An Anonymous Girl

by Greer Hendricks

  I don’t breathe easily until I’ve rounded the corner.

  Then I collapse against the cold metal of a street lamp, my hand still clutching my phone in my pocket. I can’t believe I got away with it. I didn’t leave any evidence behind—no lights switched on, no dirt tracked on the pristine carpets, not even a single traceable fingerprint. There’s no way Dr. Shields can ever know I broke into her house.

  But I find myself examining my movements in my mind again and again, just to make sure.

  After I am safely home, with my own door locked behind me and the nightstand wedged against it, I start thinking about Mrs. Voss. She believes the file on April holds the truth about why her daughter killed herself. She’s so desperate to get it that she hired a private investigator.

  But Thomas, who claims he only slept with April once, seems just as eager to see the file.

  A part of me wonders if I should anonymously send the photos to the investigator, and let the chips fall. But that might not solve anything, and Thomas would know who gave up the file.

  When it comes down to it, I’ve only got myself to rely on.

  I wrote that line in Dr. Shields’s survey on my first session. It has never seemed more true than right now.

  So before I e-mail Thomas the photographs of April’s file, I’m going to study them.

  I have to figure out why hiding his connection to Subject 5 is so important to him.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Saturday, December 22

  How are you spending this evening, Jessica? Are you with the handsome man in the navy coat with red zippers that you embraced in front of the restaurant last night?

  Perhaps he will be the one who will finally enable you to experience true love. Not the storybook version. The real kind, which sustains through phases of dark, until the return to light.

  You may already know what it feels like to sit beside him at a booth, across from another couple, and bask in utter contentment. Perhaps he is highly attentive to your well-being, as Thomas is to mine. He might signal the waiter for a refill of your beverage the moment before your glass is emptied. His hand may find reasons to touch you.

  Those are external actions; easily witnessed. But it is not until you have been with a man for many years that you can know him well enough to recognize his hidden, internal intricacies.

  They emerge over the course of the evening meal, blotting out the newly established equanimity like a slow-moving eclipse.

  When Thomas is distracted—when another gear of his mind is occupied—he overcompensates.

  He laughs a bit too robustly. He asks many questions—about the other couple’s upcoming vacation plans, and the private school they’re considering for their twins—which gives the appearance of engagement, but actually frees him from having to fill conversational lapses. He works his way, methodically, through his meal: Tonight the order is his medium-rare steak first, then the potatoes, and finally the green beans.

  When an individual is so deeply familiar, their habits and mannerisms become easy to decode.

  Thomas’s thoughts are elsewhere tonight.

  Midway through his black onyx chocolate cake, Thomas pulls out his vibrating phone. He glances at the screen and frowns.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says. “A patient of mine has just been admitted to Bellevue. I hate to cut this short, but I have to go consult with the attending doctors.”

  Everyone at the table expresses understanding; this sort of interruption is a natural consequence of his line of work.

  “I’ll be home as soon as I can,” he says as he lays a credit card down on the table. “But you know how these things go, so please don’t wait up.”

  The brush of his lips; the bittersweet taste of chocolate.

  Then my husband is gone.

  His absence feels like a theft.

  The town house is dark and still. The bottom step groans softly under my step, as it has for years. In the past, that noise was comforting; it often signaled that Thomas had finished locking up and was coming to bed.

  Upstairs, a light shines softly on the nightstand in the empty bedroom.

  This moment was supposed to be very different. Candles would be lit; music would softly play. My dress would slowly slip down, revealing the hint of enticing pink silk.

  Instead, my shoes are returned to the closet. Then my earrings and necklace are replaced in their velvet compartments in the top drawer of the bureau. Thomas’s note from this morning rests alongside the gems, like another precious item.

  His words, so comfortingly ordinary, have been committed to memory.

  Still, the note is opened and read again.

  Three tiny beads of ink mar the sentences.

  These smudges bring forth a sudden clarity.

  They were made with a specific fountain pen that leaves blots on the page when the nub rests against the paper for too long.

  This fountain pen is always kept in the same place: the desk in my study.

  Twelve swift steps are taken across the bedroom and past the threshold into the study.

  When Thomas reached for the pen before going out for bagels, he would have seen two files—yours and April’s, with the names clearly visible on the tabs—only inches away on the surface of the desk.

  The instinct to grab the folders and check their contents is almost uncontrollable; however, it must be suppressed. Panic begets errors.

  There are five items on the desk: the pen, a beverage coaster, a Tiffany clock, and the folders.

  At first glance, everything appears intact.

  But something almost imperceptible is amiss.

  Each item is scrutinized in turn, as a rising wave of anxiety is battled.

  The pen is exactly where it should be, on the top left-hand corner of the desk. The clock is opposite it, at the top right-hand corner. The coaster is beneath the clock, because beverages are always held in my right hand, which frees my left hand to write notes.

  The alteration is spotted within a minute. It would be invisible to ninety percent of the population, however.

  Individuals who fall into the vast majority, the right-handers, rarely recognize the inconveniences those of us in the minority are acutely attuned to. Simple household items—scissors, ice-cream scoops, can openers—are all designed for the right-handed. Water fountain buttons. Car cup holders. ATMs. The list continues.

  People with right-hand dominance naturally orient the page to the right side of the body when they take notes. People who use their left hands to write orient the page to the left. The practice is automatic; it requires no conscious thought.

  The folders have been moved several inches to the right of their usual resting spot on the desk. They are now in the space where the brain of a right-handed person would decree they belong.

  The file folders briefly blur as my vision swims. Then reason reasserts itself.

  Perhaps Thomas simply brushed the folders a few inches aside when he replaced the pen, and then attempted to recenter them.

  Even if Thomas had picked them up out of curiosity, or in a search to find a sheet of paper for his note before he discovered a blank pad in the top desk drawer, he would have realized they were client folders. Therapists are bound by rules of confidentiality; Thomas abides by this professional mandate. Even in our private discussions about clients, they are never mentioned by name. Even special clients, like Subject 5.

  Thomas was told about my first encounter with Subject 5, how she fled the NYU classroom in tears midway through her initial computerized survey session. When Subject 5 revealed to my assistant, Ben, that the questions had triggered an intense emotional reaction for her, Thomas agreed that the moral course of action was to provide her with some expert guidance. He listened supportively as our subsequent interactions were described—the conversations in my office, the gifts, and finally the invitation for cheese and wine at the town house on a night when Thomas was occupied at a business event.

  He unde
rstood that she became . . . special.

  But her name has never been spoken between us.

  Not once. Not even after her death.

  Especially not after her death.

  However, Thomas did see the e-mail sent to me by the private investigator hired by the Voss family. If he hadn’t made the connection by then that Subject 5’s name was Katherine April Voss, it certainly became crystal clear to him in that moment.

  The tension stored in my muscles eases slightly as my thought process continues along a reassuring path.

  If Thomas had seen everything in your file, Jessica—the pages of notes detailing our conversations, the specifics of your assignments, and your accounts of your interactions with him—his behavior surely would have been altered. At breakfast, his affect seemed unremarkable. It remained so when he arrived at the town house this evening.

  And yet . . . at dinner tonight, his tenor changed. He grew increasingly distracted. His departure was abrupt; his farewell kiss, perfunctory rather than regretful.

  It is difficult to think clearly; the two glasses of Pinot Noir consumed this evening hamper my ability to draw a firm conclusion.

  Other considerations swim through my mind: Despite the rules of confidentiality, you and April are unlike all of the others who have entered my office. Neither of you were technically clients. And Thomas thinks you both hold one other distinction: that each of you has caused his wife great distress.

  April is fading away. She can cause no fresh pain.

  But Thomas believes that you, Jessica, have demonstrated potential menace, enough to inspire me to install a new lock on the front door of the town house. He could have reasoned that an ethical breach was preferable to ignoring information that would protect his wife.

  The probability must be acknowledged: Thomas looked at your file.

  The impact of the realization feels like a physical blow. The edge of my desk is grasped until equilibrium is reestablished.

  If he chose to pretend otherwise, what would be his motivation?

  No clear answer is forthcoming.

  Communication is a vital component of a healthy partnership. It is a necessary foundational aspect of a romantic relationship, as well as a therapeutic one.

  Yet self-preservation must trump the blind trust of one’s spouse. Particularly when one’s spouse has proved untrustworthy in the past.

  The twenty-four-hour reprieve has ended. All conclusions have been upended. Thomas must be watched more closely than ever.

  The folders are placed in a locked filing cabinet. The door to my study is firmly closed.

  Then a text is sent to him: I’m going to call it an early night. Let’s talk tomorrow?

  My phone is turned off before he can reply. In the bedroom, the usual nightly rituals are performed: My dress is hung in the closet, serum is applied, and pajamas are selected.

  Then the new lingerie is crumpled into a ball and shoved into the back of a drawer.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Sunday, December 23

  I was up most of last night studying my file and April’s.

  As best as I can tell, Thomas’s affair with the boutique owner is the one Dr. Shields was referring to that night in her kitchen, when her hand trembled and her eyes filled with tears. It’s the reason why she decided to use me as a real-life test for her husband, to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.

  I briefly flash back to the memory of Thomas’s mouth trailing its way down my stomach as he pushed aside my lacy black thong and I flinch.

  I can’t think about that now; I need to focus on figuring out why Thomas was so transparent about his relationship with the boutique owner and so fearful of anyone learning he’d been with April.

  What made one affair so different from the other?

  It’s why I’m walking into the Blink boutique this morning, looking for the store’s owner: Lauren, the woman Thomas slept with.

  It wasn’t hard to pinpoint who she was and where she worked. I had clues. Her name began with an L, the same initial as Lydia. And she owned a clothing boutique located a block away from Thomas’s office.

  There were three possible stores. I identified the right one by checking out the websites. Blink’s featured a photo of Lauren and the backstory of how she started the boutique.

  I can kind of see why I remind Dr. Shields of Lauren, I think as I step into the bright, funky store. When I saw her picture on the website, it was hard to tell, but in person I acknowledge that she does look a bit like me, with her dark hair and light eyes, even though, as Dr. Shields stated, she’s probably a decade older.

  She’s busy with a customer, so I inspect a rack of blouses organized by color.

  “Looking for anything special?” a saleswoman greets me.

  “Just browsing,” I say. I flip over a price tag and wince: The long-sleeve, sheer top is $425.

  “Let me know if you want to try anything on,” she says.

  I nod and continue pretending to consider the blouses, while I keep an eye on Lauren. But the customer she’s with is buying multiple items for last-minute Christmas gifts, and she occupies Lauren by asking for her opinion.

  Finally, after I’ve made a slow lap around the tiny store, the customer heads to the cash register. Lauren starts to ring her up.

  I grab a scarf off an accessory table, figuring it will be one of the less expensive items. By the time Lauren hands the customer a glossy white bag with the store’s logo—an oversize sketch of a pair of closed eyes with long, thick lashes—I am at the register waiting.

  “Would you like this gift-wrapped?” she asks.

  “Please,” I say. It’ll buy me a few more minutes of her time, so I can gather my courage.

  She slips the scarf into tissue paper and ties a pretty bow around it while I swipe my credit card to cover the $195 charge. If I can get the information I need, it’s a small price to pay.

  Lauren hands me the signature bag and I notice she’s wearing a wedding band.

  I clear my throat.

  “I know this sounds kind of weird, but is it possible to talk in private for a minute?” I ask. I feel the cold metal of my rings and realize I’m running my thumb over them. According to Dr. Shields’s file on me, that’s one of my tells when I’m anxious.

  Lauren’s smile disappears. “Sure.” She draws out the word, almost like it’s a question.

  Lauren leads me to the back of the shop. “What can I help you with?” she asks.

  I need her first, instinctual response. I learned from Dr. Shields that’s usually the most honest one. So instead of saying anything, I pull out my phone and turn it around so Lauren can see the photo of Thomas I’ve cropped out from the wedding picture he texted me. It was taken seven years ago, but the picture is clear and he basically looks the same.

  I keep my eyes on her. If she refuses to talk to me or just tells me to leave, her initial reaction is all I’ll have. I have to be able to read her expression, to decipher any signs of guilt or sorrow or love.

  It isn’t what I expect.

  There’s no strong emotion in her face. Her brow furrows slightly. Her eyes are quizzical.

  It’s as if she recognizes Thomas but can’t quite place him.

  “He looks vaguely familiar . . .” she finally says.

  She meets my gaze. She’s waiting for me to fill in the blanks.

  “You had an affair with him,” I blurt. “Just a couple of months ago!”

  “What?”

  Her cry of surprise is so loud that her coworker turns around: “Everything okay, Lauren?”

  “I’m sorry,” I sputter. “He told me, he said—”

  “It’s fine,” Lauren calls back to her colleague, but her voice has an edge, like she’s angry now.

  I try to gather myself; she’ll probably throw me out in a minute. “You said he looks familiar. Do you even know him at all?”

  My voice cracks and I force back tears.

  Instead of recoilin
g like I’m crazy, Lauren’s face softens. Are you okay?”

  I nod and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.

  “Why in the world would you think I had an affair with that man? she says.

  I can’t come up with anything to say other than the truth. “Someone told me you had . . .” I hesitate, then force myself to continue. “I met him a few weeks ago and . . . I’m worried he might be dangerous,” I whisper.

  Lauren rears back. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but this is nuts. Someone told you I had an affair with him? I’m married. Happily married. Who told you that lie?”

  “Maybe I got it wrong,” I say. There’s no way I can go into all of this with her. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to insult you . . . Could you just look again and see if you can remember if you’ve ever seen him before?”

  Now Lauren is the one studying me. I wipe my eyes again and make myself meet her gaze.

  She finally stretches out her hand. “Let me see your phone.”

  As she gazes at the photo, her face clears. “I remember him now. He was a customer.”

  She looks up at the ceiling and bites her lower lip. “Okay, it’s coming back to me. He walked in a few months ago. I was just putting out some items from the fall line and he was looking for some special outfits for his wife. He spent quite a lot of money.”

  The chime over the door announces the arrival of a new customer. Lauren glances her way and I know my time here is limited.

  “Was that all?” I ask.

  Lauren raises her eyebrows. “Well, he returned everything the next day. That’s probably why I even remember him at all. He was very apologetic but said they weren’t his wife’s style.”

  She looks toward the front of the shop again. “I never saw him again,” she says. “I didn’t get the feeling that he was dangerous at all. In fact, he seemed really sweet. But I barely spent any time with him. And I certainly didn’t have an affair with him.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’m so sorry I bothered you.”