I have no idea why. But I can’t worry about that now.
The only question I need answered is which one of them is more dangerous.
PART
THREE
Often the person we judge most harshly is ourself. Every day, we criticize our decisions, our actions, even our private thoughts. We worry the tone of an e-mail we sent to a colleague might be misconstrued. We lambaste our lack of self-control as we throw away the empty ice-cream container. We regret rushing a friend off the phone instead of listening patiently to their troubles. We wish we had told a family member what they meant to us before they died.
We all the weight of secret—the strangers we see the street, our neighbors, our colleagues, our friends, even our loved ones. And we are all forced to constantly make moral choices. Some of these decisions are small. Others are life-altering.
These judgments seem easy to form on paper: You check a box and move on. In a real-life scenario, it’s never as simple.
The options haunt you. Days, weeks, even years later you think about the people affected by your actions. You question your choices.
And you wonder when, not if, the repercussions will come.
CHAPTER
FORTY-EIGHT
Wednesday, December 19
Dr. Shields’s latest gift feels more dangerous to me than flirting with a married man or revealing painful secrets or being trapped in a drug addict’s apartment.
It was bad enough when my own life was tangled up with Dr. Shields and her experiments. But now she’s linking herself to my family. They probably feel like they’ve won the lottery with this trip. I keep hearing Becky squeal: “We’re going to the ocean!”
As Ricky said when he grabbed my phone and stood over me in his kitchen, Nothing’s ever free in life.
I’m unable to stop seeing the image of Dr. Shields and Thomas kissing outside the restaurant as I walk home after following her. I imagine them at a romantic table for two while the sommelier uncorks a bottle of red wine. I picture Thomas nodding his approval as he tastes it. Then perhaps he cups both of her hands in his to warm them. I would give anything to know what they are saying to each other.
Am I the topic of their conversation? I wonder. Do they lie to each other, just as they are lying to me?
When I reach my apartment building, I yank the security door closed so hard behind me that it jars my shoulder in the socket. I wince and rub it, then continue to the stairs.
I wind my way around to the fourth-floor landing, then step into the hallway. Halfway down, about three doors from my apartment, something small and soft-looking rests on the carpet. For a second I think it’s a mouse. Then I realize it’s a woman’s gray glove.
Hers, I think as I freeze. The color, the fabric; I recognize her style instantly.
I swear I can smell her distinctive perfume. Why is she back at my apartment?
But as I draw closer, I realize I’m wrong. The leather is thick and cheap; it’s the kind of glove someone would buy from a street vendor. It must belong to one of my neighbors. I leave it for them to retrieve.
When I reach my apartment and open the door, I hesitate in the entryway. I look around. Everything appears exactly as I left it, and Leo runs to greet me as usual. Still, I engage both of my locks instead of waiting until bedtime, like I usually do.
My nightstand lamp is always on for Leo when I know I’ll be home after dark. Now I also flick on the brighter overhead light, then I turn on the one in the bathroom. I hesitate, then jerk back the shower curtain. I’d just feel better being able to see into every corner of my studio.
As I walk toward the kitchen, I brush by the chair where I drape clothes when I’m feeling too lazy to hang them in the closet.
Dr. Shields’s wrap is there, peeking out from beneath the sweater I wore yesterday. I avert my eyes and continue on to the cabinet, where I grab a glass and fill it with water. I drink it down in three thirsty gulps, then I dig out a legal pad from the bottom of my junk drawer.
I take it to my bed and sit cross-legged on top of my comforter. The notes written on the page are a series of numbers that I briefly recall as an attempt to figure out a budget. I can’t believe that merely six weeks ago, I was worrying about how to pay Antonia for Becky’s occupational therapy, and hoping my BeautyBuzz appointments would align so I wouldn’t have to lug my makeup case too far. In hindsight, my life was so quiet; my problems, so ordinary. Then came that impulsive moment when I grabbed Taylor’s phone off her chair and replayed Ben’s message. Those ten seconds changed my life.
I need to be the opposite of impulsive now.
I tear off the top sheet and draw a line straight down the middle of the new page with Dr. Shields’s name atop one column and Thomas’s name atop the other. Then I sit cross-legged on my bed and write down everything I know about both of them.
Dr. Lydia Shields: 37, West Village town house, NYU adjunct professor. Psychiatrist, with an office in Midtown. Researcher, published author. Designer clothes, expensive tastes. Former assistant named Ben Quick. Married to Thomas. I underline that last detail four times.
I add question marks after other possibilities. Influential father? Client folders? Story behind Subject 5?
I stare at the scant cluster of information on the page. Is that truly everything I know about the woman who holds so many of my secrets?
I move on to Thomas. I grab my laptop and try googling him, but although I get several hits for Thomas Shields, they are all the wrong men.
Perhaps Dr. Shields kept her maiden name.
I remember a few things from our encounter at the bar: Rides a motorcycle. Knows all the words to the Beatles song “Come Together.” Drinks draft IPA beer. And then some details from our time in my apartment: Likes dogs. In good shape. Scar on shoulder from surgery to repair a torn rotator cuff.
I think for a moment, then add: Reads The New York Times at Ted’s Diner. Goes to the gym. Wears glasses. Married to Dr. Shields. I underline that last detail four times, too.
I continue: Late thirties? Occupation? Where does he live?
I know even less about Thomas than I do about Dr. Shields.
There are only two other people I’ve heard about who are connected to them. The first, Ben, doesn’t want to talk to me any more than he already has.
The second can’t talk to me.
Subject 5. Who was she?
I peel myself off my bed and begin to pace the ten steps back and forth across my studio, trying to remember everything Thomas said in the Conservatory.
She was young and lonely. Lydia gave her gifts. She wasn’t close to her father. This is where she killed herself.
I hurry back to my bed and reach for my laptop again. The two-paragraph article in the New York Post I find by googling “West Village Conservatory” and “suicide” and “June” reveals that Thomas told the truth about one thing at least: A young woman died in the Conservatory. Her body was found later that same night by a couple out for a stroll in the moonlight. At first they thought she was sleeping.
The article also gives me her full name: Katherine April Voss.
I close my eyes and silently repeat it to myself.
She was only twenty-three, and she went by her middle name. The article holds few other details, aside from listing the lineage of her parents and much older step-siblings.