.

Questions fire in my brain: Why does Dr. Shields have this? How soon after she met me did she copy it? And how did she get access to my private Instagram account?

But I don’t have time to stop and think. Dr. Shields always seems to be a step ahead of me; I can’t shake the fear that she’ll sense I’m here. That she could come home at any minute.

I continue snapping pictures, making sure I keep the pages in order. I see my two computer-survey questionnaires printed out. The prompts flash by:

Could you tell a lie without feeling guilt?

Describe a time in your life when you cheated.

Have you ever deeply hurt someone you care about?

And those final two questions before Dr. shields asked me to expand my participation in her study:

Should a punishment always fit the crime?

Do victims have the right to take retribution into their own hands?

Next come notes and notes from a yellow legal pad filled with neat, graceful handwriting.

Surrender to it . . . You belong to me. . . . You look as lovely as ever.

I feel nauseated, but I keep flipping the papers like I’m on autopilot as I document each one. I can’t let myself take in the significance of what I’m seeing.

Through the slight gaps in the slatted wooden blinds covering a window, I see the sweep of headlights. I freeze.

A vehicle is traveling down the street slowly. I wonder if the flash from my iPhone’s camera was visible from the driver’s vantage point.

I press my phone against my leg to block the glow of the screen and remain completely motionless until the car passes by.

It could have been a neighbor, I think, as my anxiety swells. Maybe even one who saw Thomas and Lydia leave together an hour ago. If they noticed anything strange, they could be dialing the police right now.