CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Tuesday, December 4
I have less than forty-eight hours to locate Taylor.
She is my sole fragile link to Dr. Shields. If I can track her down before my next session on Thursday at five P.M., I won’t be going into it blind.
After I leave the French restaurant, I find Taylor’s contact info in my phone and text her: Hi Taylor, It’s Jess from BeautyBuzz. Can you call me asap?
When I get home, I grab my laptop and try to glean more information about Dr. Shields. But my search yields only academic papers, reviews of the book she authored, her four-line NYU biography, and a website for her private practice. The website is sleek and elegant, like her office but, also like that space, it doesn’t contain a single real clue about the woman it represents.
I finally fall asleep after midnight, my phone by my side.
Wednesday, December 5
When I wake up at six A.M., my eyes heavy from my restless night, Taylor still hasn’t responded. I’m not really surprised; she probably thinks it’s bizarre that some makeup artist is trying to reach her.
Thirty-five hours left, I think.
Even though I want to skip my back-to-back appointments and continue to try to get answers, I have to go to work. Not only do I need the money, but BeautyBuzz has a policy that makeup artists must give a full day’s notice before canceling scheduled jobs. Three strikes in three months and you’re eliminated from their roster. Since I called in sick a few weeks ago, I already have one.
I feel like I’m on autopilot as I smooth foundation, blend shadows, and line lips. I ask about clients’ jobs, husbands, and kids, but I keep thinking about Dr. Shields. Especially about how little I know of her personally, and contrasting that with the deep secrets I’ve shared with her.
I’m persistently aware of my phone tucked inside my bag. The second I leave each appointment, I snatch it up and check the screen. But even though I leave Taylor another message, this one via voice mail at around noon, there is no response.
At seven P.M. I splurge on a taxi home, which burns through the tips from my last few jobs but gets me there faster. I drop my case just inside the door, hustle Leo up and down the street and throw him a few treats, then hurry back out.
I head directly to Taylor’s apartment a couple dozen blocks away at a pace just short of a run. When I get there, it’s nearly eight P.M. I lean a hand against the glass case containing the lobby directory, panting, and search the listed names.
I press the buzzer for T. Straub, then wait to hear her voice over the intercom. I try to slow my breathing, then smooth a hand over my hair.
I press my finger against the little black circle again, this time for a full five seconds.
Come on, I think.
I step back, looking up at the building, and wonder what I should do next. I can’t just wait around, hoping Taylor will return. How long can I continue jabbing at her buzzer on the off chance she is napping or listening to music on her headphones?
Assistance arrives in the form of a sweaty guy dressed in an Adidas tracksuit, who taps in the front door code. He’s busy staring at his phone and doesn’t even notice me as I catch the door before it closes and sneak in behind him.
I take the stairs to the sixth floor. I find Taylor’s apartment midway down the hall and rap my knuckles against the door so firmly they sting.
No answer.
I press my ear against the flimsy wood, listening for any sounds that would indicate she is inside—the blaring of a television or the drone of a hair dryer. But there is only silence.
Nausea grips my stomach. I fear Dr. Shields knows me so well that when I see her I won’t be able to camouflage my worries. I’m desperate to ask her questions: Why are you giving me all this money? What are you doing with the information I give you?
But I can’t. I’ve been telling myselt it’s so I don’t risk losing the income. But the truth is, maybe it’s more that I don’t want to risk losing Dr. Shields.
I lift my fist and thump a few more times, until the next-door neighbor sticks out her head and glares at me.
“Sorry,” I say meekly and she shuts her door again.
I try to think of what to do next. I’ve got twenty-one hours left. But tomorrow, like today, is full of clients; I won’t be able to come back before my appointment with Dr. Shields. I dig into my bag and pull out the copy of Vogue I am carrying around and tear out a piece of the glossy paper. I locate a pen and scribble: Taylor, It’s Jess again, from BeautyBuzz. Please call me. It’s urgent.
I’m about to stick it under her door when I think back to the messy apartment with the SkinnyPop popcorn and clothes lying about. Taylor might not even notice the scrap of paper. And even if she did, she probably still won’t contact me. It’s not like she has made any effort to return my call or text.
I turn to look at the door of the neighbor I just disturbed. I take a few steps to the side and hesitantly knock on it. The woman who answers is clutching a yellow highlighter. A smear of it bisects her chin. She is visibly unhappy.
“Sorry, I’m looking for Taylor or, uh . . .” I reach back in my memory for her roommate’s name and find it. “Or Mandy.”
The neighbor blinks at me. A strange premonition sweeps over me: She is going to say she doesn’t know who they are, that no girls by those names have ever lived next door.
“Who?” she begins.
My heart stutters.
Then her frown clears.
“Oh, yeah . . . I don’t know, finals are coming up, maybe they’re at the library. Although with those two, it’s more likely they’re at some party.”
She closes her door while I’m still standing there.
I wait until the feeling of light-headedness has passed, then head to the stairwell. I stand outside the building in the darkness, trying to think of my next move.
A girl with long straight hair passes me. Even though I instantly know she isn’t Taylor, I still turn to look at her as she shrugs a blue backpack higher up onto her shoulders and continues down the sidewalk.
I stare at the heavy-looking bag. Finals are coming up, the neighbor had said. Her impression of Taylor and Mandy meshed with mine: that these two don’t take school all that seriously.
It’s hard to picture the jaded young woman with the enviable bone structure who was tapping away at her Instagram feed now bent over a stack of textbooks.
But aren’t the most lackadaisical students sometimes the ones who have to cram the hardest before exams?
I spin around in a circle to orient myself, then head toward the NYU library.
The stacks are like a maze laid out for a laboratory rat. I begin at one corner, winding my way through the narrow passageways, hoping at every turn that I’ll stumble upon Taylor reaching for a book on a high shelf, or sitting at one of the desks near the outer walls. I finish scouring the first three floors, then I make my way to the fourth.
Frenetic energy propels me forward, even though it’s almost nine P.M. and I haven’t eaten anything since a turkey sandwich I gobbled between my early-afternoon clients. There are far fewer people on this floor, though the towers of books are just as high. Whispered conversations filtered through to me on the first three levels, but now the only sounds I hear are my own footsteps.
I’m deep into the center of the stacks when I abruptly turn a corner and almost walk into a guy and girl passionately kissing. They don’t break apart as I step around them.
Then I hear a familiar voice, stretched out into a whine: “Tay, let’s take a break. I need a chai latte.”
Relief courses through me and I have to restrain myself from sprinting in the direction of Mandy’s voice.
I find them in a corner of the room. Mandy is leaning against the edge of a desk piled high with books and a laptop, and Taylor is sitting in the chair. Both girls have their hair piled up in artfully messy buns and are wearing Juicy Couture sweats.
“Taylor!”
Her name comes out almost as a gasp.
She and Mandy both turn to look at me. Mandy’s nose wrinkles. Taylor wears a blank expression.
“Can I help you?” Taylor asks.
She has no idea who I am.
I draw closer. “It’s me, Jess.”
“Jess?” Mandy echoes.
“The makeup artist,” I say. “From BeautyBuzz.”
Taylor looks me up and down. I’m still in my work outfit, but my shirt has become untucked and I can feel the errant strands that have escaped from my low twist sticking to my neck.
“What are you doing here?” Taylor asks.
“I need to talk to you.”
Shhh! someone hushes us from a few desks away.
“Please, it’s important,” I whisper.
Maybe Taylor can sense my desperation, because she nods. She shoves her laptop into her bag but leaves her books. We take the elevator down to the lobby with Mandy trailing behind us. When we reach the main doors, Taylor pauses. “What is it?”
Now that I’ve finally found her, I don’t know where to begin.
“So, remember when I was doing your makeup and you mentioned a questionnaire?”
It’s been weeks since I took Taylors phone and listened to her voice mail. I try to recall what I knew back then.
“The one with the NYU professor about morality. It paid a lot of money. You were supposed to go the next morning . . .”
Taylor nods. “Yeah, that’s right. I was too tired, so I canceled.”
I take a deep breath.
“So . . . I ended up doing it.
Wariness fills Taylor’s eyes. She takes a step back.
Mandy makes a little sound in her throat: “Well, that’s weird,” she says.
“Yeah, anyway . . . I’m trying to find out a bit more about the professor.” I try to keep my voice steady as I look at Taylor.
“I don’t know her; a friend who’s a psych major took her class and told me about the study. C’mon, Mandy.”
“Wait, please!” My voice is shrill. I soften my tone. “Could I talk to your friend?”
Taylor assesses me for a moment. I try to smile, but I know it probably looks unnatural.
“It’s complicated, and I don’t want to bore you with all the details,” I say. “But if you like, I can tell you the whole story—”
Taylor holds up a hand: “Just call Amy.”
I’m glad I remembered these girls hate to be bored. It was the right tack to take.
She looks down at her phone, then recites the number as I tap it onto my own screen.
“Would you mind repeating that?” I ask. I’m pretty sure Mandy rolls her eyes, but Taylor gives me the digits again, this time more slowly.
“Thank you!” I call as they walk away.
Before they even turn the corner, I’ve dialed Amy.
She answers on the second ring.
“She was a great teacher,” Amy says. “I had her last spring. A tough grader, but not unfair . . . She really worked you. I think only two people in the class got A’s and I wasn’t one of them.” She gives a little laugh. “What more can I tell you? She has an amazing wardrobe. I’d kill for her shoes.”
Amy is in a taxi, on her way to LaGuardia Airport to fly home for her grandmother’s ninetieth birthday celebration.
“Did you know about her study?” I ask.
“Sure,” Amy says. “I was in it.
She isn’t suspicious about my questions, probably because I implied Taylor and I are friends, too. “It’s a little weird, because she must have realized who I was when I signed up, but she didn’t call me by my name. It was something strange . . . what was it again?”
She hesitates.
My breath catches in my lungs.
“Subject 16,” Amy finally says. My skin tingles.
“I remember the number because that’s my younger brother’s age,” she continues.
“What did she ask you?” I interject.
“Hang on a sec.” I hear her say something to the taxi driver, then the sound of rustling and a trunk slamming.
“Um, there was one about whether I’d ever lied on a medical form—you know, like, how much I drink, or my weight, or how many sexual partners I’ve had. I remember that one because I’d just had a physical and I’d lied about all those things!”
She’s laughing again, but I frown.
“I’m at the airport. I gotta go,” Amy says.
“Did you ever meet with her in person for the study?” I blurt.
“Huh? No, it was just a bunch of questions on a computer,” Amy says.
The ambient noises are so loud—people calling and chattering, a loudspeaker blaring an announcement about unattended bags—that I have trouble hearing her clearly. “Anyway, I need to check in; it’s total chaos here.”
I press on: “You never went to her office on Sixty-second Street? Did any of the subjects go there?”
“I don’t know, maybe some people did,” she says. “How cool would that be? I bet it’s totally chic.”
I have more questions, but I know I’m about to lose Amy.
“Could you do me a favor?” I say. “Could you think about it a little more and call me if you remember anything unusual?”
“Sure,” Amy says, but her voice is distracted and I wonder if she has even registered my request.
I hang up and feel something in my chest unclench.
My most important question has been answered, at least. Dr. Shields is a pro; she’s not only a professor, she’s a well-respected one. She wouldn’t have this position if she were doing anything shady.
I’m not sure why I got so worked up. I’m hungry and tired, plus the stress I’ve been feeling about my family might be affecting me. My father’s final day of work was November 30; his buyout is four months’ salary. They’ll run out of money by the time the Phillies have their first at bat of the season.
I’m exhausted by the time I turn the corner onto my street. My mind is whirling and my body feels simultaneously weighty and restless.
As I pass the Lounge, I look through the big glass windows. I can hear the faint strain of the music, and I see a group of guys playing pool.
I find myself looking for Noah.
I reach for Noah’s card and pull it out. Before I think about it too much, I text him: Hey, just walked by the Lounge and thought of you. Has that offer for breakfast expired?
He doesn’t respond immediately, so I keep walking.
I think about stopping by another bar. The Atlas is close by and it’s usually packed around this time, even on weeknights. I could go in alone, sit at the bar, order a drink, and see what happens, like I’ve done before when the pressure gets to be too much and I need an escape.
Since I can’t afford a spa day and I don’t do drugs, this is the way I find a release. I don’t do it all that often, although the last time I had to tell my doctor how many sexual partners I’ve had, I lied about it, just as Amy did.
I draw closer to the Atlas. I can hear the pulse of music; I can see the crush of bodies near the bar.
But then I picture sitting on the love seat in Dr. Shields’s office, describing my night to her. She knows I do this sometimes; I wrote about it on the computer questionnaire. But having to look at her and reveal the details about a hookup would be mortifying. I bet even before she was married, she never had a one-night stand; I can just tell.
Dr. Shields seems to see something special in me, even though I don’t often feel that way about myself.
So I keep walking.
I don’t want to disappoint her.