An Anonymous Girl

by Greer Hendricks

  I stand, leaving the present by my chair, at the precise moment Dr. Shields crumples to the floor.

  She is splayed on the carpet, looking up at Thomas, the white fabric of her dress bunched around her legs. Tears stained black by mascara run down her cheeks.

  “Good-bye, Lydia,” I say.

  Then I turn and walk out of the room.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTY-NINE

  Tuesday, December 25

  Of all the losses incurred tonight, the only one that matters is Thomas.

  Your job was to test him so that he could be returned to me. Instead, you took him away forever.

  Everything is gone now.

  Except for the present you left behind.

  It is the size of a book, but too thin and light to contain one. The shiny silver wrapping paper is like a carnival mirror, contorting my reflection before tossing it back at me.

  A single tug unfurls the red bow. The paper yields to reveal a flat white box.

  Inside is a framed photograph.

  Even when pain seems to have crescendoed, there can be yet another peak. Seeing this picture pushes me onto that jagged edge.

  Thomas is asleep on his stomach, a floral comforter rumpled around his bare torso. But the setting is unfamiliar; he is not in the bed we shared.

  Was he in yours, Jessica? Or April’s? Or yet another woman’s?

  It no longer matters.

  Whenever insomnia gripped me throughout our marriage, his presence always provided comfort. His solid warmth and steady exhalations were a balm to the ceaseless churning of my mind. He never knew how many times I whispered, “I love you,” as he slept on peacefully.

  A final question: If you truly loved someone, would you sacrifice your life for theirs?

  The answer is simple.

  A last note is recorded in the legal pad: a full, detailed, and accurate confession. All of the questions Mrs. Voss sought will finally be answered. Thomas’s involvement with April is left out of the note. It may be enough to save him.

  The sheets from the legal pad are left on the table in the foyer, where they will be easily found.

  Not too many blocks away from here is a pharmacy that remains open twenty-four hours a day. Even on Christmas.

  Thomas’s prescription pad is retrieved from his top dresser drawer; he kept one at home in case of an after-hours patient emergency.

  It is completely dark out now; the endless sky is devoid of a single star.

  Without Thomas, there will be no light tomorrow.

  I write myself a prescription for thirty Vicodin pills, more than enough.

  EPILOGUE

  Friday, March 30

  It seems as though the young woman staring back at me in the reflective glass should look different.

  But my curly hair, black leather jacket, and heavy makeup case haven’t changed over the course of the last few months.

  Dr. Shields would probably say you can’t judge someone’s internal state by their external attributes, and I know she’s right.

  True change isn’t always visible, even when it happens to you.

  I shift my makeup case into my left hand, even though my arm doesn’t ache like it used to when I worked for BeautyBuzz. Now that I’ve been hired as a makeup artist for an off-off-Broadway show, I only have to lug it to and from the theater on West Forty-third Street. Lizzie was the one who got me the interview for it; she’s the assistant costume designer.

  It isn’t a Gene French production. His career is over. I was never forced to make the moral choice of whether to tell his wife that he was a predator. Katrina and two other women went to the media with their own stories of how he’d abused them. His downfall was swift; behavior like his is no longer allowed to slide by without repercussions.

  I think on some level I knew why Katrina was reaching out to me, but I wasn’t ready to stand up to Gene then. There’s not much I’m grateful to Dr. shields for, but at least because of her, I’ll never be anyone’s prey again.

  I lean closer to the glass, pressing my forehead against the cool window, so I can see inside.

  Breakfast All Day is crowded, with nearly every red-leather upholstered booth and counter stool claimed, even though it’s nearly midnight. Turns out Noah was right; a lot of people crave French toast and eggs Benedict after a Friday evening out.

  I don’t see Noah, but I picture him in the kitchen, measuring almond extract into a mixing bowl, a dish towel tucked into his waistband.

  I close my eyes and silently wish him well, then keep walking.

  He called me the day after Christmas, when I was in Florida with my family. I hadn’t learned about Dr. Shields’s suicide yet; Thomas didn’t give me the news until later that night.

  We talked for nearly two hours. Noah confirmed that Dr. Shields had gotten to him outside of Thomas’s office. I answered all of his questions, too. Although Noah believed me, I knew even before we hung up that I wouldn’t hear from him again. Who could blame him? It wasn’t just that I’d slept with Thomas; too much had happened for us to have a fresh start.

  Still, I find myself thinking about Noah more than I’d expected.

  Guys like him don’t come around all that often, but maybe I’ll get lucky again someday.

  In the meantime, I’m making my own luck.

  I glance down at the time on my phone. It’s 11:58 P.M. on the last Friday of the month, which means the payment should have landed in my checking account by now.

  Money is vitally important to you. It appears to be an underpinning of your ethical code, Dr. Shields wrote about me during my first computerized session. When money and morality intersect, the results can illuminate intriguing truths about human character.

  It was easy for Dr. Shields to sit back and form judgments and assumptions about my relationship with money. She had more than enough; she lived in a multimillion-dollar town house and wore expensive designer clothes and grew up on an estate in Litchfield. I saw a picture of her on a horse in her library; she drank fine wine and described her father as “influential,” which is code for wealthy.

  The academic exercise she engaged in was completely removed from the reality of an existence spent living from paycheck to paycheck, where a veterinarian’s bill or an unexpected rent hike can cause a financial domino effect, threatening to demolish the life you’ve built.

  People are motivated to break their moral compasses for a variety of primal reasons—survival, hate, love, envy, passion, Dr. Shields wrote in her notes. And money.

  Her study has been terminated. There will be no more experiments. The file on Subject 52 is complete.

  Yet I still feel linked to Dr. Shields.

  She seemed omniscient; as if she could see inside of me. She appeared to know things before I told her, and she drew thoughts and feelings out of me that I didn’t realize I possessed. Maybe that’s why I keep trying to envision how she would record my final encounter with Thomas, the one that occurred several weeks after her fatal overdose.

  Sometimes at night, when my eyes are closed and Leo is snuggled up next to me, I can almost picture her graceful cursive, forming the sentences on her yellow legal pad, as her silvery voice floods my head, flowing along with the arcs and loops of the words.

  If she had been alive to create a record of that meeting, here’s what I imagine her notes might contain:

  Wednesday, January 17

  You call Thomas at 4:55 P.M.

  “Can we meet for a drink?” you ask.

  He agrees swiftly. Perhaps he is eager to talk about all that transpired with the only other person who knows the real story.

  He arrives at O’Malley’s Pub in jeans and a blazer and orders a Scotch. You are already seated at a small wooden table with a Sam Adams in front of you.

  “How are you holding up?” you ask as he eases into his chair.

  He exhales and shakes his head. He looks as if he has lost weight, and his glasses don’t hide the dark crescents under his eyes. “I don’t k
now, Jess. It’s still hard to believe all of it.”

  He was the one to summon the police to the town house after finding the written confession in the foyer.

  “Yeah, for me, too,” you say. You take a sip of beer and let the silence stretch out. “Since I lost my job, I’ve got all this time to think.”

  Thomas frowns. Perhaps he is remembering sitting across from you in his office, hearing you whisper, She got me fired.

  “I’m really sorry about that,” he finally says.

  You reach into your purse for a pale pink document and put it on the table, covering it with your palm as you flatten out the creases.

  His eyes land on it. He hasn’t seen it before; there is no reason he would have.

  “I’m not so worried about a job for myself,” you say. “I’ll find one. The thing is, Dr. Shields promised to help my father get one, too. My family has a lot of medical expenses.”

  You smooth the paper again, and slide your hand down so the sketch of the dove at the top is visible.

  Thomas glances at it once more and fiddles with the thin cocktail straw bobbing in his Scotch.

  He seems to be catching on that this isn’t simply a social encounter.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asks.

  “I’d appreciate any suggestions you have,” you reply as you move your hand down another few inches. Now Katherine April Vosse’s name is visible in a pretty font.

  Thomas flinches and rears back in his seat.

  He lifts his eyes to meet yours, then he takes a big sip of his drink.

  Your hand moves again. Now the quote is revealed: And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.

  “April was asking her mother about this line shortly before she died,” you say. You let that sink in. “I guess she’d seen it somewhere. Maybe it’s the kind of thing she’d read on a coffee mug.”

  His face is now pale. “I thought we could trust each other, Jess,” he whispers. “Can’t we?”

  You shrug. “A friend once told me that if you have to ask if you can trust someone, you already know the answer.”

  “What does that mean?” he asks. His voice is wary.

  “I just want what’s due to me,” you say. “After everything I went through.”

  He drains his Scotch, the ice clinking in the glass.

  “How about I help you with your rent, until you’re back on your feet?” He looks at you hopefully.

  You smile and shake your head slightly.

  “I appreciate your offer, but I had something more substantial in mind,” you say. “I’m sure Dr. Shields would agree that I deserve it.”

  You turn over the funeral program. There is a dollar sign with a number written next to it on the back.

  Thomas gasps. “Are you kidding?”

  Thomas, of course, is the sole recipient of his wife’s estate, including the multimillion-dollar town house. He has his job, his license, and his reputation intact. It would be surprising if you, with your inquisitive and industrious nature, had not already confirmed this. And you believe it is a small price for him to pay for your family’s well-being.

  “I’m happy to receive it in monthly installments,” you say, pushing the program toward him.

  Thomas is slumped in his chair. He has already conceded defeat.

  You lean forward until only a few inches separate your faces. “After all, trust can be bought.”

  You leave almost immediately, pushing through the door and striding onto the sidewalk. Within moments, you are enveloped by the crowd, just another anonymous girl in the city.

  Perhaps you are confident in your decision.

  Or maybe an insistent question will haunt you:

  Was it all worth it, Jessica?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  From Greer and Sarah:

  Our thanks go first to Jen Enderlin (also known as “Saint Jenderlin”), our brilliant, kind, and all-around superb editor and publisher at St. Martin’s Press. Her vision, support, and enthusiasm for us and this novel makes us so grateful every day.

  Katie Bassel, our publicist, works tirelessly on behalf of our books—and does so with good humor and good fashion!

  The dream team beside these two amazing women nurture our novels through the publication process with great care, energy, and boundless creativity. We are so lucky to have them working on behalf of our books. Thank you to Rachel Diebel, Marta Fleming, Olga Grlic, Tracey Guest, Jordan Hanley, Brant Janeway (a special shout-out to you for coming up with the book’s title!), Kim Ludlam, Erica Martirano, Kerry Nordling, Gisela Ramos, Sally Richardson, Lisa Senz, Michael Storrings, Dori Weintraub, and Laura Wilson.

  Thanks also to our wildly generous and supportive Mama-bear agent, Victoria Sanders, as well as her wonderful crew: Bernadette Baker-Baughman, Jessica Spivey, and Diane Dickensheid at Victoria Sanders and Associates.

  To Benee Knauer: Your encouragement, calm manner, and story smarts once again helped us find the right path as we set out to write this novel.

  Our gratitude to all of our foreign publishers who have shared our work around the globe, including Wayne Brookes at Pan Macmillan UK, whose e-mails always make us laugh—and make us feel like we are supermodels instead of writers!

  Our deepest appreciation to Shari Smiley and Ellen Goldsmith-Vein at the Gotham Group for their passionate work to bring our novels to the screen. And to Holly Bario at Amblin Entertainment and Carolyn Newman at eOne Entertainment for making our experiences in Hollywood so exciting.

  And last but never least, to our readers: We love connecting with you, so please find us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. And to sign up for our very occasional newsletters, please visit our websites: www.greerhendricks.com and www.sarahpekkanen.com We’d love to stay in touch with you.

  From Greer:

  For someone who spends her days writing, I find it almost impossible to put into words how much a part of my life Sarah Pekkanen has become. Co-author, business partner, beloved friend, cheerleader, counselor—the list could go on and on. You truly have become the sister I never had. Thank you for everything.

  I am deeply grateful to my friends both in and outside the publishing industry (you know who you are!), especially my early readers, Marla Goodman, Vicki Foley, and Alison Stong. And my running partners, Karen Gordon and Gillian Blake, who listen to it all as we track our mileage.

  Much appreciation to this very special support team: Katharina Anger, Melissa Goldstein, Danny Thompson, and Ellen Katz Westrich.

  Extra-special thanks to my family: the Hendricks, Alloccas, and Kessels, especially those who commented on early drafts: Julie and Robert (best brother ever!).

  Elaine and Mark Kessel, aka Mom and Dad, this one belongs to you. Thank you for encouraging my love of reading, writing, and psychology—and for always telling me I deserve it.

  Rocky and Cooper, for keeping me company (although sometimes a bit too much company).

  Paige, you have taught me so much about courage and self-awareness. You impress and inspire me every day.

  Alex, the joy you provide me is boundless. You have the biggest heart and no one makes me laugh more.

  And finally to John, who not only listened to me brainstorm ideas over boozy brunches and long dog walks, but also provided fantastic notes. You make everything possible and make it all worthwhile. Twenty years and counting . . .

  From Sarah:

  I can’t imagine sharing this publishing journey with anyone other than Greer Hendricks. Your deep and constant support is a layer of bedrock in my life. Your funny texts always make me laugh. Your emotional intelligence and tireless drive to make every page we write the best it can be inspires me. G, we are truly better together!

  Thanks to Kathy Nolan for her creative help on my website; to the Street Team and my Facebook friends and readers for their support; and to the booksellers, librarians, and book bloggers who have helped our novels find their way into the hands of readers.

  I’m always grate
ful to Sharon Sellers for helping me clear my mind in the gym, and to my fantastic hometown Gaithersburg Book Festival crew (with a special shout-out to Jud Ashman). My thanks also to Glenn Reynolds for being a wonderful co-parent.

  Bella, one of the great dogs, sat patiently by my side as I wrote.

  Love always to my parents, John and Lynn Pekkanen. Dad, you taught me how to write, and Mom, you taught me how to dream big. You two are the best. And to the rest of the strong, funny Pekkanen crew: Robert, Saadia, Sophia, Ben, Tammi, and little Billy. Thank you for always being there.

  Roger Aarons lived through every part of this book with me, from reading early drafts (and catching even the most minuscule of typos), to cooking for me like Noah did for Jess, to being the best plus-one a girl could ask for at publishing events. Roger, I’m so grateful you came into this chapter of my life.

  And to my three amazing sons: Jackson, Will, and Dylan. You fill me with so much love and pride every single day.

  OUT NOW

  The Wife Between Us

  By Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen

  When you read this book, you will make many assumptions.

  It’s about a jealous wife, obsessed with her replacement.

  It’s about a younger woman set to marry the man she loves.

  The first wife seems like a disaster; her replacement is the perfect woman. You will assume you know the motives, the history, the anatomy of the relationships.

  You will be wrong.

  *

  ‘Fans of Gone Girl and The Girl the will adore this classy domestic noir set in New York’ Daily Express

  ‘With shocking twists, this intricate thriller proves all is not what it seems for the discarded first wife and the woman about to marry her ex. Addictive’ & Home

  Greer Hendricks spent over two decades as an editor.

  Prior to her tenure in book publishing, she worked at Allure Magazine and earned her Masters in Journalism from Columbia University. Her writing has been published in the New York Times and Publishers Weekly. Greer lives in Manhattan with her husband, two children and very needy dog, Rocky.