An Anonymous Girl (42 page)

Tuesday, December 25

The instant I see Thomas in Dr. Shields’s library, I know my plan won’t work.

She is a step ahead of me, again.

After she called, I thought about going to the police, but I worried the information I could give them wouldn’t be enough. She’d probably concoct some compelling story about me being a disturbed girl who’d stolen her jewelry;
she’d find a way to flip things so that I was the one who got arrested. So in the hours before I responded to her summons, I found an electronics store that was open on Christmas Day and bought a slim black watch that could record conversations.

“Last-minute present?” the clerk asked.

“Sort of,” I answered as I hurried out the door.

I was bringing Dr. Shields a gift, but not this one.
The present I was assembling was far more personal and consequential.

The watch was intended to record her words when she opened her gift. I had Dr. Shields to thank for the idea: She was the one who illustrated the strategy of having a secret witness to a conversation when she had me visit Reyna and Tiffani.

I envisioned her staring down at her present, stunned, as I hit her with the
second part of my one-two punch:
I know you gave April the Vicodin she overdosed on.

She would be dangerously mad. But she wouldn’t be able to touch me, because I’d also tell her about how I’d set up e-mails on my computer addressed to Thomas, Mrs. Voss, Ben Quick—
and
the private investigator—with the evidence I’ve compiled, including a photograph of the pill Dr. Shields gave me.
I wrote that
I was on my way to see you. The e-mails are scheduled to be automatically sent tonight unless I get home and delete them,
I’d planned to say
. But if don’t hand what have me, then I won’t hand over what I have on you.

That last part would be a lie because I still intended to find a way to turn in Dr. Shields. But if I could shock her into saying something incriminating on my secret recording,
I’d at least have evidence to offset whatever story she concocted.

Now, as I sit in the library watching Thomas wipe his mouth with a napkin, I know I need to figure out a new strategy—fast.

I can’t believe Dr. Shields just told Thomas she knows he slept with April and that April was his client.

Thomas suddenly looks like a completely different man than the confident, take-charge guy
who pulled off his jacket and covered the elderly woman who was hit by a taxi outside the museum.

My mind swirls as I try to reframe everything I thought I knew. I was right; April went to Thomas for therapy. But Dr. Shields doesn’t realize I’m aware of this, or that I already knew Thomas slept with April. It’s an explosive secret, one that could cost them everything. Why was she so cavalier
about stating that information in front of me?

All of Dr. Shields’s moves are premeditated. So this wasn’t a slip. It was deliberate.

My stomach clenches like a fist as I realize she must already be certain that I’m not going to tell anyone.

A secret is only a secret if one person holds it.

What is she going to do to ensure I won’t reveal it?

My mind flashes to a vision of
April, slumped on the park bench.

I shrink back against my seat as my entire body begins to tremble. My mouth is so dry I can’t swallow.

Dr. Shields tucks back a stray tendril of hair and I see the vein on her temple throb, a blue-green blemish on an otherwise-perfect sheet of marble.

The tasteful platter of hors d’oeuvres, the crackling fire, the elegant library with leather-bound
volumes lining a shelf—how could I ever have thought bad things couldn’t happen in such an enviable setting?

Focus,
I instruct myself.

Dr. Shields isn’t a physically violent person, I tell myself again. Her sharpest weapon is her mind. She wields it mercilessly. If I succumb to panic, I’ll lose.

I force myself to stare at her as Thomas gasps, “Lydia, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

She interrupts him: “I’m sorry, too, Thomas.”

Then I hear it: the disconnect between her words and her tone.

She doesn’t sound furious or cuttingly sarcastic, as a wife should in this moment.

Compassion fills her voice instead. It’s as though she believes she and Thomas are aligned together against the adulterous affair; as though they are both innocent parties.

As my gaze seesaws
between them, it hits me why Dr. Shields hasn’t simply left Thomas: She can’t.

Because she’s desperately in love with him.

She didn’t give April the pills only because she was jealous and furious. She also did it to protect Thomas, so that April could never reveal she’d been his client. I told Dr. Shields that I’d seen what love looks like in other people. And now I realize it’s true:
I see it on her face whenever she talks about or gazes at her husband. Even now.

But her love for Thomas is as twisted as everything else about her: It’s all-consuming and toxic and dangerous.

Dr. Shields replaces the visitor’s log under the laptop. Then she takes a seat on the chair opposite me. “Shall we begin?”

She appears completely composed, like a professor in front of an audience,
conducting a lecture.

She spreads out her hands. “Now, I’ll ask my question again, this time to both of you: Do either of you have anything to confess about the true nature of your relationship?”

Thomas starts to say something, but Dr. Shields cuts him off immediately: “Hold on. Think very carefully before you reply. So that you don’t influence one another, I’ll speak to each of you privately.
You have two minutes to decide how you are going to answer.” She glances down at her watch and I push up my sleeve to check mine.

“Your time starts now,’ Dr. Shields says.

I look at Thomas, trying to read what he’s going to say, but his eyes are tightly shut. He looks so awful I wonder if he’s going to get sick again.

I feel nauseated, too, but my mind is leaping through all the scenarios
and the possible repercussions.

We could both confess the truth: We did sleep together.

We could both lie: We could stick to our script.

I could lie and Thomas could divulge the truth: He might sell me out to get the visitor’s log.

Thomas could lie and I could disclose the truth: I could blame it on him, say he pursued me. If I do this, Dr. Shields claims she’ll give me the digital
recording. But will it really end then?

No, I realize. There is no right move.

Dr. Shields takes a sip of wine, her eyes staring at me from over the rim of the glass.

The Prisoner’s Dilemma
, I think. That’s what she’s re-creating. I read about it once in an article someone posted on Facebook. It’s a common tactic in which suspects are placed in solitary confinement and given incentives
to see if they’ll rat each other out.

Dr. Shields sets down her wineglass, the crystal making a delicate chime as it touches the coaster.

There can’t be much time left.

Images collide in my brain: Dr. Shields alone in the French restaurant at a table for two. I see her stroking the crest of the falcon, and feel the warm press of cashmere around my shoulders as I sobbed in her office.
A line from her notes in her precise, graceful script:
You could become a pioneer in the field of psychological research.

I tried to use the lessons she taught me to trap her tonight. She outmaneuvered me even before I began.

But now I realize it isn’t over, because I’ve finally pinpointed her weak spot: Thomas. He’s the key to undoing her.

My breathing is shallow; a rushing noise
fills my head.

I need to think several steps ahead, like she always does. I know that no matter how we answer, Dr. Shields is never going to turn him in; she needs to find a way to blame this on me. Just like she probably did with April to justify giving her the Vicodin.

I was the one under scrutiny by Dr. Shields from the moment I entered her study, but I’ve been scrutinizing her all
along, too. I know so much more about her than I realized—everything from the way she walks down a street to what she keeps in her refrigerator and, more important, how her mind operates.

Will it be enough?

“Time’s up,” Dr. Shields announces. “Thomas, would you join me in the dining room?”

I watch the two of them disappear from view and my mind flashes through all of the variables
again from Thomas’s perspective. I think about what’s at stake for him: The tabloids would pounce on a story about a handsome therapist and his affair with a wealthy, damaged young woman who committed suicide. He’d probably lose his license, and the Voss family might sue him.

I know quite a bit about Thomas, too. I think back to our encounters, from the museum to the bars to my apartment to
the Conservatory Gardens. And the final one, in his office.

With a sudden, swift certainty, I know how he is going to answer.

Dr. Shields comes back into the room less than a minute later, alone. I can’t read what might have just transpired from her expression; it’s as if she is wearing a mask.

She sits down on the end of the love seat closest to my chair. She reaches out and lightly
touches my bare leg where there’s a gap between my boots and the hem of my dress. I force myself to remain still, even though I want to recoil.

“Jessica, do you have anything to confess about the true nature of your relationship with my husband?”

I look directly at her. “You’re right. I wasn’t completely honest before. We slept together.” I was worried my voice would waver, but it doesn’t;
it sounds assured. “It happened before I knew he was your husband.”

Something changes in her eyes. The light blue of her irises appears to darken. She remains perfectly still for a moment. Then she nods crisply, as it this has confirmed something she already knows. She rises and smooths her dress before heading back toward the dining room.

“Thomas, can you join us?” she calls.

He walks
into the room slowly.

“Will you please share with Jessica what you just told me?” she prompts him.

I clasp my hands firmly on my lap and try to smile, but my jaw is clenched too tightly. I can still feel the icy touch of her fingers on my leg.

Thomas drags his eyes to mine. In them I see pure defeat.

“I told her nothing happened between us,” Thomas says dully.

He lied.

I guessed correctly.

He didn’t do it to protect himself, he did it to protect me. He is giving up the opportunity to obtain the visitor’s log.

Dr. Shields is obsessed with morality, with telling the truth. But Thomas understands the nuances of ethical choices; he lied because he thought it would save me, even if it meant sacrificing himself. For all his failings, there is a core of goodness
in him. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons why she loves him so desperately.

I can feel Dr. Shields’s anger; it’s like a swelling, red force in the room, pressing in on me, stealing away my breath.

The silence hangs heavily for a moment, then Dr. Shields says, “Jessica, can you repeat what you told me?”

I swallow hard. “I said we slept together.”

Thomas cringes.

“Now, one of
you is clearly lying,” Dr. Shields says. She folds her arms across her chest. “And it seems pretty obvious it’s you, Thomas, since Jessica has nothing to gain from a false confession.”

I nod, because she’s right.

What she does next is going to reveal if the risk I took paid off.

Dr. Shields walks over to the piano and pats the laptop. “Jessica, I’ll be happy to give you the recording.
All you need to do is return what you took from me first.” Her gaze flits to Thomas and I know exactly what she means. She isn’t talking about a necklace.

She’s re-creating what happened with Gene French in her own warped way; she’s using my secrets to inflict maximum pain.

“I can’t,” I say. “I never took any of your jewelry and you know that.”

“Jessica, I’m disappointed in you,” she
says.

Thomas takes a step deeper into the room. Closer to me.

“Lydia, let the poor girl go. She told you the truth; I was the one who lied. Now this is between the two of us.”

Dr. Shields shakes her head sorrowfully. “That necklace is irreplaceable.”

“Lydia, I’m sure she didn’t take it,” Thomas says.

This is what I gambled on by telling the truth. I need him to see that despite
the fact that I’ve followed her rules, she’s going to find an excuse to destroy me.

She gives me a gentle smile. “I will wait until tomorrow morning to alert the authorities, since it is Christmas.” She pauses. “This will also give you some time to talk to your parents first. After all, once they know the truth about Becky, they’ll understand why you were so desperate for money. Because of
your guilt.”

This is exactly how she did it to April, I think as I drop my head into my hands and feel my shoulders shake. She coaxed out April’s secrets and used them like knives against her. She made April feel completely hopeless, as though everything she loved had been taken away. As though life was no longer worth living. Then she gave her the pills.

Dr. Shields believes she has stripped
away everything from me, too: My job. Noah. My freedom. My family.

She’s giving me the night alone because she wants me to follow April’s path.

I wait a bit longer.

Then I lift my head.

Nothing in the room has changed: Dr. Shields stands by the piano, Thomas hovers behind the chair opposite me, and the platter of food rests on the table.

I look at Dr. Shields.

“Okay,” I
say, making sure my voice sounds meek. “But before I go, can I ask you a question?”

She nods.

“Is it ethical for a psychiatrist to dispense Vicodin to a client without giving her a prescription?” I ask.

Dr. Shields smiles. I know she’s thinking about the pill she gave me.

“If a friend is going through a difficult time, it isn’t unheard of to offer a single dose,” she says. “Of
course, I would never officially condone it.”