An Anonymous Girl(85)
He understood that she became . . . special.
But her name has never been spoken between us.
Not once. Not even after her death.
Especially not after her death.
However, Thomas did see the e-mail sent to me by the private investigator hired by the Voss family. If he hadn’t made the connection by then that Subject 5’s name was Katherine April Voss, it certainly became crystal clear to him in that moment.
The tension stored in my muscles eases slightly as my thought process continues along a reassuring path.
If Thomas had seen everything in your file, Jessica—the pages of notes detailing our conversations, the specifics of your assignments, and your accounts of your interactions with him—his behavior surely would have been altered. At breakfast, his affect seemed unremarkable. It remained so when he arrived at the town house this evening.
And yet . . . at dinner tonight, his tenor changed. He grew increasingly distracted. His departure was abrupt; his farewell kiss, perfunctory rather than regretful.
It is difficult to think clearly; the two glasses of Pinot Noir consumed this evening hamper my ability to draw a firm conclusion.
Other considerations swim through my mind: Despite the rules of confidentiality, you and April are unlike all of the others who have entered my office. Neither of you were technically clients. And Thomas thinks you both hold one other distinction: that each of you has caused his wife great distress.
April is fading away. She can cause no fresh pain.
But Thomas believes that you, Jessica, have demonstrated potential menace, enough to inspire me to install a new lock on the front door of the town house. He could have reasoned that an ethical breach was preferable to ignoring information that would protect his wife.
The probability must be acknowledged: Thomas looked at your file.
The impact of the realization feels like a physical blow. The edge of my desk is grasped until equilibrium is reestablished.
If he chose to pretend otherwise, what would be his motivation?
No clear answer is forthcoming.
Communication is a vital component of a healthy partnership. It is a necessary foundational aspect of a romantic relationship, as well as a therapeutic one.
Yet self-preservation must trump the blind trust of one’s spouse. Particularly when one’s spouse has proved untrustworthy in the past.
The twenty-four-hour reprieve has ended. All conclusions have been upended. Thomas must be watched more closely than ever.
The folders are placed in a locked filing cabinet. The door to my study is firmly closed.
Then a text is sent to him: I’m going to call it an early night. Let’s talk tomorrow?
My phone is turned off before he can reply. In the bedroom, the usual nightly rituals are performed: My dress is hung in the closet, serum is applied, and pajamas are selected.
Then the new lingerie is crumpled into a ball and shoved into the back of a drawer.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-EIGHT
Sunday, December 23
I was up most of last night studying my file and April’s.
As best as I can tell, Thomas’s affair with the boutique owner is the one Dr. Shields was referring to that night in her kitchen, when her hand trembled and her eyes filled with tears. It’s the reason why she decided to use me as a real-life test for her husband, to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.
I briefly flash back to the memory of Thomas’s mouth trailing its way down my stomach as he pushed aside my lacy black thong and I flinch.
I can’t think about that now; I need to focus on figuring out why Thomas was so transparent about his relationship with the boutique owner and so fearful of anyone learning he’d been with April.
What made one affair so different from the other?
It’s why I’m walking into the Blink boutique this morning, looking for the store’s owner: Lauren, the woman Thomas slept with.
It wasn’t hard to pinpoint who she was and where she worked. I had clues. Her name began with an L, the same initial as Lydia. And she owned a clothing boutique located a block away from Thomas’s office.
There were three possible stores. I identified the right one by checking out the websites. Blink’s featured a photo of Lauren and the backstory of how she started the boutique.
I can kind of see why I remind Dr. Shields of Lauren, I think as I step into the bright, funky store. When I saw her picture on the website, it was hard to tell, but in person I acknowledge that she does look a bit like me, with her dark hair and light eyes, even though, as Dr. Shields stated, she’s probably a decade older.
She’s busy with a customer, so I inspect a rack of blouses organized by color.
“Looking for anything special?” a saleswoman greets me.
“Just browsing,” I say. I flip over a price tag and wince: The long-sleeve, sheer top is $425.
“Let me know if you want to try anything on,” she says.
I nod and continue pretending to consider the blouses, while I keep an eye on Lauren. But the customer she’s with is buying multiple items for last-minute Christmas gifts, and she occupies Lauren by asking for her opinion.
Finally, after I’ve made a slow lap around the tiny store, the customer heads to the cash register. Lauren starts to ring her up.
I grab a scarf off an accessory table, figuring it will be one of the less expensive items. By the time Lauren hands the customer a glossy white bag with the store’s logo—an oversize sketch of a pair of closed eyes with long, thick lashes—I am at the register waiting.