An Anonymous Girl (41 page)

There’s utter silence.

It feels as if I am being broken apart; as if my secret has kept me glued together all these years and now it’s shattering.

I wonder if they are picturing Becky’s limp body
being loaded onto the ambulance stretcher, like I am.

“I’m sorry,” I say through sobs that wrack my body. “I shouldn’t—”

“Jessie,” my father says firmly. “No. It was
my
fault.”

My head jerks up in surprise. His words don’t make sense; he must have misunderstood me.

But he continues: “That window screen, it had been broken for months. I kept meaning to replace it. If I had, Becky
wouldn’t have been able to unlock it.”

I collapse onto my bed, my head swimming. Everything has been turned upside down.

My father blamed himself, too?

“But I was supposed to watch her!” I cry out. You trusted me!”

“Oh, Jess,” my mother says. Her voice sounds oddly broken. “It was too much to leave you alone with Becky all summer. I should have found another way.”

I expected
their anger, or worse. Never did I imagine my parents were carrying around as much pain and guilt as me.

My mom continues: “Honey, it wasn’t any one thing that caused Becky to get hurt. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just a terrible accident.”

I listen to her gentle words wash over me. I wish more than anything I could be there to squeeze in between them, like I did when I was a little
girl, so they could envelop me in a hug. I feel closer to my parents than I have in years.

And yet there’s an emptiness inside of me in the space that once held my secret.

I may have found my family only in time to lose them again.

“I should have told you sooner,” I say. My cheeks are damp, but my tears are coming more slowly now.

“I wish you had, Jessie girl,” my dad says.

Then I hear the low rumble of Leo’s growl. He’s staring at my door.

I’m on my feet again instantly, my senses on high alert. Even after I hear the familiar voices of the couple who live at the end of the hall, my posture remains rigid.

My mother is still talking about the need to forgive ourselves. I can picture my dad nodding and rubbing her back. There’s so much more to say to them. And
yet no matter how desperately I want to, I can’t stay on the phone even a minute longer. Dr. Shields is expecting me soon, and I still don’t know how I’m going to protect myself.

I ease off the phone after telling them again that I love them.

“Can you give Becky a big hug from me?” I say. “I promise I’ll call you guys later.” I hesitate before I press
Call,
hoping it’s the truth.

After I hang up, I want to curl up under the covers and absorb everything that has just happened. So much of my life has been constructed around a fallacy; my own assumptions imprisoned me.

But I can’t dwell on any of that now.

Instead, I brew a cup of strong coffee and start to pace, forcing myself to focus. Maybe I should leave the city tonight. There must be a rental car place that’s
open on Christmas; I could start driving to Florida.

Or I could stay and try to fight Dr. Shields.

Those are the only two choices I can see.

I try to think like Dr. Shields would: logically and methodically.

Step one: I need to see the recording, because how do I even know it exists? And if it does, I’m not sure I believe that I’m identifiable on it. I wore dark clothing, and I
didn’t turn on any lights in the town house.

Still, it may not be safe to go to her house. I have no idea what she’s planning.

Step two: I need to put safeguards into effect. I actually have a few already, I realize. Noah will know the whole story when he reads my letter. And I’ve called the investigator; if I get cornered, I can show Dr. Shields the number on my cell phone to prove it.
I can’t picture her being physically violent, but I want to be prepared just in case.

But most important, I’m finally holding some of Dr. Shields’s secrets.

Is that enough?

Tuesday, December 25

You are precisely on time, Jessica.

Still, you are made to wait for a full ninety seconds after you press the town house buzzer.

When the door is opened, your appearance comes as a surprise, and not a welcome one.

By now you should be floundering, on the verge of a breakdown.

Instead, you stride into the town house looking
more confident and appealing than ever.

You wear all black: Your coat hangs open to reveal a high-neck dress that hugs your curves, and leather boots that hit above your knee. They give you an extra three inches of height, so that we are eye to eye.

You take in my appearance as well: a pure white wool knit dress, with diamonds at my ears and neck.

Do you notice the symbolism? The colors
we chose are yin and yang. They represent beginnings—including Christenings and weddings—and endings, such as funerals. Black and white also are opponents in a chess game. Fitting, given what will occur shortly.

Rather than wait for my signal on how to proceed, you lean forward and kiss my cheek. “Thank you for having me, Lydia,” you say. “I brought you a little present.”

Aren’t you full
of surprises? You are clearly up to something. Using my first name is a transparent attempt at a power move.

If you are trying to throw me off balance, it is going to take a lot more than this.

Your lips are curved into a smile, but they quiver ever so slightly. You are not as tough as you pretend.

It is almost disappointing how easy it is to parry with you. “Come inside.”

You
shrug out of your coat and hand it to me. As if you expect me to wait on you.

You are still holding the silver package tied with a red bow.

It’s unclear what is going on, but you will need to be put in your place quickly.

“Let’s go to the library,” you are told. “Drinks and hors d’oeuvres are waiting.”

“Sure,” you say lightly. “You can open my gift there.”

Someone who does
not know you well would not see through your bluster.

You are allowed to lead the way. This will give you the illusion of control, and make what comes next that much more satisfying.

As you step over the threshold into the library, you gasp.

You are not the only one delivering surprises today, Jessica.

You stand there, blinking, as if you cannot quite believe what you see.

The man on the love seat stares back at you in stunned silence.

Did you truly expect me to celebrate the holiday without my husband, the one you claim is a hundred percent devoted to me?

“Why is
she
here?” Thomas finally blurts. He rises as his head swivels from you to me.

“Darling, didn’t I mention that my subject Jessica would be joining us? The poor thing had no one to spend Christmas
with. Her family left her all alone for the holiday.”

His eyes are wide and round behind his glasses.

“Thomas, you know how attached I get to these young girls.”

He flinches. “But you said she was harassing you!”

You recover from your shock admirably quickly, much faster than Thomas. By now you are visibly bristling, Jessica.

“Did I say that?” A pause. “Wait, is she the girl
you said was following
you
?”

Thomas blanches. It is time to redirect this line of conversation.

“There must be some misunderstanding. Shall we sit?”

The small love seat and two straight-back chairs form a semicircle. The coffee table is parallel to the love seat.

Where you choose to position yourself will be informative, Jessica, just as it was on the first day you entered my office.

But you don’t move; you remain just inside the room, as if you might break for the front door at any time. You jut out your chin and say, “I don’t believe you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“There’s no recording of me in this house.”

You can be so predictable, Jessica.

The room is crossed and the slim silver laptop resting on the piano is opened. With a touch of a button, the digital
recording plays.

The camera, which was purchased and hidden in the foyer at the same time the new deadbolt was installed, captured you entering the house and bending down to remove your shoes. The images are shadowy, but your distinctive hair is immediately recognizable.

The laptop is abruptly closed.

“Satisfied?”

You shoot an accusing look at Thomas, who shakes his head almost
imperceptibly.

You hesitate a moment, no doubt running through mental calculations before accepting that there is no other option available to you, then your shoulders slump. You skirt the coffee table and choose the chair farthest away from my husband. You place the gift on the floor by your feet.

There could be many reasons for your seat selection. One is that if you ever saw Thomas
as an ally, you do not now.

Thomas already has a Scotch on the coffee table in front of him, and the bottle of white Burgundy rests in an ice bucket. It is retrieved and two glasses poured.

The wine is crisp and refreshing, and the heavy crystal glass feels satisfying in my hand.

“What do you want from me?” This is a question that could be asked in many different ways, from belligerence
to obsequiousness. Your tone contains pure resignation.

Your body language is protective now; your arms are folded across your lap.

“I want to know the truth,” you are told. “What is the true nature of your relationship with my husband?”

Your eyes flit to the laptop again. “You know everything. He cheated on you and you set me up to see if he’d do it again.”

Thomas recoils and
glares at you.

If you and Thomas were a couple seeking marital therapy in my office on Sixty-second Street, establishing harmony would be the goal. Accusations would be discouraged; confrontation expertly diffused.

Here the opposite is sought. Your division is necessary to offset any collusion on your parts.

The fire crackles in the hearth. You and Thomas both flinch at the sharp,
sudden sound.

“Mini-quiche?” The hors d’oeuvres platter is offered to you, but you shake your head without even looking at it.

“Thomas?” He reaches over and pops one in his mouth so quickly the gesture seems automatic. A napkin is passed to him.

He takes a big sip of Scotch. You abstain from drinking anything. Perhaps you want to keep your wits about you.

Now that the opening tone
has been set, it is time for the evening to truly begin.

And just as in the survey that brought us together, it starts with a morality query.

“Let’s backtrack. I have a question for the two of you.”

Your head jerks up, as does Thomas’s. You are both on high alert, wary of what might come next.

“Imagine you are a security guard stationed at a podium in the lobby of a small professional
building. A woman you recognize because her husband has leased an office there asks you to hail a cab because she is feeling ill. Would you leave your post in violation of your duties to help her?”

You look utterly bewildered, Jessica. As you should; what could this possibly have to do with you? But the faintest hint of frown appears on Thomas’s brow.

“I guess so,” you finally say.

“Well?” Thomas is prompted.

“I suppose . . . I would also leave and help her,” he says.

“How interesting! That’s exactly what the security guard in
your
building did.”

He inches closer to the armrest. Farther away from me.

He wipes his palms on his khakis as he follows my gaze to the piece of paper tucked partially beneath the laptop.

Two days after April’s death, this particular
sheet of paper was removed from the visitor’s log in the lobby of Thomas’s office, the one the security guard maintains.

This was done, of course, without Thomas’s knowledge.

Thomas’s professional reputation would be destroyed if news got out that he had slept with a young woman who had come to him for a psychological consult. He might lose his license.

It was expected that after Thomas’s
one-night stand with April, he would swiftly expunge evidence revealing the origin of their connection. Any electronic records, such as the appointment in his iCalendar and notes on his computer from the session, would be deleted.

But attending to every last detail is not one of Thomas’s strengths.

He is so accustomed to passing by the security guard’s station that he might have forgotten
all guests must sign in to gain admittance to the building. April’s full name and the time of her visit would be recorded in the thick, leather-bound log.

The general time frame of April’s consult could be pinpointed: She met Thomas shortly before she joined my study.

The sheet containing her neat, rounded signature was torn out and tucked into my purse long before a cab could be hailed
by the guard— but then, 5:30
P.M.
on a rainy weekday is always a tricky time to find a taxi.

Now that piece of paper is retrieved from beneath the laptop and passed to Thomas.

“Here’s the page from the visitor’s log on the day Katherine April Voss had her consult with you, Thomas is told. “A few weeks before you slept together at her apartment.”

He stares at it for a long moment. It’s
as though he can’t quite process what he is seeing.

Then he bends over and dry heaves into his napkin.

Thomas is not always effective at managing his stress.

His eyes shoot up to find mine. “Oh my God, Lydia, no, it’s not what you think—”

“I know exactly what it is, Thomas.”

When Thomas raises a shaking hand to lift his glass of Scotch, the gauntlet is laid down.

“I have
something each of you desperately needs,” you and Thomas are told. “The digital tape and the visitor’s log. If those items fell into the hands of authorities, well, it would be difficult to explain. But there’s no reason for that to happen. You can both have what you desire. All you have to do is tell me the truth. Shall we begin?”