An Anonymous Girl(93)

Right now you feel all alone.

Not to worry, though. You will be in my company soon enough.





CHAPTER


SIXTY-TWO


Sunday, December 23


Have you spoken with your family recently, Jessica? Are they enjoying their vacation in Florida?

I stare at the text, feeling the questions sear me.

Dr. Shields took away my job. She took away my boyfriend. What has she done to my parents and Becky?

I’m in bed, my knees pulled up to my chest, Leo beside me. After Noah left me on the corner, I tried calling and texting him, but he didn’t respond. Then I did the only thing I could think of: I came home and cried gut-wrenching tears. They’ve slowed to quieter sobs by the time the message from Dr. Shields comes in.

I never responded to my mother’s call last night when I was creeping through Dr. Shields’s town house, I think as I sit bolt upright. And she didn’t leave a message.

I dial my mom’s cell immediately, fighting back panic. The automated voice mail message comes on.

“Mom, please call me right away,” I blurt.

I try my dad’s cell next. Same thing.

I start to hyperventilate.

Dr. Shields never even told me the name of the resort. My mom phoned right after they arrived, telling me all about their waterfront room and saltwater swimming pool, but she didn’t specify where they were staying and I was so thrown by everything going on in my life that I never asked.

How could I have been so careless?

I call my parents again, each in turn.

Then I grab my coat and push my feet into my boots and tear through the door. I run down the stairs, pushing past a neighbor who is carrying a bag of groceries. She gives me a startled glance. I know my mascara is probably smeared and my hair is wild, but I no longer care how I look for Dr. Shields.

I sprint down the street, frantically waving for a cab. One pulls over and I jump into the back. “Hurry, please,” I say, giving the driver Dr. Shields’s home address.

I still don’t have a plan fifteen minutes later when I arrive. I just pound on the door until my hand throbs.

Dr. Shields opens it and looks at me with no surprise, as if she has been expecting me.

“What did you do to them?” I shriek.

“Excuse me?” Dr. Shields responds.

She is flawless, as usual, in her dove-gray top and tailored black slacks. I want to grab her shoulders and shake her.

“I know you did something! I can’t reach my parents!”

She steps back. “Jessica, take a deep breath and calm down. We cannot have a conversation like this.”

Her tone is a rebuke; it’s as if she’s dealing with an irrational child.

I’m not going to get anywhere by screaming at her. The only way she’ll give me answers is if she thinks it’s on her own terms, if she’s in control.

So I shove back my anger and fear.

“Can I please come inside so we can talk?” I ask.

She opens the door wider and I follow her inside.

There’s classical music playing, and her home is as immaculate as ever. Fresh petunias adorn the glossy wooden table in the entryway, beneath the panel for the alarm system.

I avoid looking at it as I pass.

Dr. Shields leads me to the kitchen and gestures to a stool.

As I slide onto it, I see a platter on the granite counter holds a cluster of violet grapes and a wedge of creamy cheese, as if she has been expecting company. Beside it is a single crystal goblet filled with pale gold liquid.

It’s all so proper and precise and insane.

“Where is my family?” I ask, fighting to keep my tone level.

Instead of answering immediately, Dr. Shields walks unhurriedly to a cabinet and withdraws a matching crystal glass. For the first time, she doesn’t ask if I want any. Instead, she goes to the refrigerator, takes out a bottle of Chardonnay, and fills the goblet.

She sets it down in front of me as if we’re two friends about to share confidences.

I want to scream but I know if I try to rush her, she’ll prove her dominance by making me wait even longer.

“Your family is in Florida having a wonderful time, Jessica,” she finally says. “Why would you think anything else?”

“Because you sent me that text!” I blurt.

Dr. Shields arches an eyebrow. “All I did was inquire about their vacation,” she says. “There is nothing untoward about that, is there?”

She sounds so sincere, but I can see through her act.

“I want to call the resort,” I say. My voice is shaking.

“Certainly,” Dr. Shields says. “Don’t you have the number?”

“You never gave it to me,” I shoot back.

She frowns. “The resort name has never been a secret, Jessica. Your family has been there for three days.”

“Please,” I beg. “Just let me talk to them.”

Without a word, Dr. Shields rises and retrieves her phone from the counter. “I have the resort confirmation information here,” she says as she scrolls through her e-mails. It seems to take an inordinately long time. Then she recites a number.

I dial it immediately.

“Happy holidays, Winstead Resort and Spa, this is Tina,” a woman answers in a singsong voice.

“I need to reach the Farris family,” I say urgently.