An Anonymous Girl (40 page)

But in those cases, she was lying to herself.

Lying to me is very different.

That is what she is doing now.

Why would April fabricate details about the man’s appearance after admitting so many other difficult
truths?

April continues describing the man, reporting that he is of average height, and slender. She is encouraged with a gentle nod and a touch on her wrist, which has the dual purpose of confirming her pulse rate is elevated—another sign of deceit.

“I asked him to stay the night, but he couldn’t, he needed to get home to his wife,” April continues. She sniffs and wipes her tears with
a napkin.

A terrible suspicion begins to form. The man was a therapist. He was married. April appears to need to confess this because it has been weighing on her.

But she is trying to hide his identity from me by camouflaging his appearance.

Who is he?

Then April gives a little flip of her hand, as if what she is about to say next is nothing but a simple, throwaway line: “Right
before he left, he hugged me and said that I shouldn’t fall for him. He told me I deserved better, and that someday I’d find the person who would be my true light.”

Five seconds can change a life.

Wedding vows can be sealed with a kiss. A lottery ticket can be scratched to reveal a winning number. A Jeep can slam head-on into a tree.

A wife can discover her husband’s infidelity with
a disturbed young woman.

You are my true light.

That is the inscription on my wedding band, and on Thomas’s. We chose it together.

Five seconds ago, those words belonged only to us. Knowing they were always pressed against my ring finger provided me with such contentment. Now they feel as if they are searing my skin, as if they could melt the white gold of my ring.

April and Thomas
slept together;
he
is the mysterious married therapist.

It seems as if such a shattering revelation should create a sound. But the town house is silent.

April takes another sip of wine. She appears calmer since she has released a partial confession, an attempt to alleviate her guilt as well as serve as a secret apology for sleeping with my husband.

But she didn’t just sleep with him.
She grew obsessed with Thomas.

Is this why she entered my study? To learn more about Thomas’s wife?

The state of deep shock can cause a person to feel numb. That is what is occuring now.

April continues chattering, seemingly unaware that everything has changed.

April knew from the moment we met that she’d slept with my husband.

Now we both do.

April and Thomas betrayed
me deeply. But only one of them can be dealt with right now.

Perhaps April thinks she can just stroll out of the town house tonight and carry on with her life, leaving me with another mess—this one impossible to simply sweep up.

My husband’s lips were on hers. His hands roamed over her body.

No.

“Let’s take a walk,” April is told. “There’s a special place I want to show you.” A
pause, then a decision is made: “Finish your wine. I just need to run upstairs and get something first.”

We arrive at the fountain in the West Village Conservatory Gardens fifteen minutes later, and sit side by side on a bench. It’s a quiet place, perfect for a conversation. And that’s all that occurs: a heartfelt talk.

My last words to April: “You should leave before it gets too dark.”

She was still alive then; she did not ingest a single pill in my presence. She must have done so after my departure, during the two-hour window before the discovery of her body by a couple out for a moonlit stroll.

Tuesday, December 25

We’re all fearful of Dr. Shields—me, Ben, and Thomas. I’m sure April was, too.

But there’s only one person who seems to unnerve Dr. Shields: Lee Carey, the private investigator. The one Mrs. Voss told me about. The one who sent a certified letter to Dr. Shields requesting April’s file.

I’ve decided I have to tell him everything. Maybe
if Dr. Shields gets tangled up in his investigation she’ll stop trying to destroy my life. As bad as things are for me right now, I know they can get a lot worse if I don’t find a way out.

I pull up the photograph I took of Mr. Carey’s certified letter when I snuck into Dr. Shields’s town house, and find his contact information.

I make myself wait until nine
A
.
M
. to call, because it’s
Christmas.

His phone rings four times, then the automated voice mail message plays. I feel my body sag, although I should have anticipated that he might not answer.

“This is Jessica Farris,” I say. “I have some information on Katherine April Voss that I think you should know.”

I hesitate. “It’s urgent,” I add, leaving my cell phone number.

Then I open my laptop and begin searching
for a flight to Florida so I can join my family. Not only am I desperate to see them, but I want to be out of the city when Dr. Shields and Thomas learn I’ve told the investigator about April being Thomas’s client as well as Dr. Shields’s research subject. And about the Vicodin that was likely pressed into her hand, just as it was into mine.

The earliest flight I can find to Naples leaves
at six
A
.
M
. tomorrow.

I book it immediately, even though it costs over a thousand dollars.

The e-mail confirmation from Delta brings me some relief. I’ll take Leo along in his carrier, and enough clothes so that I can go home to Allentown instead of returning to New York if that seems like the safer course.

I’m not even going to tell my parents I’m meeting them at the resort. I can’t
risk having Dr. Shields find out.

When I feel comfortable returning to New York, I’ll re-create my life, like I’ve had to do before. The money I’ve earned from Dr. Shields will tide me over for a little while. And I know I can find another job; I’ve been working since I was a teenager.

Noah won’t be as easily replaced, though.

He won’t reply to my texts and phone calls, so I have to
find another way to reach him. I think for a minute, then pull out my legal pad.

Our relationship began with a lie, when I gave him a fake name.

Now I need to be completely honest with him.

I don’t know how Dr. Shields got to him, or what she said. So I start with the moment I picked up Taylor’s phone off the chair in her apartment, and end with my realization in the Conservatory Gardens
that April was Thomas’s client.

I even write about how I slept with Thomas.
I know you and I had only gone out twice by then, and we weren’t in a committed relationship . . . but I regret it, not only because of who Thomas turned out to be, but because of what you have come to mean to me.

My letter ends up being six pages.

I tuck it in an envelope, then put on my coat and grab Leo’s
leash.

As I walk down my hallway, I notice how quiet it is. The majority of the rentals here are studios or one-bedrooms; it’s not a building that draws in families. Most of my neighbors are probably away visiting relatives for the holidays.

I pause as I step out the front door, feeling disoriented.

Something is off.

The streets are completely still. The cacophony of noises has
been silenced. It’s as though all of New York is suspended for an intermission, waiting until the curtain is lifted and the next act can begin.

Surely I’m not the only person left in the city. But it feels that way.

I’m walking home from Noah’s apartment, where I dropped off the letter with his doorman, when my cell phone rings.

It could be anyone. I don’t have designated ringtones
for different contacts.

But I know who it is even before I look at the screen.

Decline.

Dr. Shields’s name disappears from the surface of my phone.

What can she possibly want from me on Christmas?

Ten minutes later, when I’m almost back to my apartment, it rings again.

My plan for the rest of the day is to stay inside, with my door double-locked, and pack for my trip. I’ll
order an Uber early tomorrow and head straight for the airport.

I’m not going to answer her calls.

I’m prepared to hit
Decline
again. But when I look at the screen this time, I see an unfamiliar number.

The private investigator, I think.

“Hello, this is Jessica Farris,” I say eagerly.

In the almost imperceptible pause that follows, my heart stutters.

“Merry Christmas, Jessica.”

I instinctively look around, but I don’t see a soul.

I’m a block away from home. I could scoop up Leo and run, I think. I could make it.

“Dinner is at six o’clock,” Dr. Shields says. “Would you like me to send a car for you?”

“
What?
” I say.

My mind is spinning, trying to keep up with her: She must have used a burner phone, maybe even the one she had me use to call Reyna and
Tiffani. That’s why I didn’t recognize the number.

“You do recall I told your parents that you and I would celebrate the holiday together,” she continues.

“I’m not coming over!” I shout. “Not tonight, and not ever again!”

I’m about to hang up when she says in her silvery voice, “But I have a gift for you, Jessica.”

It’s the way she says it that makes my blood freeze. I’ve heard
this tone before. It signals that she’s at her most dangerous.

“I don’t want it,” I say. My throat tightens. I’ve almost arrived at my building.

But the security door is open.

Did I remember to pull it shut tightly when I left? The sudden stillness of the city distracted me; I could have forgotten.

Is it safer inside, or out here on the street?

“Mmm, that’s a shame,” Dr. Shields
says. She’s enjoying this; she’s like a cat playing with an injured mouse. “I guess if you won’t come over and accept my gift, I’ll have to turn it over to the police.”

“What are you talking about?” I whisper.

“The digital recording,” she says. “The one of you breaking into my town house.”

Her words hammer into me.

Thomas must have set me up. He’s the only one who knew I snuck
in there.

“I just noticed my diamond necklace is missing,” Dr. Shields says lightly. “Luckily, I thought to check the security camera I recently installed. I know how desperate you are for money, Jessica, but I never thought you’d resort to this.”

I didn’t take anything, but if she turns in that recording, I’ll be arrested. No one will ever believe Thomas, her husband, gave me the key.
Dr. Shields could say I watched her enter the alarm code when I was over there. She’ll have the perfect cover story.

I can’t afford a lawyer, and what good would it do? She’ll outmaneuver me at every turn.

I was wrong; things could get worse for me. Much worse.

I know what I need to say to appease her.

I close my eyes. “What do you want me to do?” I ask hoarsely.

“Just show
up for dinner at six,” she says. “No need to bring anything. See you then.”

I spin around, staring at the empty streets.

I’m hyperventilating.

If I’m arrested, it will not only destroy my life but my family’s, too.

A gust of wind forces the security door to swing open a few inches. I jerk back instinctively.

Dr. Shields isn’t here,
I tell myself. She knows I’ll show up at her
house for dinner.

Still, I grab Leo and burst through the entryway before sprinting up the stairs.

I have my keys out long before I reach my floor. I can see my hallway is clear, but I don’t stop running until I reach my apartment.

Once I’m inside, I search my entire studio before I put Leo down.

Then I collapse onto my bed, gasping.

It’s a little after eleven o’clock. I have
seven hours to figure out how to save myself.

But I have to acknowledge I might not be able to.

I close my eyes and imagine the faces of my parents and Becky, conjuring memories I’ve amassed through the years: I see my mother rushing into my elementary school nurse’s office in her good blue suit, the one she wore to her secretarial job, because the nurse had called to report I was running
a fever. I see my father standing in the backyard, bending his arm as he teaches me how to throw a football with a perfect spiral. I see Becky tickling the bottoms of my feet as we lay head to toe on opposite ends of the couch.

I hold on to the visions of the only people I love in this world until my breathing has finally slowed. By then, I know what I have to do.

I stand up and reach
for my cell phone. My family called earlier this morning and left a message wishing me a Merry Christmas. I couldn’t answer; I knew they’d hear the strain in my voice.

But now I can’t put off revealing any longer what I’ve kept hidden for fifteen years. I might not ever get another chance to tell my parents what they deserve to know.

I dial my mother with trembling fingers.

She answers
immediately: “Honey! Merry Christmas!”

My throat is so tight it’s hard to speak. There’s no easy way to do this—I have to plunge right in. “Can you put Dad on, too? But not Becky. I need to talk to you two alone.”

I’m gripping the phone so hard my fingers hurt.

“Hold on, sweetie, he’s right here.” I can tell from my mother’s tone that she knows something is very wrong.

Whenever
I’d imagined this conversation before, I could never get past the opening sentence:
I have to tell you the truth about what happened to Becky.

Now I hear my dad’s deep, gravelly voice: “Jessie? Mom and I are both on.” And I can’t even say that one line.

My throat is so tight; it’s like the nightmare where you can’t make a single sound. I’m so dizzy I feel like I’m going to pass out.

“Jess? What is it?”

The fear in my mom’s voice finally releases my words.

“I wasn’t there when Becky fell. I left her alone in the house,” I choke out. “I locked her in the bedroom.”