If she had been alive to create a record of that meeting, here’s what I imagine her notes might contain:
Wednesday, January 17
You call Thomas at 4:55 P.M.
“Can we meet for a drink?” you ask.
He agrees swiftly. Perhaps he is eager to talk about all that transpired with the only other person who knows the real story.
He arrives at O’Malley’s Pub in jeans and a blazer and orders a Scotch. You are already seated at a small wooden table with a Sam Adams in front of you.
“How are you holding up?” you ask as he eases into his chair.
He exhales and shakes his head. He looks as if he has lost weight, and his glasses don’t hide the dark crescents under his eyes. “I don’t know, Jess. It’s still hard to believe all of it.”
He was the one to summon the police to the town house after finding the written confession in the foyer.
“Yeah, for me, too,” you say. You take a sip of beer and let the silence stretch out. “Since I lost my job, I’ve got all this time to think.”
Thomas frowns. Perhaps he is remembering sitting across from you in his office, hearing you whisper, She got me fired.
“I’m really sorry about that,” he finally says.
You reach into your purse for a pale pink document and put it on the table, covering it with your palm as you flatten out the creases.
His eyes land on it. He hasn’t seen it before; there is no reason he would have.
“I’m not so worried about a job for myself,” you say. “I’ll find one. The thing is, Dr. Shields promised to help my father get one, too. My family has a lot of medical expenses.”
You smooth the paper again, and slide your hand down so the sketch of the dove at the top is visible.
Thomas glances at it once more and fiddles with the thin cocktail straw bobbing in his Scotch.
He seems to be catching on that this isn’t simply a social encounter.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asks.
“I’d appreciate any suggestions you have,” you reply as you move your hand down another few inches. Now Katherine April Vosse’s name is visible in a pretty font.
Thomas flinches and rears back in his seat.
He lifts his eyes to meet yours, then he takes a big sip of his drink.
Your hand moves again. Now the quote is revealed: And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.
“April was asking her mother about this line shortly before she died,” you say. You let that sink in. “I guess she’d seen it somewhere. Maybe it’s the kind of thing she’d read on a coffee mug.”
His face is now pale. “I thought we could trust each other, Jess,” he whispers. “Can’t we?”
You shrug. “A friend once told me that if you have to ask if you can trust someone, you already know the answer.”
“What does that mean?” he asks. His voice is wary.
“I just want what’s due to me,” you say. “After everything I went through.”
He drains his Scotch, the ice clinking in the glass.
“How about I help you with your rent, until you’re back on your feet?” He looks at you hopefully.
You smile and shake your head slightly.
“I appreciate your offer, but I had something more substantial in mind,” you say. “I’m sure Dr. Shields would agree that I deserve it.”
You turn over the funeral program. There is a dollar sign with a number written next to it on the back.
Thomas gasps. “Are you kidding?”
Thomas, of course, is the sole recipient of his wife’s estate, including the multimillion-dollar town house. He has his job, his license, and his reputation intact. It would be surprising if you, with your inquisitive and industrious nature, had not already confirmed this. And you believe it is a small price for him to pay for your family’s well-being.
“I’m happy to receive it in monthly installments,” you say, pushing the program toward him.
Thomas is slumped in his chair. He has already conceded defeat.
You lean forward until only a few inches separate your faces. “After all, trust can be bought.”
You leave almost immediately, pushing through the door and striding onto the sidewalk. Within moments, you are enveloped by the crowd, just another anonymous girl in the city.
Perhaps you are confident in your decision.
Or maybe an insistent question will haunt you:
Was it all worth it, Jessica?