CHAPTER
FIFTY-EIGHT
Sunday, December 23
I was up most of last night studying my file and April’s.
As best as I can tell, Thomas’s affair with the boutique owner is the one Dr. Shields was referring to that night in her kitchen, when her hand trembled and her eyes filled with tears. It’s the reason why she decided to use me as a real-life test for her husband, to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.
I briefly flash back to the memory of Thomas’s mouth trailing its way down my stomach as he pushed aside my lacy black thong and I flinch.
I can’t think about that now; I need to focus on figuring out why Thomas was so transparent about his relationship with the boutique owner and so fearful of anyone learning he’d been with April.
What made one affair so different from the other?
It’s why I’m walking into the Blink boutique this morning, looking for the store’s owner: Lauren, the woman Thomas slept with.
It wasn’t hard to pinpoint who she was and where she worked. I had clues. Her name began with an L, the same initial as Lydia. And she owned a clothing boutique located a block away from Thomas’s office.
There were three possible stores. I identified the right one by checking out the websites. Blink’s featured a photo of Lauren and the backstory of how she started the boutique.
I can kind of see why I remind Dr. Shields of Lauren, I think as I step into the bright, funky store. When I saw her picture on the website, it was hard to tell, but in person I acknowledge that she does look a bit like me, with her dark hair and light eyes, even though, as Dr. Shields stated, she’s probably a decade older.
She’s busy with a customer, so I inspect a rack of blouses organized by color.
“Looking for anything special?” a saleswoman greets me.
“Just browsing,” I say. I flip over a price tag and wince: The long-sleeve, sheer top is $425.
“Let me know if you want to try anything on,” she says.
I nod and continue pretending to consider the blouses, while I keep an eye on Lauren. But the customer she’s with is buying multiple items for last-minute Christmas gifts, and she occupies Lauren by asking for her opinion.
Finally, after I’ve made a slow lap around the tiny store, the customer heads to the cash register. Lauren starts to ring her up.
I grab a scarf off an accessory table, figuring it will be one of the less expensive items. By the time Lauren hands the customer a glossy white bag with the store’s logo—an oversize sketch of a pair of closed eyes with long, thick lashes—I am at the register waiting.
“Would you like this gift-wrapped?” she asks.
“Please,” I say. It’ll buy me a few more minutes of her time, so I can gather my courage.
She slips the scarf into tissue paper and ties a pretty bow around it while I swipe my credit card to cover the $195 charge. If I can get the information I need, it’s a small price to pay.
Lauren hands me the signature bag and I notice she’s wearing a wedding band.
I clear my throat.
“I know this sounds kind of weird, but is it possible to talk in private for a minute?” I ask. I feel the cold metal of my rings and realize I’m running my thumb over them. According to Dr. Shields’s file on me, that’s one of my tells when I’m anxious.
Lauren’s smile disappears. “Sure.” She draws out the word, almost like it’s a question.
Lauren leads me to the back of the shop. “What can I help you with?” she asks.
I need her first, instinctual response. I learned from Dr. Shields that’s usually the most honest one. So instead of saying anything, I pull out my phone and turn it around so Lauren can see the photo of Thomas I’ve cropped out from the wedding picture he texted me. It was taken seven years ago, but the picture is clear and he basically looks the same.
I keep my eyes on her. If she refuses to talk to me or just tells me to leave, her initial reaction is all I’ll have. I have to be able to read her expression, to decipher any signs of guilt or sorrow or love.
It isn’t what I expect.
There’s no strong emotion in her face. Her brow furrows slightly. Her eyes are quizzical.
It’s as if she recognizes Thomas but can’t quite place him.
“He looks vaguely familiar . . .” she finally says.
She meets my gaze. She’s waiting for me to fill in the blanks.
“You had an affair with him,” I blurt. “Just a couple of months ago!”
“What?”
Her cry of surprise is so loud that her coworker turns around: “Everything okay, Lauren?”
“I’m sorry,” I sputter. “He told me, he said—”
“It’s fine,” Lauren calls back to her colleague, but her voice has an edge, like she’s angry now.
I try to gather myself; she’ll probably throw me out in a minute. “You said he looks familiar. Do you even know him at all?”
My voice cracks and I force back tears.
Instead of recoiling like I’m crazy, Lauren’s face softens. Are you okay?”
I nod and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.
“Why in the world would you think I had an affair with that man? she says.
I can’t come up with anything to say other than the truth. “Someone told me you had . . .” I hesitate, then force myself to continue. “I met him a few weeks ago and . . . I’m worried he might be dangerous,” I whisper.
Lauren rears back. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but this is nuts. Someone told you I had an affair with him? I’m married. Happily married. Who told you that lie?”
“Maybe I got it wrong,” I say. There’s no way I can go into all of this with her. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to insult you . . . Could you just look again and see if you can remember if you’ve ever seen him before?”
Now Lauren is the one studying me. I wipe my eyes again and make myself meet her gaze.
She finally stretches out her hand. “Let me see your phone.”
As she gazes at the photo, her face clears. “I remember him now. He was a customer.”
She looks up at the ceiling and bites her lower lip. “Okay, it’s coming back to me. He walked in a few months ago. I was just putting out some items from the fall line and he was looking for some special outfits for his wife. He spent quite a lot of money.”
The chime over the door announces the arrival of a new customer. Lauren glances her way and I know my time here is limited.
“Was that all?” I ask.
Lauren raises her eyebrows. “Well, he returned everything the next day. That’s probably why I even remember him at all. He was very apologetic but said they weren’t his wife’s style.”
She looks toward the front of the shop again. “I never saw him again,” she says. “I didn’t get the feeling that he was dangerous at all. In fact, he seemed really sweet. But I barely spent any time with him. And I certainly didn’t have an affair with him.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m so sorry I bothered you.”
She turns to go, then looks back at me. Honey, if you’re that scared of him, you really should go to the police.”