“Hopefully dinner doesn’t take too long,” he is told. “I was thinking we could make it an early night. I’ve planned a surprise for you.”
CHAPTER
FIFTY-SIX
Saturday, December 22
The key glides into the lock.
My hand shakes as I twist it. Then I push the door open.
A soft beeping sound erupts as I step into Dr. Shields’s town house. I close the door behind me, sealing off the light from the two outside sconces. Now the hallway is so shadowy I can barely make out the alarm keypad on the left side of the entranceway.
I slip off my shoes so I don’t track any mud or dirt inside, but I keep my coat on, in case I need to leave fast.
Thomas gave me the security code when he called today. He told me he’d leave the keys he’d copied under the doormat.
Use the silver one for the bottom lock the for the top, he’d said. I’ll try to keep Lydia out until eleven.
He also told me I’d have thirty seconds to deactivate the alarm.
I walk over to the keypad and punch in the four digits: 0-9-1-5. But in my haste, I mistake the 6 for a 5 in the dim light.
I realize my error a split second later.
There’s a long, shrill noise, then the beeping resumes. It’s faster now, sounding almost frantic, blurring with the thudding of my heart.
How many seconds have elapsed? Fifteen? I have to get it right or the security company will summon the police.
I press in each number carefully.
The alarm makes a final, high-pitched sound. Then it falls silent.
I withdraw my gloved hand from the numbered pad and exhale. I wasn’t sure until now if Thomas had given me the right four digits.
My legs are so weak I have to lean against the wall to steady myself.
I stand there for a full minute. Then another. I can’t dislodge the fear that Thomas and Dr. Shields are just a floor above me, hiding in her study.
I could still leave; I could put on my shoes, arm the alarm, and replace the keys. But then I’ll never know what Dr. Shields might be holding over me.
I saw your file upstairs on her desk this morning, Thomas had said. It was resting on top of April’s.
Finally, I know where the elusive manila folder is—the one I’d seen on Dr. Shields’s office desk during our early sessions. The one Ben had told me I needed to find.
Did you look inside? I’d asked Thomas.
I didn’t have time. She was asleep, but she could’ve woken up at any second.
I’d squeezed my eyes shut in frustration at his words. What did it matter if I knew where Dr. shields kept my file when I’d never be able to get it?
Then Thomas had said: I can get you into the house.
His tone told me there was a catch even before he continued.
But only if you agree to photograph all of Lydia’s notes on April for me. I need that file, Jess.
It didn’t hit me until after we’d hung up that maybe this was why Thomas pretended to still be in love with Dr. Shields: He was staying close to get April’s file.
Just a few minutes have elapsed since I entered Dr. Shields’s home, but it feels like I’ve been frozen in the hallway for much longer. I finally take ten steps forward. Now I’m next to the staircase landing. Still I can’t bring myself to begin to climb: Even if this isn’t a trap, with every progressive movement, I’m going deeper into this morass.
Other than the soft hiss of a nearby radiator, it is completely quiet.
I have to do something, so I put my foot on the first step. It groans.
I wince, then continue to slowly make my way up. Though my eyes have adjusted to the murky light, I place each foot down carefully to make sure I don’t slip.
I finally reach the top and stand there, unsure of which way to turn. The hallway stretches to the left and right. Thomas only told me Dr. Shields’s office was on the second floor.
There’s a light coming from the left. I start to head that way.
Then my phone rings, shattering the oppressive silence.
My heart leaps into my throat.
I fumble in my coat pocket, but my gloves slip against the smooth surface of the phone and I can’t get a firm grip on it.
It rings again.
Something’s gone wrong, I frantically think. Thomas is calling to tell me they’re coming home early.
But when I finally pull out the phone, instead of Thomas’s code name—Sam, the last three letters of his name reversed—I see my mother’s smiling face in the little circle on the screen.
I try to hit Decline Call but with my glove on, the touchscreen doesn’t work.
I use my teeth to grip the fingertips of the glove and try to pull it off as my phone rings again. My hand is so clammy the leather sticks to my skin. I tug harder. If anyone is upstairs, they certainly know I’m in the house now.
Finally, I manage to switch my phone to vibrate.
I remain immobile, listening intently, but there’s no indication anyone else is nearby. I take three deep breaths before I can force my shaking legs to move again.
I continue walking toward the dim glow of the light and arrive at its source: the nightstand by Dr. Shields’s bed. Thomas and Dr. Shields’s bed, I correct myself as I stand in the doorway, staring at the steel-blue quilted headboard and creaseless comforter. Next to the small lamp is a single book, Middlemarch, and a tiny bouquet of anemones.
This is the second time today I’ve violated such an intimate space. First April’s old bedroom, and now this one.
I’d give anything to be able to scour it for more clues about who Dr. Shields is, like a diary, old photos or letters. But I keep walking, toward an adjoining room.
It’s the study.
The folders are right where Thomas said he’d seen them this morning.
I hurry to the desk and carefully remove the top one, the one with my name on the tab. I open it and see a photocopy of my driver’s license and the biographical information I gave to Ben back on that first day, when I blithely walked into the study, hoping to make some easy money.
I pull out my phone and photograph the first page.
Then I flip it over and gasp.
The faces of my parents and Becky smile up at me from the second page. I recognize the photo that Dr. Shields has printed out: It’s from my Instagram feed, last December. The image is slightly blurred, but I can still see the edge of the Christmas tree that was in my parents’ living room.
Questions fire in my brain: Why does Dr. Shields have this? How soon after she met me did she copy it? And how did she get access to my private Instagram account?
But I don’t have time to stop and think. Dr. Shields always seems to be a step ahead of me; I can’t shake the fear that she’ll sense I’m here. That she could come home at any minute.
I continue snapping pictures, making sure I keep the pages in order. I see my two computer-survey questionnaires printed out. The prompts flash by:
Could you tell a lie without feeling guilt?
Describe a time in your life when you cheated.
Have you ever deeply hurt someone you care about?
And those final two questions before Dr. shields asked me to expand my participation in her study:
Should a punishment always fit the crime?
Do victims have the right to take retribution into their own hands?
Next come notes and notes from a yellow legal pad filled with neat, graceful handwriting.