CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO
Monday, December 17
A sharp, sudden noise alerts me to the presence of someone in the town house.
The cleaning lady does not come on Mondays.
The rooms are still, and bathed in shadows. The noise originated from the left.
A town house in New York City affords certain advantages: More space. Privacy. A backyard garden.
Of course, there is one significant disadvantage.
There is no doorman standing guard.
Another loud, clanking noise.
This one is recognizable: A pot has been placed on the six-burner Viking stove.
Thomas always has a heavy hand while cooking.
He is following our Monday-night routine, the one that was suspended when he moved out.
He does not immediately notice my appearance in the doorway to the kitchen; perhaps the sound of a Vivaldi concerto on the Sonos system covered the sound of my movements.
He is chopping zucchini for the whole-wheat pasta primavera; it is one of the few dishes in his repertoire. He knows it is my favorite.
Two white Citarella grocery bags rest on the counter, and a bottle of wine sits on ice in a silver bucket.
Calculations are swiftly performed: Thomas’s last client of the day departs at 4:50 P.M. It is a twenty-five-minute journey from his office to the town house. An additional twenty minutes for grocery shopping. The preparation for this meal is well under way.
He could not have been with you earlier tonight, Jessica. Wherever you went when you pretended to be home sleeping, it was not to meet my husband.
The immediate, overwhelming rush of relief conjures the sensation of a physical weakening.
“Thomas!”
He spins around, holding out the knife as if to defend himself.
Then he releases a high, tight laugh.
“Lydia! You’re home!”
Is this the only reason for his unease?
The relief begins to ebb.
Nevertheless, he is approached and greeted with a kiss.
“Class ended early,” he is told. But no further explanation is given.
Sometimes silence is a more effective tool to loosen information than a direct question; members of the law enforcement community often employ this tactic when a suspect is in custody.
“I just— I know we didn’t talk about it, but I thought you wouldn’t mind if I came over and surprised you by making dinner,” Thomas stammers.
It is his second unannounced visit in the past forty-eight hours.
This also violates the unspoken arrangement put into place following his indiscretion: Thomas has never before used the key he retained after he moved out.
Or has he?
By now, contradictory evidence is muddying the perception of the situation.
A new safeguard will be enacted tomorrow to detect his presence in the town house, should he enter without prior authorization in the future.
“How lovely,” he is told in a tone a shade cooler than might be expected.
He pours a glass of wine. “Here, sweetheart.”
“I’ll just go put my coat away.”
He nods and turns back to stir the pasta.
You have not yet reported any response to your text, Jessica.
If Thomas intends to decline your invitation, why has he not done so?
But perhaps you are the one who is concealing something.
You could believe that meeting Thomas is a necessary step for your continued participation in the study. Perhaps he withstood the temptation, but you are increasing the pressure. You could be stalling for time, hoping for an alternative outcome.
You, with your eagerness to please and your thinly veiled idolization, may not want to disappoint by providing the wrong result.
The instant Thomas leaves, you will be telephoned and summoned to a meeting tomorrow morning. No excuses will be tolerated: Not illness, not a social engagement, not a BeautyBuzz job.
You will be honest with me, Jessica.
By the time Thomas is rejoined in the kitchen, the pasta has been drained and tossed with the seasoned vegetables.
Conversation is kept light. Wine is sipped. Bright notes of the Vivaldi concerto fill the air. Both meals are picked at.
Perhaps Thomas is on edge, too.
Approximately fifteen minutes into the meal, the shrill peal of a cell phone cleaves through the room.
“It’s yours,” he says.
“Do you mind? I’m expecting a call from a client.”
This is only a partial fabrication.
“Of course,” he says.
The phone number on the screen is yours.
It is imperative that my tone remains steady and professional. “This is Dr. Shields.”
“Hi, it’s Jessica . . . I’m feeling better. Thanks so much for the chicken soup.”
Thomas can’t discern any clues from my end of this conversation.
“My pleasure.”
You continue: “Also, I just wanted you to know that I heard back from that guy at the coffee shop. Thomas.”
The instinctive reaction that follows: a quick intake of breath as my eyes fly to Thomas.
Thomas is staring. It’s impossible to know what he is reading on my face.
“One moment, please,” you are told.
Quickly, the distance away from Thomas is increased. The cell phone is carried into the next room.
“Continue,” you are instructed.
Variations in tone, along with cadence, reliably provide information about the contents of a conversation. Bad news is often delayed, while good news bubbles forth.
But your voice remains neutral.
It’s futile to attempt to prepare for what will follow.
“He said he’d like to meet. He’s going to call me tomorrow to make a plan when he figures out his schedule.”