“What do you mean?” I whisper.
“She preys on young women like you.”
I’m frozen in place.
“Jess?” I hear him repeat my name. But I can’t speak.
Finally, I disconnect the call. I slowly lower my phone and look up.
Dr. Shields is two feet away.
I gasp and instinctively shrink back.
She materialized out of nowhere, like an apparition. She isn’t wearing a coat to protect her against the elements. She’s standing there, motionless, except for her hair, which is whipping in the wind. How much of my conversation did she overhear?
Adrenaline floods my body.
“Dr. Shields!” I cry. “I didn’t see you there!”
She looks me up and down, as if assessing me. Then she stretches out her clenched hand and slowly unfurls her fingers.
“You forgot your lip balm, Jessica.”
I stare at her, trying to make sense of it. She followed me all this way just to return my lip balm?
I have an almost uncontrollable urge to blurt out everything Thomas has just said. If she set this all up, she knows anyway.
Prey.
The term Thomas used is chilling. I can almost see Dr. Shields’s lips forming that exact word as she stroked the crown of the glass falcon in her office a few weeks ago. The falcon that she told me was a gift for her husband.
I take a step forward. Then another.
Now I’m so close I can glimpse the vertical furrow between her eyebrows, so faint and shallow it’s almost like a crack in a piece of glass.
“Thank you,” I whisper as I take the lip balm. My bare fingers are numb from the cold.
She looks down at the phone I’m still holding in my other hand.
My chest tightens. I can’t breathe.
“I’m glad I caught you,” she says, then she turns to go.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
Sunday, December 16
Ninety minutes after your lip balm is returned, the doorbell rings.
A glance through the peephole reveals Thomas. He is so close to the small circle of glass that his face appears distorted.
This is a surprise.
His presence was unannounced.
The deadbolt is disengaged and the heavy front door swings open.
“Sweetheart, what brings you here?”
One arm is hidden behind his back.
He smiles and pulls it forward, revealing an enormous bouquet of paper-white narcissi.
“I was in the neighborhood,” he says.
“How lovely!”
He is welcomed inside.
He must have read the text with your invitation by now; it was sent several hours ago. Why is he really here?
Perhaps he has come to prove his fidelity by revealing your invitation.
A hand is placed on his arm. He is offered a warm drink.
“No, thanks, I just had coffee,” he says.
It is as though he is providing an entryway into the very topic that weighs heavily on both of our minds.
“Of course. You love the coffee at Ted’s Diner.” A light laugh. “And your fried eggs, buttered bagel, and extra bacon.”
“Yup, the usual.”
A pause.
Perhaps it is difficult for him to know where to begin.
A prompt could be helpful: “So, breakfast was good?”
His eyes dart around the living room. Evasion or unease?
“Uneventful,” he responds.
This could be interpreted in two ways. One is that his encounter with you was inconsequential. The other is that he is actively concealing it.
“Shouldn’t you place those in water?” Thomas is staring at the bouquet.
“Of course.” We retreat to the kitchen. The green stems are snipped, and a porcelain vase is retrieved from a cabinet.
“Why don’t I put the flowers in the library for you?”
Thomas’s offer feels abrupt. He must realize it, too, because he quickly smiles.
But it isn’t one of his wide, natural smiles that reaches to his eyes.
He picks up the vase and heads toward the library.
When he is followed, he hestiates.
“You know, coffee sounds really good after all,” he says. “I’d love a cup if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“Wonderful. I just brewed a pot.”
This is a good sign. Thomas wants to linger.
The coffee is fixed just the way he likes it, with a splash of real cream and brown sugar. A quick glance at my phone reveals you have not yet texted to report any response from Thomas.
When the tray is brought into the library, Thomas is still positioning the vase atop the Steinway.
He spins around, a surprised look on his face.
It’s almost as though he forgot he requested the beverage.
What has startled him?
A reminder of the stakes is necessary.
“Thomas, I’ve been wondering, where did you ever decide to put that falcon sculpture?”
It takes him a moment to answer. But when he does, it is pleasing: “In my bedroom, on the dresser. I see it every night when I go to sleep, and every morning when I wake up.”
“Perfect.” Then: “Why don’t we sit?”
He perches on the edge of the love seat and immediately reaches for his cup. He takes a quick sip, then jerks back, nearly spilling the hot liquid.
“You seem a bit unsettled. Is there anything you wanted to talk about?”
He hesitates. Then he seems to come to a decision.
“It’s nothing for you to worry about. I just wanted to see you so I could tell you how much I love you.”
This is better than any other outcome that was envisioned.
Until Thomas glances at his watch and abruptly rises to his feet.
“I have a lot of paperwork I need to get to,” he says ruefully. His fingertips drum against his jeans-clad thigh. “I don’t know my schedule yet for the week, but I’ll call you after I figure it out.”
He departs as quickly and unexpectedly as he arrived.
There are two strange things about Thomas’s hasty exit.
He did not offer me a parting kiss.
And aside from that single sip, the coffee he seemed so eager for remained untouched.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
Sunday, December 16
I’m sitting on a bench right outside Central Park, holding a cup of coffee I can’t drink. My stomach is too knotted to tolerate more than a sip of the bitter brew.
Their texts come in almost simultaneously.
From Dr. Shields: Jessica, any response from Thomas yet?
From Thomas: I got the proof. Can you meet me tonight?
I don’t answer Dr. Shields, because there’s not going to be any response from Thomas about a date. Although I typed the text asking him out for drinks while she sat watching me in her town house, I never actually sent it.
That was the first of two lies I told to Dr. Shields this morning. I also didn’t have a BeautyBuzz client booked today, like I pretended. I just needed to get away from her.
I don’t reply to Thomas, either. There’s someone else I need to see first.
Ben Quick, Dr. Shields’s research assistant, lives on West Sixty-sixth Street.
As soon as it hit me that he was the only person I’d met who might know the truth about her, he was surprisingly easy to find. At least the apartment his parents own was.