But it has given me enough to begin tracing the trajectory of her life, and where and how it intersected with Dr. Shields’s.
I rub my forehead as I contemplate my next step. A dull throbbing has formed between my temples, maybe because I haven’t eaten much today, but my stomach is too knotted to tolerate food now.
As desperate as I am for information, I don’t want to reach out to April’s grieving parents yet. But there are other threads I can pursue. Like most twenty-somethings, April established an active social media presence.
Within a minute, I find her Instagram account. It’s open for anyone to follow.
I pause before viewing the images, just as I did when I first began to investigate Dr. Shields online.
I have no idea what I’ll see. I feel as if I’m crossing a threshold from which I won’t be able to return.
I tap on her name. Tiny square photos fill my screen.
I enlarge the most recent one, the last photograph April ever posted, as I make the decision to work backward in time.
It is dated June 2. Six days before she died.
The sight of her smiling face makes me flinch, even though it looks like the kind of picture I might take with Lizzie, two girlfriends clinking margarita glasses and having a good time. It seems so ordinary, given what happened less than a week later. The caption April wrote reads: With @Fab24—BFFs! A dozen people commented, stuff like luv this and sooo pretty.
I stare at April’s features. This is the girl behind the number assigned by Dr. Shields. She had long, straight dark hair and pale skin. She was thin; very thin. Her brown eyes appear too large and round for her narrow face.
I write down Fab24/best friend on a fresh sheet of the notepad under April’s name.
I scroll through the photos one by one, scrutinizing each for clues to record: A background location. The name of a restaurant on a printed napkin. The people who make repeated appearances.
By the time I’ve reviewed the fifteenth picture, I know that April also wore silver hoop earrings and owned a black leather jacket. She loved cookies and dogs, just like I do.
I return to the photo of April and Fab24. I know it’s not my imagination. April looks happy, genuinely happy. And then I spot it—the fringe of a taupe wrap on the chair behind her.
My head jerks up at the sound of footsteps in the hallway.
They seem to be heading toward my apartment.
I wait for a knock, but it doesn’t come.
Instead, there’s a rustling sound.
I unfold my legs and ease off my bed. I creep across the floor, hoping the whisper of my socks against the wood isn’t audible.
My door contains a peephole. As I move to position my eye behind it, I’m gripped by the fear that all I’ll see is Dr. Shields’s piercing blue eye filling the other side of the thin glass.
I can’t do it. My breathing sounds so ragged I’m certain she can hear it through the door.
My adrenaline surges as I press my ear to the door. Nothing.
If she’s there, I know she won’t leave until I do what she wants. I imagine she can see straight through into my apartment, just like she was able to watch me through the computer all those months ago. I have to look. I force myself to turn my head and bring my eye nearer to the peephole. My chest tightens as I gaze through it.
No one is there.
The absence of anyone feels almost as jarring as a presence would be. I step back, gasping. Am I losing my mind? Dr. Shields and Thomas are at dinner together. I saw them. That much is true.
Leo’s high, staccato bark pulls me out of my thoughts. He’s staring at me with a quizzical expression.
“Shh,” I whisper to him.
I tiptoe over to the window. I pull down the slat of a blind with my fingertips and peek out. My eyes scan the street: There are a few women getting into a taxi, and a man out walking his dog. Nothing appears amiss.
I ease out my fingers and scoop up Leo, bringing him to bed with me.
He’ll need a walk soon. I’ve never been afraid of taking him out at night. But now I don’t like the thought of descending the stairs, with blind turns at every corner, and making my way down a street that, by then, may or may not be empty.
Dr. Shields knows exactly where I live. She’s been here before. She knew how to get to my family. Maybe she knows even more about me than I ever imagined.
Ben is right. I need to get my file.
I continue looking through April’s photos, enlarging one so I can make out the lettering on a street name. Then I come to a picture taken in early May, of a guy asleep in bed with a floral comforter rumpled around his bare torso. A boyfriend? I wonder.
His face is mostly obscured because of the angle of the photo; I can just see a sliver of it.
My gaze roams over the nightstand next to him. It holds a few books—I jot down their titles—a bracelet, and a half-full water glass.
And one other thing. A pair of glasses.
My body is collapsing; it’s as though I’ve stepped off the precipice into thin air and now I can’t stop my plummet.
My hand trembles as I enlarge the photo.
The glasses are tortoiseshell.
I zoom in on the sleeping man, the one April presumably photographed in her bed.
It’s not possible. I want to grab Leo and run, but to where? My parents would never understand. Lizzie already left town for the holidays. And Noah . . . I barely know him. I can’t involve him in this.
I thrust away my computer, but I can’t stop seeing the straight line of his nose, and the hair falling over his forehead.
The man in the photo is Thomas.
CHAPTER
FORTY-NINE
Wednesday, December 19
You looked so scared when you left my town house tonight, Jessica. Don’t you know no harm will befall you?
You are needed too much.
The scheduled dinner with my husband reveals no new information. Thomas easily parries when faced with questions about his day and his plans for the rest of the week. He responds with queries of his own, filling any potential silences with remarks about his delicious pasta Bolognese, and the roasted brussels sprouts he ordered for us to share.
Thomas is an excellent squash player. He is adept at anticipating the angles of his opponent’s serve; he quickly maneuvers around the court.
But even the most accomplished athletes tire under sustained pressure. That’s when mistakes occur.
After the plates are cleared and a delicious apple tarte tatin served for dessert, Thomas playfully inquires whether there is anything special Santa should place under the tree this year.
“It’s always hard to know what to get the woman who has everything,” he says.
Thomas has proven to be a nimble opponent, but now an unexpected opportunity presents itself.
“There is something,” he is told. “What about those delicate silver stacking rings?”
The sudden rigidity in Thomas’s body is palpable.
Another pause.
“Have you seen the ones I’m talking about?”
He casts his eyes down at his plate, feigning a sudden interest in the crumbs of his dessert.
“Oh, maybe, I think I know what you mean,” he says.
“What do you think of them?” he is asked. “Do you think they’re . . . pretty?”
Thomas raises his eyes. He reaches out to touch my hand, lifting it in the air, as if considering how it would appear so adorned.