An Anonymous Girl

by Greer Hendricks

  My heart skips a beat.

  There’s only one person this could be.

  “Have you talked with her recently?” I ask. I make sure my voice remains soft and uniform.

  Mrs. Voss nods. “I reached out to her in the fall. It was April’s birthday, October 2. It was such a hard day. She would have been twenty-four.”

  She sets the teddy bear back down. “We’d always do a mother-daughter spa day on her birthday. Last year she picked this awful light-blue nail polish shade that I told her looked like an Easter egg.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe we actually had a little argument about that.”

  “So did you see the psychiatrist that day?” I ask.

  “We met in her office,” Mrs. Voss says. “Before, when April had gone to therapy, we always knew about it. We paid for it. So why was it different this time? I wanted to know what she and April talked about.”

  “Did Dr. Shields tell you?” I ask.

  I immediately realize my mistake in giving the therapist’s name. I flinch, waiting for Mrs. Voss to notice.

  How can I explain it? I can’t say April mentioned the name of her psychiatrist to me months ago and I’ve remembered all this time. Mrs. Voss will never believe it; minutes ago I told her I’d lost touch with April.

  Mrs. Voss is going to know I’m an impostor. She’ll be furious, as she’ll have every right to be. What kind of sick person fakes a friendship with a dead girl?

  But Mrs. Voss doesn’t seem to catch my slip.

  She shakes her head slowly. “I asked if I could see her notes from April’s sessions. I thought there could be something in there, something I didn’t know about that could help explain why April did it.”

  I’m holding my breath. Dr. Shields is so scrupulous, her notes would detail the date when she first saw April. They could reveal whether Thomas or Dr. Shields was the one who drew April in. If Dr. Shields initiated the contact, she’s probably even more dangerous than I thought.

  “Did she share the notes?” I ask.

  I’m pushing too hard; Mrs. Voss looks at me curiously. But she continues.

  “No, she reached for my hand and told me again how sorry she was for my loss. She said my questions were natural, but that part of the healing process was needing to accept that I might never have an answer. No matter how hard I pressed, she refused to let me see them. She said it would violate confidentiality mandates.”

  I exhale a little too loudly. Of course Dr. Shields would safeguard her notes. But was it because she was protecting April’s secrets, or was she protecting herself—or her husband?

  Mrs. Voss stands up and smooths down her sweater. She’s looking me directly in the eye now, and all traces of her tears are gone. “Remind me again, were you and April in the same study-abroad program? I’m sorry, I don’t remember her mentioning your name.”

  I lower my head. I don’t have to fake my shame.

  “I wish I’d been a better friend to her,” I say. “Even though I was so far away, I should have stayed in touch.”

  She walks over and pats my shoulder, as if absolving me.

  “I haven’t given up, you know,” she says. I have to tilt back my head to see the expression on her face. Her sorrow is still there, but now it’s mingled with determination.

  “Dr. Shields seemed like a good therapist, but she must not be a mother. Otherwise, she would know that when you lose a child, there is no healing,” she says. “That’s why I’m still looking for an answer.”

  Her voice grows stronger as she stands up straighter. “That’s why I’ll never stop looking for an answer.”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Saturday, December 22

  Finally, there is an answer: Thomas is true.

  The pillowcase on the left side of the bed holds the scent of his shampoo again.

  Sunlight’s warm glow fills the room. It is almost eight A.M. Remarkable. Relief manifests physiologically in myriad ways: Insomnia is banished. The body feels rejuvenated. The appetite returns.

  Thomas’s renewed display of fidelity is healing more than just our wounded marriage.

  Nearly twenty years ago, another seismic betrayal—this one involving my sister, Danielle—left me with a jagged emotional scar.

  Today that scar feels less prominent.

  A note folded into a little tent waits on the nightstand. A smile forms even before it is read: Sweetheart, there’s fresh coffee downstairs. I’ll be back in twenty with bagels and smoked salmon. Love, T.

  The words are so ordinary, yet so magical.

  After a leisurely breakfast, Thomas departs for the gym. He will return later to pick me up for a scheduled dinner with another couple. My errands are routine, but my stop at the new boutique a few doors down from my hair appointment at the salon is not. The mannequin in the window wears a pink teddy with a V in the front. It’s more subtle than the sort of lingerie you would probably choose, Jessica, but the soft silk and high-cut legs are flattering.

  On impulse, the teddy is purchased.

  After a lavender-scented bubble bath, a dress is selected that covers the lingerie. Thomas will discover it later tonight.

  Before the dress can be slipped on, a text pings.

  The message is from you: Hi, just checking to see if you’ll be needing me to do anything more in regard to the last assignment. If not, Lizzie invited me to go home with her for Christmas, so I thought I’d book a flight.

  How interesting.

  Could you ever truly believe details concerning your whereabouts would be carelessly overlooked, Jessica? Lizzie and her family are celebrating the holidays at a luxury condo in Aspen.

  Before a reply is crafted, your folder is retrieved from the desk in the study. Dates are double-checked. Indeed, Lizzie departed yesterday to meet her family in Colorado.

  The doorbell rings.

  Your folder is replaced atop April’s, in the center of the desk near the fountain pen that was a gift from my father.

  “Thomas! You’re early!” He is given a lingering kiss.

  He glances at his watch. “Do you need another few minutes?”

  “Just one.”

  Upstairs, perfume is dabbed behind my ears and Thomas’s favorite high heels are chosen.

  Thomas is still waiting by the door. “Warren said they were running a little late, so I told him not to worry, that we’d be there right on time to hold the table.”

  “Hopefully dinner doesn’t take too long,” he is told. “I was thinking we could make it an early night. I’ve planned a surprise for you.”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-SIX

  Saturday, December 22

  The key glides into the lock.

  My hand shakes as I twist it. Then I push the door open.

  A soft beeping sound erupts as I step into Dr. Shields’s town house. I close the door behind me, sealing off the light from the two outside sconces. Now the hallway is so shadowy I can barely make out the alarm keypad on the left side of the entranceway.

  I slip off my shoes so I don’t track any mud or dirt inside, but I keep my coat on, in case I need to leave fast.

  Thomas gave me the security code when he called today. He told me he’d leave the keys he’d copied under the doormat.

  Use the silver one for the bottom lock the for the top, he’d said. I’ll try to keep Lydia out until eleven.

  He also told me I’d have thirty seconds to deactivate the alarm.

  I walk over to the keypad and punch in the four digits: 0-9-1-5. But in my haste, I mistake the 6 for a 5 in the dim light.

  I realize my error a split second later.

  There’s a long, shrill noise, then the beeping resumes. It’s faster now, sounding almost frantic, blurring with the thudding of my heart.

  How many seconds have elapsed? Fifteen? I have to get it right or the security company will summon the police.

  I press in each number carefully.

  The alarm makes a final, high-pitched sound.
Then it falls silent.

  I withdraw my gloved hand from the numbered pad and exhale. I wasn’t sure until now if Thomas had given me the right four digits.

  My legs are so weak I have to lean against the wall to steady myself.

  I stand there for a full minute. Then another. I can’t dislodge the fear that Thomas and Dr. Shields are just a floor above me, hiding in her study.

  I could still leave; I could put on my shoes, arm the alarm, and replace the keys. But then I’ll never know what Dr. Shields might be holding over me.

  I saw your file upstairs on her desk this morning, Thomas had said. It was resting on top of April’s.

  Finally, I know where the elusive manila folder is—the one I’d seen on Dr. Shields’s office desk during our early sessions. The one Ben had told me I needed to find.

  Did you look inside? I’d asked Thomas.

  I didn’t have time. She was asleep, but she could’ve woken up at any second.

  I’d squeezed my eyes shut in frustration at his words. What did it matter if I knew where Dr. shields kept my file when I’d never be able to get it?

  Then Thomas had said: I can get you into the house.

  His tone told me there was a catch even before he continued.

  But only if you agree to photograph all of Lydia’s notes on April for me. I need that file, Jess.

  It didn’t hit me until after we’d hung up that maybe this was why Thomas pretended to still be in love with Dr. Shields: He was staying close to get April’s file.

  Just a few minutes have elapsed since I entered Dr. Shields’s home, but it feels like I’ve been frozen in the hallway for much longer. I finally take ten steps forward. Now I’m next to the staircase landing. Still I can’t bring myself to begin to climb: Even if this isn’t a trap, with every progressive movement, I’m going deeper into this morass.

  Other than the soft hiss of a nearby radiator, it is completely quiet.

  I have to do something, so I put my foot on the first step. It groans.

  I wince, then continue to slowly make my way up. Though my eyes have adjusted to the murky light, I place each foot down carefully to make sure I don’t slip.

  I finally reach the top and stand there, unsure of which way to turn. The hallway stretches to the left and right. Thomas only told me Dr. Shields’s office was on the second floor.

  There’s a light coming from the left. I start to head that way.

  Then my phone rings, shattering the oppressive silence.

  My heart leaps into my throat.

  I fumble in my coat pocket, but my gloves slip against the smooth surface of the phone and I can’t get a firm grip on it.

  It rings again.

  Something’s gone wrong, I frantically think. Thomas is calling to tell me they’re coming home early.

  But when I finally pull out the phone, instead of Thomas’s code name—Sam, the last three letters of his name reversed—I see my mother’s smiling face in the little circle on the screen.

  I try to hit Decline Call but with my glove on, the touchscreen doesn’t work.

  I use my teeth to grip the fingertips of the glove and try to pull it off as my phone rings again. My hand is so clammy the leather sticks to my skin. I tug harder. If anyone is upstairs, they certainly know I’m in the house now.

  Finally, I manage to switch my phone to vibrate.

  I remain immobile, listening intently, but there’s no indication anyone else is nearby. I take three deep breaths before I can force my shaking legs to move again.

  I continue walking toward the dim glow of the light and arrive at its source: the nightstand by Dr. Shields’s bed. Thomas and Dr. Shields’s bed, I correct myself as I stand in the doorway, staring at the steel-blue quilted headboard and creaseless comforter. Next to the small lamp is a single book, Middlemarch, and a tiny bouquet of anemones.

  This is the second time today I’ve violated such an intimate space. First April’s old bedroom, and now this one.

  I’d give anything to be able to scour it for more clues about who Dr. Shields is, like a diary, old photos or letters. But I keep walking, toward an adjoining room.

  It’s the study.

  The folders are right where Thomas said he’d seen them this morning.

  I hurry to the desk and carefully remove the top one, the one with my name on the tab. I open it and see a photocopy of my driver’s license and the biographical information I gave to Ben back on that first day, when I blithely walked into the study, hoping to make some easy money.

  I pull out my phone and photograph the first page.

  Then I flip it over and gasp.

  The faces of my parents and Becky smile up at me from the second page. I recognize the photo that Dr. Shields has printed out: It’s from my Instagram feed, last December. The image is slightly blurred, but I can still see the edge of the Christmas tree that was in my parents’ living room.

  Questions fire in my brain: Why does Dr. Shields have this? How soon after she met me did she copy it? And how did she get access to my private Instagram account?

  But I don’t have time to stop and think. Dr. Shields always seems to be a step ahead of me; I can’t shake the fear that she’ll sense I’m here. That she could come home at any minute.

  I continue snapping pictures, making sure I keep the pages in order. I see my two computer-survey questionnaires printed out. The prompts flash by:

  Could you tell a lie without feeling guilt?

  Describe a time in your life when you cheated.

  Have you ever deeply hurt someone you care about?

  And those final two questions before Dr. shields asked me to expand my participation in her study:

  Should a punishment always fit the crime?

  Do victims have the right to take retribution into their own hands?

  Next come notes and notes from a yellow legal pad filled with neat, graceful handwriting.

  Surrender to it . . . You belong to me. . . . You look as lovely as ever.

  I feel nauseated, but I keep flipping the papers like I’m on autopilot as I document each one. I can’t let myself take in the significance of what I’m seeing.

  Through the slight gaps in the slatted wooden blinds covering a window, I see the sweep of headlights. I freeze.

  A vehicle is traveling down the street slowly. I wonder if the flash from my iPhone’s camera was visible from the driver’s vantage point.

  I press my phone against my leg to block the glow of the screen and remain completely motionless until the car passes by.

  It could have been a neighbor, I think, as my anxiety swells. Maybe even one who saw Thomas and Lydia leave together an hour ago. If they noticed anything strange, they could be dialing the police right now.

  But I can’t leave yet. Not until I finish photographing the pages. I flip them as fast as possible, alert for any noise that could indicate someone is approaching the town house. After I’ve turned the last page, with several underlines beneath my words He’s a hundred percent devoted to you, I straighten them all, tapping the edges against the desk to make sure they are aligned. I slip them back into the manila folder.

  Then I pick up April’s file.

  It seems a little thinner than mine.

  I dread opening it; it feels like lifting aside a rock, knowing a tarantula might lurk beneath it. But I’m not photographing it just because Thomas wants the information. I need to know what it contains, too.

  The very first page looks identical to the one in my folder. April’s grainy photograph stares out at me from her driver’s license, her too-big eyes making her appear startled. Beneath the photocopy are her biographical details: full name, date of birth, and address.

  I snap a picture, then turn to the next piece of paper.

  There, in Dr. Shields’s flowing blue script, is the answer I desperately need. April entered Dr. Shields’s study and became Subject 5 on May 19.

  Fifteen days before that, on May 4, April posted the photograph of
Thomas in her bed on Instagram.

  Even if she’d taken the picture of Thomas days or weeks before and waited to post it, her encounter with him came before she entered Dr. Shields’s study.

  Thomas is the one who drew in April.

  I suck in a sharp breath. My gut was wrong; he is the more dangerous of the two.

  I stare at the date again to make sure I’m getting the facts correct. The one thing that’s now clear is that my story no longer mirrors April’s. Dr. Shields couldn’t have used April to test Thomas, like she did me.

  It’s also apparent that April didn’t remain one of Dr. Shields’s subjects for long. She’d only answered a few survey questions and didn’t even go back for the second session. Why did she stop?

  Thomas is the only person who knows I’m in the town house. And if he’s the one who orchestrated the events that led to April’s death, then I’m not safe.

  I need to get out of here. I finish going through the file, snapping photos of the notes as quickly as I can. The second-to-last page is titled Conversation with Jodi Voss, October 2. And then there is only one piece of paper left.

  It’s a certified letter dated only a week after Dr. Shields met with Mrs. Voss on April’s birthday. It’s addressed to Dr. Shields.

  A few lines sear themselves into my vision as I wait for my phone camera to focus: Investigating the death . . . Katherine April Voss . . . family requests voluntary release of notes . . . Possible subpoena . . .

  This is what Mrs. Voss must have been alluding to when she told me she’d never stop looking for answers. She’d hired a private investigator to help her find them.

  I close the file and center it directly beneath mine, just the way Dr. Shields left it. I have everything I need. Though I still want to look around for more clues since I know I’ll never have this opportunity again, I have to leave now.

  I retrace my steps back to the staircase, moving much faster than I did on the way up. In the entranceway I slip on my shoes, reset the alarm, and ease open the door. I tuck the key beneath the mat and stand up. No neighbors are within sight. Even if they glimpsed me, all they’d see is someone in a dark coat and hat casually walking down the front steps.