“Hi, it’s Thomas. We have to talk. I think I know the friend who sent you to the diner. She’s . . . Look, just call me back as soon as you can.”
He continues: “And please, don’t tell her anything.” There’s a pause. “She’s dangerous. Watch yourself.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
Sunday, December 16
You finally met my husband.
What did you think of him? And, more important, what did he think of you?
A vision of the two of you, leaning toward each other in a cozy booth at the diner, is pushed away.
When you arrive at the town house, the usual welcoming rituals are performed: Your coat and wrap are hung in the closet; your oversize purse placed on the floor beside them. You are offered a beverage but, for the first time, you refuse.
You are scrutinized. Your appearance is as compelling as ever. But you seem off today, Jessica.
You avoid sustained eye contact. You fidget relentlessly with your rings.
Why are you so distracted? Your encounter with Thomas proceeded flawlessly; you followed your directions. You describe it when prompted: You approached him and explained you thought you’d left your phone in his booth. After a cursory search, you asked him to use his own cell phone to dial your number. He did, and the ringing indicated you’d overlooked your phone in your purse. You apologized for bothering him and departed.
Now it is time to proceed to the next step.
But before you can receive your instructions, you stand up from the couch in the library. “I need to grab something from my bag,” you say.
After a nod of acquiescence, you retreat to the hall closet. You return a moment later holding a small tube.
You are frowning. Perhaps you are worrying again about your family’s finances, or maybe you’re suppressing questions about your latest assignment, but your emotions are not going to be managed today. There are far more important matters at hand.
“My lips are so chapped,” you say as you run the balm in the tube with the BeautyBuzz logo over your mouth.
No response is given. You reclaim your seat.
“I need you to text the man from the diner and invite him out.”
You cast your eyes downward, to your phone. You begin to type.
“No!” you are told.
The directive is delivered with more urgency than intended. A smile softens my tone.
“I’d like you to write the following: ‘Hi, it’s Jessica from the diner. It was nice meeting you today. Would you like to get together for a drink sometime this week?’”
You frown again. Your fingers do not move.
“What is it, Jessica?”
“It’s nothing. Just— Everyone calls me Jess. Except you. So I wouldn’t refer to myself by my full name.”
“Fine, make that edit,” you are told.
You follow the directions. You lay the phone down in your lap and the waiting commences once more.
A chime sounds a few seconds later.
You raise your phone. “It’s just BeautyBuzz,” you say. “My next client is in an hour.”
A powerful collision of relief and disappointment is experienced.
“I didn’t realize you had booked other jobs today,” you are told.
You appear flustered. You begin to scrape at your nail polish with a fingertip, then you catch yourself and still your hands.
“You said you only needed me for an hour or two, so . . .”
Your voice trails off.
“Are you sure your text went through?”
You glance at your phone again. “Yep, it says delivered.”
Another three minutes tick by.
Surely Thomas must have seen the text. But what if he hasn’t?
It is important that the following request contains authority rather than any hint of desperation.
“I’d like you to cancel your makeup session.”
Your throat constricts as you visibly swallow.
“Dr. Shields, you know I’d do anything for your research. But this is a good client, and she’s counting on me.” You hesitate. “She’s hosting a big holiday party this afternoon.”
Such an inconsequential dilemma.
“Couldn’t a substitute be sent in your place?”
You shake your head. Your eyes are pleading. “BeautyBuzz has this policy. You have to give a day’s notice before you cancel.”
This was a miscalculation on your part, Jessica. A good client can’t be compared to the excessive generosity you’ve been shown. Your priorities are skewed.
A beat of silence fills the room following your explanation. When you have twisted long enough, you are dismissed.
“Well, Jessica, I wouldn’t want you to disappoint a good client.”
“I’m sorry,” you say as you quickly rise from the couch. But words pull you back.
“I would like you to inform me as soon as Thomas replies to your text.”
You look startled. “Of course,” you say quickly.
Then you apologize again, and you are silently escorted to the door.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
Sunday, December 16
I make myself walk two blocks away from Dr. Shields’s town house before calling Thomas back, even though the whole time I was with her, all I could think about was his message.
She’s dangerous. Watch yourself.
The question searing through my mind is: How does Thomas know Dr. Shields arranged my meeting with him?
He picks up on the first ring. Before I can ask, he says, “How do you know my wife?”
My legs buckle and I stagger, falling against a tree to balance myself. I flash to the picture of the dark-haired man with the beard in the photo in her library, the one who appeared to be about Dr. Shields’s height. I’m certain she said she was married to him.
So how could Thomas be her husband? Yet Dr. Shields clearly knows him; she called him by name at the end of our meeting.
“Your wife?” I echo. Nausea roils my stomach and my head begins to spin. I stare down at the sidewalk to ground myself.
“Yes, Lydia Shields.” I hear him take a deep breath, like he’s trying to steady himself, too. “We’ve been married for seven years. Although we’re separated now.”
“I don’t believe you,” I blurt.
There’s no way Dr. Shields, with her rules about honesty, would have created such an elaborate lie.
“Meet me and I’ll tell you everything,” he says. “That book sticking out of your bag . . . The Morality of Marriage. She wrote it a few years ago. I read the first draft in our living room. That’s how I knew she was behind this.”
I wrap my free arm around myself, bracing myself against the blustery wind.
One of them is lying. But who?
“I’m not meeting you until you prove you’re really her husband,” I tell Thomas.
“I’ll get proof,” he says. “In the meantime, promise me you won’t say a word to her about seeing me.”
But I can’t agree. This interaction could be a test. Maybe Dr. Shields wants me to prove my loyalty.
I’m about to hang up on Thomas when he says one final thing.
“Please, Jess, just be careful. You’re not the first.”
His words land like a physical blow. I feel myself recoil.