“There’s something off about you,” he says.
I shake my head. “I promise, I’m just a makeup artist.”
He stares at me for another long moment.
Then he tosses my phone into the air and I scramble to catch it.
“Take your fucking phone,” he says. “I’m going back to my movie.”
I don’t exhale until he’s back on the sofa.
“I’m sorry,” Tiffani whispers.
I want to reach into my case and extract one of my cards and give it to her. I want to tell her to call me if she ever needs help.
But Ricky is too close. His awareness of me is like a force in the room.
I grab a few lip glosses out of my case and hand them to Tiffani. “Keep these,” I say.
I shove my things back into my case and shut it, then I stand up. My legs feel weak. I hurry to the door, imagining Ricky’s eyes searing into my back. By the time I reach the stairwell, I’m running, my arm straining with the effort of holding up my heavy case.
After I’m in the back of an Uber, I check my phone log.
I can’t believe it. Dr. Shields hung up after only six minutes.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
Friday, December 14
Your voice is surprisingly agitated when you telephone following your encounter with the second woman: “How could you have hung up on me? That guy was bad news!”
Therapists are trained to set aside their own turbulent emotions and focus on their clients. This can be quite challenging, especially when unspoken questions vie with yours, Jessica: What is Thomas doing tonight? Is he alone?
But you must be appeased swiftly.
There could be any number of reasons why these two women called my husband—therapy, for example. In any case, they have been eliminated as potential paramours; Reyna is a married lesbian, and Tiffani relocated here only weeks ago.
The other possible avenues leading to information are closing up. This heightens the urgency of your participation.
Everything depends upon you now.
You must be managed.
“Jessica, I am so sorry. The call cut off and obviously you could not be phoned back. What happened? Are you safe?”
“Oh.” You exhale. “Yeah, I guess. But that woman you sent me to? Her boyfriend was clearly on drugs.”
A tinge of something—resentment? anger?—lingers.
This must be extinguished.
“Do you need me to send a car to pick you up?”
The offer is declined, as expected.
Still, the solicitous attention to your well-being has the desired effect. Your voice modulates. Your words come more slowly as you describe your interactions. Cursory questions are asked about the two women. You are complimented on your ability to draw out their basic demographic details.
“I left Tiffani too soon to get a tip,” you say.
You are assured that you handled the situation perfectly, that your safety comes first.
Then a seed is carefully planted: “Is it possible that your prior experience with the theater director, the one you described to me in the hotel lobby, has left you feeling more vulnerable with men than you would otherwise?”
The question is delivered with compassion, naturally.
You fumble with an answer.
“I don’t—I hadn’t really thought about that,” you say.
The hint of self-doubt in your voice reveals that the query has landed effectively.
The buzz of an incoming call interrupts you. You stop speaking briefly. The number is quickly checked, but it belongs to my father. Not Thomas.
“Continue, please,” you are instructed.
Thomas has not responded to a message left for him more than an hour ago. This is atypical.
Where is he?
Your tone has remained deferential since the introduction of the possibility that your past is tainting your perceptions of your encounters with men. Perhaps you also remember how you jumped to conclusions with Scott in the hotel bar.
“The second woman, Tiffani . . . she mentioned she just moved here from Detroit.” Your sentence is halting. You are probing for information without wanting to appear accusatory.
“I was just wondering . . . you said she was a part of your study?”
It was hoped that you would overlook this detail.
You were underestimated.
A quick recovery is necessary.
“My assistant, Ben, must have transposed two digits when he took down her phone number,” you are told.
Effusive apologies are offered, and you accept them.
You must be drawn back in quickly; you will be needed again in just a few days for your most important assignment yet. A distraction is required.
Inspiration arrived serendipitously just moments ago, when my phone vibrated to signal the incoming call. The words that will entice you are selected:
“My father called today. He has a lead on a job that might be of interest.”
Your relief is obvious and immediate. A gasp, followed by a cry of delight. “Really?”
This exchange is followed by a promise that a check for your evening’s work will be ready for you the next time you come to the office.
You are brimming with questions, but you do not allow yourself to release them.
Excellent, Jessica.
You are eased off the phone.
Supplies are gathered: A laptop. A pen and a fresh legal pad. A cup of peppermint tea, to engender alertness and warm the hands and throat.
The blueprint for your encounter with Thomas must be quickly drawn. Not a single detail can be left to chance.
There can be no missed connection this time.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
Friday, December 14
Leo jumps on me as soon as I unlock my door, his little paws barely reaching my knees. He hasn’t been out since I left to do makeup on Reyna and Tiffani. I set down my case and grab my wool scarf, then clip on his leash.
I need this walk as much as he does right now.
Leo tugs me down the three flights of stairs and through the building’s front door. Even though I’m only going to be gone for a few minutes, I yank it hard to make sure the sometimes-sticky lock engages.
While Leo relieves himself on a fire hydrant, I wrap the scarf around my neck and check my phone. Two missed texts. The first is from my theater friend Annabelle: Miss you girl, call me!
The second is from an unfamiliar number: Hey, just wanted you to know Marilyn is doing okay. Her daughter said she was released from the hospital a few hours ago. Hope you got to your work assignment on time. At the end, he added a smiling emoji.
Thanks for the update, that’s good news! I type back.
As I continue to walk, I reach my free hand around to rub the back of my neck, trying to ease the knots. Even the promise of a possible new job for my dad doesn’t offset the agitation I’m feeling.
I want to talk to someone about everything that is going on. But I can’t unburden myself to my father and mother, and not just because of Dr. Shields’s rule of secrecy.
I look at my phone again.
It’s not quite nine P.M.
Noah is out of town until Sunday. I could call Annabelle or Lizzie and try to meet up with them. Their happy banter would be a diversion, but right now it doesn’t feel like a welcome one.
I turn a corner and pass a restaurant with a string of white holiday lights dangling around windows. On the doorway of the shop next door is a wreath.