An Anonymous Girl(99)
But if she had merely seen the quote on his coffee mug, as I had, her curiosity might have been piqued.
I close my eyes and try to remember the exact layout of Thomas’s office. It contained a few chairs. But no matter which one a visitor claimed, they would have a clear view of his desk.
April had been in Thomas’s office, the one just blocks away from Insomnia Cookies.
But she didn’t go there to stalk him.
There’s only one other reason that could explain it, and also answer the question of why Thomas went to such lengths to conceal their one-night stand. Why he’s still so terrified of anyone finding out.
Mrs. Voss told me that April had been in and out of counseling.
April didn’t meet Thomas for the first time at a bar.
April met Thomas when she went to see him for therapy, as a client.
CHAPTER
SIXTY-FIVE
Monday, December 24
On the ninety-minute car ride back to Manhattan, sleep is feigned to avoid conversation with Thomas.
Perhaps he welcomes this: Instead of turning on the radio, he drives in silence, his stare fixed straight ahead. His hands grip the steering wheel. Thomas’s rigid posture is atypical, too. During long rides, he usually sings along to the music and taps out the beat on his thigh.
When he pulls up in front of the town house, my awakening is simulated; a blinking of the eyes, a quiet yawn.
There is no discussion about the sleeping arrangements for tonight. By mutual, unspoken agreement, Thomas will stay at his rental apartment.
Brief good-byes are exchanged, along with a perfunctory kiss.
The hum of his engine fades as his car moves farther and farther away.
Then there is only a deep, desolate silence in the town house.
The new deadbolt requires a key to unlock the door from the outside.
But from the inside, a turn of the oval knob is all that is required to engage the lock.
One year ago, Christmas Eve unfolded so differently: After our return from Litchfield, Thomas built a fire in the hearth and insisted that we each open a gift. He was like a young boy, his eyes shining, as he selected the perfect package to place in my hands.
His wrapping was elaborate but messy, with too much Scotch tape and ribbons.
His presents were always heartfelt.
This one was a first edition of my favorite Edith Wharton book.
Three nights ago, after you reported that Thomas had rebuffed your advances at Deco Bar, hope swelled; it seemed this sweet ritual could continue. An original photograph of the Beatles by Ron Galella had been purchased, framed, and carefully encased in layers of tissues and bright paper for Thomas.
Now it sits by the white poinsettia in the living room.
The holidays are the most wrenching time to be alone.
A wife regards the flat, rectangular present that will not be unwrapped tonight after all.
A mother stares at the stocking bearing the name Danielle that will never be opened by her daughter.
And a different mother experiences her first Christmas without her only child, the daughter who took her life six months ago.
Regret feels more pronounced in the stillness.
All it takes is a few taps of my fingertips against the computer’s keyboard. Then, a text is sent to Mrs. Voss:
In honor of April’s memory, a holiday donation has been made to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Thinking of you. Sincerely, Dr. Shields.
The gift isn’t meant to appease Mrs. Voss, who is desperate to see the file labeled KATHERINE APRIL VOSS. The contribution is merely a spontaneous gesture.
April’s mother is not alone in craving the story of what happened in April’s final hours: An investigator has formally requested my records, and threatened the possibility of a subpoena. Thomas, too, exhibited excessive curiosity about April’s file after he was informed that the Voss family had hired a private detective.
Because the absence of notes from our last encounter would be suspicious, a truncated version of them was created. They held the truth; this was critical, given the slim possibility that April might have called or texted a friend just before her death, but the accounting of our interaction was much softer, and less detailed:
You disappointed me deeply, Katherine April Voss. You were invited in . . . Then you made the revelation that shattered everything, that put you in a completely different light: I made a mistake. I slept with a married man . . . You were told you would never be welcomed into the town house again . . . The conversation continued. At the conclusion of it, you were given a farewell hug . . .
The substitute notes were created immediately after Subject 5’s funeral service.
It is understandable that her mother covets them.
But no one will ever be able to view the true recording of what happened that evening.
Just like April, those notes no longer exist.
A single, lit match devoured those pages from my yellow legal pad. Flames greedily consumed my words, lapping at the blue-inked cursive.
Before those notes turned to ash, here is what they contained:
SUBJECT 5/ June 8, 7:36 P.M.
April knocks on the door of the town house six minutes after the appointed time.
This is not uncharacteristic; she has a relaxed approach to punctuality.
Chablis, a cluster of purple grapes, and a wedge of Brie are offered in the kitchen.
April perches on a stool, eager to discuss her upcoming interview at a small public relations firm. She gives me a printout of her résumé and requests advice about how to explain her somewhat checkered job history.