“Sweetheart? Have you heard anything more from that private investigator?”
His question seemingly comes out of nowhere; it feels discordant on this romantic evening. But then, Thomas has always been protective. He knows how unsettling it was for me to receive the e-mail from the investigator hired by Subject 5’s family.
This is not the first time he has asked whether the private investigator has instigated more contact.
“Nothing since I responded that I would not violate confidentiality by relinquishing my notes on her,” he is told.
Thomas nods approvingly. “You’re doing the right thing. A client’s privacy is sacred.”
“Thank you.”
The unpleasant memory is skirted past; tonight’s agenda is already complex enough.
It is time to bring the glass cake pedestal to the table.
He is served a generous three-inch slice.
The edge of his fork slices through the rich, thick mousse. He raises the chocolate confection to his lips.
He closes his eyes. Savors it. “Mmm. Is this from Dominique?”
“No, La Patisserie,” he is told.
“Delicious. I’m almost too full to eat it.”
A pause.
“You’ll work it off tomorrow at the gym.”
He nods and takes another bite. “Aren’t you having any?”
“Of course.”
The torte melts on the tongue. No one would know it was not purchased at a specialty bakery, just as no one would be able to detect the taste of the two hazelnuts that were ground up and included in the batter.
When Thomas’s plate is clean, he leans back in his chair.
But he cannot settle here. A hand is offered to him: “Come.”
He is led to a small love seat in the library and given a glass of Dalva port. The space is cozy, with its Steinway piano and gas fireplace. His eyes flit around the room, alighting on original paintings by Wyeth and Sargent, and then a whimsical bronze sculpture of a motorcycle, before landing on the silver-framed photograph of me as a teenager, astride Folly, the chestnut mare, on our Connecticut grounds, my red hair peeking out from beneath my riding helmet. Angled beside that picture is one of our wedding day.
Thomas wore black tie; the tuxedo was purchased especially for the wedding, since he hadn’t worn one since his high school prom. The bridal gown, with its lace top and tulle skirt, was custom-made; my father had to ask a business associate to call in a favor at Vera Wang because the engagement was so short.
My father did not approve of the low dip in the dress that reached nearly to the small of my back, but it was too late to have it altered. As a compromise, a long veil was worn during the ceremony at St. Luke’s, the church my mother and father still attend.
Our parents flank us in the photo. Thomas’s family had flown in from a small town outside San Jose, California, two days before the wedding. We’d only met once before; Thomas dutifully called his mother and father every week, but he wasn’t particularly close to them or to his older brother, Kevin, who worked as a construction foreman.
My father is unsmiling in the photograph.
Prior to proposing, Thomas had driven to my parents’ Connecticut estate to ask for my hand in marriage. He’d concealed this from me; Thomas was skilled at keeping a secret.
My father appreciated the nod to tradition. He clapped Thomas on the back and they celebrated with brandy and Arturo Fuente cigars. However, the following morning, my father requested my presence at lunch.
He asked only one question. It was direct, as befitting his nature. It came even before we placed our orders: “Are you certain?”
“I am.”
Love is an emotional state, but my symptoms were highly physical: A smile formed at the mere mention of Thomas’s name, my step felt lighter, even my core temperature—which since my childhood had been consistently recorded at 96.2, well below the average of 98.6—rose by a degree.
The music now switches to John Legend’s “Tonight.”
“Let’s dance.”
Thomas’s eyes follow the path of my cardigan as it slips from my shoulders down onto the love seat. As he rises, he reaches with his free hand to massage the back of his neck.
The gesture is a familiar one.
He appears a shade paler than normal.
Our bodies fit together seamlessly, just as they did on our wedding night. It’s as though the memory has always been stored in our muscles.
The song ends. Thomas removes his glasses, then presses his thumb and index finger to his temples. He grimaces.
“Are you feeling unwell?”
He nods. “Do you think there were nuts in the torte?”
He isn’t in danger; his allergy is not life-threatening. However, it is triggered by even the tiniest taste of tree nuts.
The sole side effect is a severe headache. Alcohol worsens this sensation.
“I did ask at the patisserie . . .” My voice trails off. “I’ll get you some water.”
Five steps toward the kitchen, where his cell phone stills rests on the counter.
Now Thomas is positioned closer to the staircase.
This is important; he will be more inclined to think his next movements are of his own accord, rather than the result of a subtle manipulation.
“Would you like some Tylenol? It’s just in the medicine cabinet upstairs.”
“Thanks, I’ll be right back,” he says.
His heavy footsteps ascend the stairs, then sound directly overhead as he moves toward the master bathroom.
The path has already been traced and timed with a stopwatch. He will likely be occupied for sixty to ninety seconds. Hopefully, it will be enough time to gather the desired information.
One of the first questions in the morality survey: Would you ever read your spouse’s/significant other’s text messages?
Thomas’s passcode has traditionally been the month and day of his birth.
It is unchanged.
“Lydia? The Tylenol isn’t in the medicine cabinet.” His voice carries from the top of the stairs.
My footsteps are swift, but when my tone comes from the bottom landing, it remains steady and unhurried.
“Are you certain? I just bought some.”
The Tylenol is in the medicine cabinet, but tucked behind a box containing a new skin-care cream. More than a cursory glance will be necessary to locate it.
A creak in the floorboard indicates he is moving toward the master bathroom again.
His glass of water is procured. Then the green phone icon is touched. Recent texts and phone calls are surveyed.
My phone’s camera function is already engaged.
Quickly, but meticulously, the record of Thomas’s many recent calls is captured. His texts appear completely unremarkable and so are disregarded.
Every photograph is assessed to make sure the digital evidence is clear; quality cannot be sacrificed to speed.
The house is utterly quiet. Too quiet?
“Thomas? Are you okay?”
“Yep,” he calls.
Perhaps he is applying a cold washcloth to his pulse points.
More photographs are amassed, documenting perhaps thirty-five phone calls. Some numbers are assigned to contacts with recognizable names: Thomas’s dentist, squash partner, and parents. Others, eight in total, are unfamiliar. They all have New York City area codes.
The deleted call record log is similarly documented, which turns up one additional unfamiliar number, this one with a 301 area code.