An Anonymous Girl

by Greer Hendricks

  Before it can be discerned, April drops her face into her hands and begins to sob.

  “I’m sorry,” she says through her tears. “It’s that guy I told you about . . .”

  She is obviously referring to the older man she brought home from a bar weeks ago, and grew obsessed with. April’s unhealthy fixation has already been managed through hours of informal counseling; her regression is disappointing.

  My impatience has to be hidden: “I thought you were through with all of that.”

  “I was,” April says, her tear-streaked face still lowered.

  There must be some unresolved detail that is keeping her from moving on; it is time to unearth it. “Let’s go back to the beginning and get you over this man once and for all. You walked into a bar and saw him sitting there, right?” she is prompted. “What happened next?”

  April’s foot begins to twirl like a propeller. “The thing is . . . I didn’t tell you everything,” she begins haltingly. She takes a long sip of wine. “I actually met him for the first time when I went to his office for a consult. He’s a therapist. I didn’t end up seeing him again for counseling, though, it was just that one session.”

  This is utterly shocking.

  A therapist who sleeps with a client, however briefly April was under his care, should lose his license. Clearly, this morally bereft man took advantage of an emotionally fragile young woman who came to him for help.

  April looks at my hands, which are clenched into fists. “It was partly my fault,” she says quickly. “I pursued him.”

  April’s arm is touched. “No, it was not your fault,” she is emphatically told.

  She will need more help to recover from her belief that she is to blame. There was an imbalance of power; she was sexually exploited. But for now she is allowed to continue with the story that weighs so heavily on her.

  “And I didn’t just bump into him at a bar like I said,” she admits. “I had a big crush on him after that initial session. So I . . . I followed him one night after he left his office.”

  The rest of her description of her encounter with the therapist matches her original telling: She saw him sitting alone at a table for two in a hotel bar; she approached. They ended the evening in bed at her apartment. She phoned and texted him the next day, but he didn’t reply for twenty- four hours. When he finally did, it was clear he was no longer interested. She persisted with more phone calls, texts, and invitations to meet. He was polite but never wavered.

  April recounts her story choppily, with pauses in between her sentences, as if she is choosing each word with great care.

  “He is an abhorrent person,” April is told. “It doesn’t matter who initiated things. He took advantage of you and violated your trust. What he did bordered on criminal.”

  April shakes her head. No,” she whispers. “I also messed up.”

  She can barely choke out her words. “Please don’t be mad at me. I never admitted this to you. I was too ashamed. But . . . he’s actually married.”

  A sharp intake of breath accompanies the terrible revelation: She’s a liar.

  The very first thing April did, before we even met in person, was promise to be honest. She signed an agreement to that effect when she became Subject 5.

  “You should have revealed this to me much earlier, April.”

  The counseling April received was predicated on the assumption that the man who spurned her after she brought him home to her bed was single. So many hours, wasted. Had she been forthcoming about the origin of their relationship, and his marital status, the situation would have been handled very differently.

  April isn’t the victim, as was believed only moments ago. She shares culpability.

  “I didn’t exactly lie to you, I just left that part out,” she protests. Incredibly, April sounds defensive now. She is shunning responsibility for her actions.

  There are crumbs beneath April’s stool; she must have been aware that when she bit into a cracker, she scattered them. But she just left them, another one of her messes, for someone else to clean up.

  My finger is placed beneath April’s chin and gentle pressure is applied so that her head is lifted and eye contact established. “That was a serious omission,” she is told. “I am deeply disappointed.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” April blurts. She begins crying again and wipes her nose on her sleeve. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so long . . . I didn’t know how much I’d like you.”

  A frisson ot alarm sends a jolt through my body.

  Her words are not logical.

  Her anticipated feelings for me should not have dictated what she revealed about the man she slept with. There should have been no connection at all.

  The nickname Thomas gave me years ago, the falcon, is significant now.

  You can pick up on a seemingly throwaway comment by a client and trace it all the way back to the source of why they came in for therapy, even if they don’t realize it themselves, he said once, admiration ringing through his voice. It’s like you have X-ray vision. You see through people.

  A falcon homes in on the slightest undulation in a field of grass; that is the signal it is time to swoop in.

  April’s discordant words are the slight ripple in a verdant landscape.

  She is considered more closely. What is she hiding?

  If she is frightened, she will shut down. She must be coaxed into the illusion of safety.

  My tone is gentle now; my utterance deliberately echoes hers: “I didn’t know how much I’d like you, either.”

  Her wineglass is topped off again. “I’m sorry if I sounded harsh. This information just came as a surprise. Now, tell me more about him,” she is encouraged.

  “He was really kind and handsome,” she begins. Her shoulders rise as she takes in a breath. “He had, um, red hair . . .”

  The first clue emerges: She is lying about his appearance.

  A common misconception, perpetuated in movies and television shows, is that individuals engaged in a falsehood reliably exhibit certain tics: They look up and to the left as they try to conjure a story. When they speak, they either avoid eye contact, or engage in it excessively. They bite their nails, or literally cover their mouths as a subconscious symptom of their unease. But these tells are not universal.

  April’s giveaways are more subtle. They begin with a change in her respiration. Her shoulders visibly rise, signaling that she is taking deeper inhalations, and her voice grows slightly shallow. This is because her heart rate and blood flow change; she is literally out of breath due to these physiological alterations. She has exhibited these signs before: once, when she tried to pretend her father’s frequent travel and general absence from her life wasn’t painful, and again when she claimed that it no longer bothered her that she had been shunned by the popular girls in high school, even though she was so traumatized by her ostracization that she swallowed pills in a suicide attempt during her junior year.

  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.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTY-SIX

  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.”