“Lydia?”
The daughter lifts her head and casts an apologetic smile at her father; she has been lost in contemplation.
Here is what remains invisible:
The daughter has been reflecting on the information gleaned from yesterday’s round of phone calls. It is impossible to dislodge this train of thought from her mind.
Based on the demographics you obtained, Jessica, two of the women appear to be improbabilities for Thomas. One volunteered that she would be taking care of her grandchildren this week but could schedule an appointment on Saturday; the other turned out to belong to a housekeeping service, which sparked a remembrance that Thomas had recently mentioned needing to switch his current service.
Three prospects, however, remain question marks.
Two accepted the offer of the free makeup session, and their appointments have been scheduled for this Friday evening.
The third number had been disconnected. This is not yet a cause for concern.
Thomas’s single betrayal might be surmountable. But confirmation of even one more act of infidelity would do more than establish a pattern of cheating. It would reveal systemic fraud, a doubling down of deception.
Still, results are not guaranteed in this line of inquiry; too many variables remain in play. Therefore, a parallel avenue of research must be simultaneously set in place.
It is time for you to meet my husband, Jessica.
The luncheon progresses.
“You’ve barely touched your sole,” the father says. “Is it overdone?”
The daughter shakes her head and takes a bite. “It’s perfect. I’m just not very hungry.”
The mother puts down her fork. It clinks gently against the plate containing a half-finished grilled chicken paillard and vegetables. “I don’t have much of an appetite, either.”
The father keeps his gaze on his daughter. “Are you sure there isn’t something you’d rather order?”
The mother drains her wine. The waiter approaches and discreetly refills it. It is the second time he has done so. The daughter has abstained save for a single sip; the father has waved away an offer of a second Scotch.
“Perhaps I am a bit preoccupied,” the daughter confesses. She hesitates. “There’s a young research assistant I’ve been working with. Her father’s job is being phased out, and there is a disabled sister. I’m wondering if there is any way we can help the family.”
“What did you have in mind?” The father leans back in his seat.
The mother has taken a breadstick from the basket on the table and snapped off the end.
“He lives in Allentown. Do you know any companies there?”
The father frowns. “Line of work?”
“He sells life insurance. They’re not fancy. I’m sure he’d be open to doing something else.”
“You never cease to amaze me,” the father says. “You’re so busy doing such important work, but you still take the time to get involved.”
The mother has finished consuming the breadstick. She says, “You’re not still feeling badly about that other girl.” It is more a statement than a question.
The daughter does not outwardly exhibit any signs of distress or agitation.
“There is no connection between the two,” she says. Her tone remains even.
An observer would have no indication of the effort this requires.
The father pats the daughter on the hand. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says.
The waiter delivers a birthday cake to the table. The mother blows out the single candle.
“Take a big piece home for Thomas,” the mother says.
Her eyes linger on the daughter.
Then they sharpen. “We look forward to seeing both of you on Christmas Eve.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
Thursday, December 13
There is no car service or wardrobe directions or written script for today’s assignment.
All I have is a destination and a time: the Dylan Alexander photography exhibit at the Met Breuer. I’m supposed to be there from eleven to eleven-thirty, then head directly to Dr. Shields’s office.
When Dr. Shields called me on Tuesday afternoon with the instructions, I asked: “What exactly do you need me to do?”
“I realize these assignments are a bit disconcerting,” she’d replied. “But it’s essential that you go into the scenarios blind so that your knowledge doesn’t affect the outcomes.”
She’d said only one more thing:
“Just be yourself, Jessica.”
That threw me.
I know how to play the various roles in my life: the hardworking professional makeup artist; the girl at the bar laughing with her friends; the dutiful daughter and big sister.
But the person Dr. Shields sees isn’t any of them. She knows the woman on the couch who reveals secrets and vulnerabilities. But surely that isn’t who I am supposed to be today.
I try to remember the compliments Dr. Shields has given me, the things that might have led her to say she felt as though I was more than just a subject to her. Maybe that’s the part of me I’m to reveal today. But I can’t recall a lot of specific praise, just that she likes my fashion sense and my forthrightness.
As I get dressed, I am aware my outfit is more for her than it is for the assignment. At the last minute I retrieve Dr. Shields’s taupe wrap. I tell myself it’s to ward off the December cold, but the truth is I’m nervous, and the scarf feels comforting. I inhale and imagine I can detect the faint smell of her spicy perfume, even though it surely must have worn off the fabric by now.
Before I make my way to the museum, I head to a diner to meet Lizzie for breakfast. I’d told her I had an important makeup appointment and needed to leave at ten o’clock sharp. I wanted to give myself an extra cushion, because even though midday in the city isn’t usually a busy travel time, you can never predict a subway delay or traffic jam or broken heel.
At breakfast, Lizzie talks about her adored youngest brother, Timmy, who is a sophomore in high school. I met him when I went home with her for a weekend last summer; he’s a sweet, good-looking kid. Apparently, he decided against trying out for the basketball team, something he has always loved. Now the whole family is in a tizzy; he is the first of the four brothers to not letter in the sport.
“So what does he want to do?” I ask.
“The robotics club,” Lizzie said.
“There’s probably more of a future for him in that than in basketball,” I say.
“Especially since he’s five five,” she agrees.
I tell her a little bit about Noah. I don’t get into the details of how we met, but I reveal we had a second date on Saturday night.
“A guy who offers to cook for you?” Lizzie asks. “Sounds sweet.”
“Yeah. I think he is.” I look down at my burgundy nails. It feels strange to be keeping so much from her. “I need to run. Talk soon?”
I reach the museum ten minutes early.
I’m walking toward the entrance when I hear tires screech and someone shouting, “Holy crap!”
I spin around. Just a dozen yards away, a white-haired woman is sprawled on the street in front of a taxi cab. The driver is getting out, and a few people are rushing toward the accident scene.