So the police did investigate, I think. Given that April had tried to hurt herself in the past, it probably was a suicide. It should make me feel safe, but something still isn’t adding up.
Mrs. Voss lifts her head. Her eyes are red-rimmed. “I know you hadn’t seen her in a while, but didn’t she sound happy to you?” she asks, sounding desperate. I wonder if she has anyone else to talk to about April. Thomas had said April wasn’t close to her father, and probably April’s real friends have moved on with their lives.
“Yes, she did seem happy,” I whisper. The only way I can keep from bursting into tears and running out of the room is by telling myself that maybe the information I’ll get could help Mrs. Voss in her search for answers, too.
“That’s why it surprised me that April was seeing a psychiatrist,” Mrs. Voss says. “She showed up at the funeral and introduced herself to us. She was stunningly beautiful, and so kind.”
My heart skips a beat.
There’s only one person this could be.
“Have you talked with her recently?” I ask. I make sure my voice remains soft and uniform.
Mrs. Voss nods. “I reached out to her in the fall. It was April’s birthday, October 2. It was such a hard day. She would have been twenty-four.”
She sets the teddy bear back down. “We’d always do a mother-daughter spa day on her birthday. Last year she picked this awful light-blue nail polish shade that I told her looked like an Easter egg.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe we actually had a little argument about that.”
“So did you see the psychiatrist that day?” I ask.
“We met in her office,” Mrs. Voss says. “Before, when April had gone to therapy, we always knew about it. We paid for it. So why was it different this time? I wanted to know what she and April talked about.”
“Did Dr. Shields tell you?” I ask.
I immediately realize my mistake in giving the therapist’s name. I flinch, waiting for Mrs. Voss to notice.
How can I explain it? I can’t say April mentioned the name of her psychiatrist to me months ago and I’ve remembered all this time. Mrs. Voss will never believe it; minutes ago I told her I’d lost touch with April.
Mrs. Voss is going to know I’m an impostor. She’ll be furious, as she’ll have every right to be. What kind of sick person fakes a friendship with a dead girl?
But Mrs. Voss doesn’t seem to catch my slip.
She shakes her head slowly. “I asked if I could see her notes from April’s sessions. I thought there could be something in there, something I didn’t know about that could help explain why April did it.”
I’m holding my breath. Dr. Shields is so scrupulous, her notes would detail the date when she first saw April. They could reveal whether Thomas or Dr. Shields was the one who drew April in. If Dr. Shields initiated the contact, she’s probably even more dangerous than I thought.
“Did she share the notes?” I ask.
I’m pushing too hard; Mrs. Voss looks at me curiously. But she continues.
“No, she reached for my hand and told me again how sorry she was for my loss. She said my questions were natural, but that part of the healing process was needing to accept that I might never have an answer. No matter how hard I pressed, she refused to let me see them. She said it would violate confidentiality mandates.”
I exhale a little too loudly. Of course Dr. Shields would safeguard her notes. But was it because she was protecting April’s secrets, or was she protecting herself—or her husband?
Mrs. Voss stands up and smooths down her sweater. She’s looking me directly in the eye now, and all traces of her tears are gone. “Remind me again, were you and April in the same study-abroad program? I’m sorry, I don’t remember her mentioning your name.”
I lower my head. I don’t have to fake my shame.
“I wish I’d been a better friend to her,” I say. “Even though I was so far away, I should have stayed in touch.”
She walks over and pats my shoulder, as if absolving me.
“I haven’t given up, you know,” she says. I have to tilt back my head to see the expression on her face. Her sorrow is still there, but now it’s mingled with determination.
“Dr. Shields seemed like a good therapist, but she must not be a mother. Otherwise, she would know that when you lose a child, there is no healing,” she says. “That’s why I’m still looking for an answer.”
Her voice grows stronger as she stands up straighter. “That’s why I’ll never stop looking for an answer.”
CHAPTER
FIFTY-FIVE
Saturday, December 22
Finally, there is an answer: Thomas is true.
The pillowcase on the left side of the bed holds the scent of his shampoo again.
Sunlight’s warm glow fills the room. It is almost eight A.M. Remarkable. Relief manifests physiologically in myriad ways: Insomnia is banished. The body feels rejuvenated. The appetite returns.
Thomas’s renewed display of fidelity is healing more than just our wounded marriage.
Nearly twenty years ago, another seismic betrayal—this one involving my sister, Danielle—left me with a jagged emotional scar.
Today that scar feels less prominent.
A note folded into a little tent waits on the nightstand. A smile forms even before it is read: Sweetheart, there’s fresh coffee downstairs. I’ll be back in twenty with bagels and smoked salmon. Love, T.
The words are so ordinary, yet so magical.
After a leisurely breakfast, Thomas departs for the gym. He will return later to pick me up for a scheduled dinner with another couple. My errands are routine, but my stop at the new boutique a few doors down from my hair appointment at the salon is not. The mannequin in the window wears a pink teddy with a V in the front. It’s more subtle than the sort of lingerie you would probably choose, Jessica, but the soft silk and high-cut legs are flattering.
On impulse, the teddy is purchased.
After a lavender-scented bubble bath, a dress is selected that covers the lingerie. Thomas will discover it later tonight.
Before the dress can be slipped on, a text pings.
The message is from you: Hi, just checking to see if you’ll be needing me to do anything more in regard to the last assignment. If not, Lizzie invited me to go home with her for Christmas, so I thought I’d book a flight.
How interesting.
Could you ever truly believe details concerning your whereabouts would be carelessly overlooked, Jessica? Lizzie and her family are celebrating the holidays at a luxury condo in Aspen.
Before a reply is crafted, your folder is retrieved from the desk in the study. Dates are double-checked. Indeed, Lizzie departed yesterday to meet her family in Colorado.
The doorbell rings.
Your folder is replaced atop April’s, in the center of the desk near the fountain pen that was a gift from my father.
“Thomas! You’re early!” He is given a lingering kiss.
He glances at his watch. “Do you need another few minutes?”
“Just one.”
Upstairs, perfume is dabbed behind my ears and Thomas’s favorite high heels are chosen.
Thomas is still waiting by the door. “Warren said they were running a little late, so I told him not to worry, that we’d be there right on time to hold the table.”