“Why is that?” Dr. Shields finally asks.
“I think Thomas is your husband,” I whisper. My heart is clattering so loudly I’m sure she can hear it.
She draws in a sharp inhalation of breath.
“Hmmm,” she murmurs. “What led you to this assumption?”
I have no idea if I’m traveling down the right path now. I’m hop-scotching through a minefield, but I don’t know how much she knows, so I have to give her a piece of the truth.
“When I showed up at Ted’s Diner, I realized I’d seen the man before,” I say. This is the tricky part; I fight back a feeling of light-headedness. “I recalled passing him on my way into the museum, when the crowd was gathered around the woman who was hit by the taxi. I only noticed him because I was looking at everyone there to try to figure out if they were part of the test. I’m sure he didn’t see me, though.”
Dr. Shields doesn’t respond. She’s expressionless. I have no idea how she feels about what I’m saying.
“When I told you about the man I spoke to in front of the photographs, it confused me that you thought he had sandy hair. I didn’t even connect your question to the guy in front of the museum. But then I saw him—Thomas—again at the diner.”
Dr. Shields finally opens her mouth to speak. “And those simple things led you to this conclusion?”
I shake my head. The next part sounded good when I rehearsed it earlier today. But now I have no idea if it will convince her. “The jackets in your coat closet . . . . They’re all so big. They clearly belong to a man who’s tall and broad, not like the guy in the photo in your dining room. I noticed them last time I was here and I double-checked again tonight.”
“You are quite the detective, aren’t you, Jessica?” Her fingers caress the stem of her wineglass. She raises it to her lips and takes a sip. Then: “Did you figure this all out on your own?”
“Sort of,” I say. I can’t tell if she believes me, so I continue with the story I’d planned: “Lizzie was just talking about how she had to order an extra costume for an understudy in a play who was much bigger than the original actor. That’s what made me think of it.”
Dr. Shields abruptly leans forward and I flinch. I make sure I hold her gaze.
After a moment, she gets up off her stool without a word. She reaches for the wine bottle on the counter and walks back to the refrigerator. When she opens the door, I glimpse only a row of Perrier water and a carton of eggs. I’ve never seen a fridge so bare.
“Speaking of Lizzie, I’m going to meet her right after this for a drink,” I continue. “Do you know any place nearby that’s good? I told her I’d text her when we finish.”
That’s another of my safeguards, along with the Mace I’ve put in my purse and my clear view of my surroundings.
Dr. Shields closes the refrigerator door. But she doesn’t come back around the counter to sit with me.
“Oh, is Lizzie still in town?” Dr. Shields asks.
I almost gasp. Lizzie left yesterday, but how can Dr. Shields know that? If she got to my parents, maybe she got to Lizzie, too.
I can’t even remember if I’ve told her anything about Lizzie’s holiday plans. Dr. Shields took notes of all of our conversations. I never did.
I start to babble: “Yeah, she was thinking about going earlier but some stuff came up, so she’s here for another couple days.”
I force myself to stop speaking. Dr. Shields remains across the counter from me. She’s studying me. It’s like she’s pinning me down with her gaze.
There are four other rooms behind me, including the powder room. Because Dr. Shields has repositioned herself across the kitchen, I can no longer look at her and keep watch on the doorways.
Instead, all I can see are the hard, gleaming surfaces of her kitchen: gray marble counters, stainless-steel appliances, and the metal spiral of the corkscrew she has left by the sink.
“I am glad you were honest with me, Jessica,” Dr. Shields says. “And now I am going to do the same. You are right: Thomas is my husband. The man in the photograph was my mentor when I was in graduate school.”
I exhale the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. At last there’s one piece of information that aligns with what Thomas and Dr. Shields have both told me, and with my instincts.
“We’ve been married for seven years,” she continues. “We used to work in the same building. That’s how we met. He’s also a psychiatrist.”
“Oh,” I say, hoping that one word will encourage Dr. Shields.
“You must be wondering why I’ve been pushing you toward him,” she says.
Now I’m the one to remain silent. I don’t want to say anything that could set her off.
“He cheated on me,” Dr. Shields says. I think I catch the sheen of tears in her eyes, but then the glimmer is gone, and I don’t know if it was just a trick of the light. “Only once. But the details of that betrayal made it particularly painful. And he promised he would never do it again. I want to believe him.”
Dr. Shields is so precise and careful with her words; it feels like she’s finally telling me the truth.
I wonder if she saw that intimate photo of Thomas in April’s bed, with the floral comforter exposing his bare shoulders. How painful that must have been.
How much worse things would be for her if she knew what I’d done.
I’m desperate to hear more. Still, I know I can’t let down my guard around her even for a second.
“Of all the questions I’ve asked you, we never covered this one,” Dr. Shields continues. “Have you ever truly been in love, Jessica?”
I don’t know if there’s a right answer. “I don’t think so,” I finally say.
“You would know,” she responds. “The joy—the sense of completeness it can offer a person—is directly proportional to the amount of anguish one experiences when that love is withdrawn.”
It’s the first time she has ever appeared soft and swept up in emotion.
I need to make her believe I’m on her side. I had no idea Thomas was her husband when I took him back to my apartment. Still, if she learns about it, well, I have no idea what she’d do to me.
My mind flashes back again to Subject 5, splayed out on a bench in the gardens on the last night of her life. Surely the police investigated her death before it was ruled a suicide. But was she truly alone when she died?
“I’m so sorry,” I say. My voice trembles a little, but I hope she thinks it’s from compassion instead of fear. “What can I do to help?”
Dr. Shields’s lips curve up in an empty smile. “That is why I picked you,” she says. “You remind me a bit of . . . well, of her.”
I can’t help it; I whip my head around to check behind me. The front door is maybe twenty yards away, but the lock appears complicated.
“What is wrong, Jessica?”
I reluctantly twist my body back around. “Nothing, I just thought I heard a noise.” I pick up my wineglass. Instead of taking a drink, I simply hold it. It may be heavy enough to use as a weapon.
“We are completely alone,” she says. “Do not worry.”
She finally comes back from behind the counter and reclaims her seat next to me. Her knee brushes mine as she arranges herself on the stool. I suppress a flinch.