CHAPTER
FIFTY-THREE
Friday, December 21
Thomas is waiting on the steps of the town house.
His first words defuse the suspicion that formed when no traffic was encountered between Deco Bar and my home.
“My plan was foiled,” he says wryly as he wraps me in an embrace. It’s not dissimilar to the physical greeting you just received from your friend in the navy coat, Jessica.
“Oh?”
“I was hoping to get here first so I could run you a bath and open some champagne,” he says. “But my key didn’t work. Did you have the locks changed?”
It’s a stroke of luck that the new security measure coincides with the story created for Thomas during the cab ride back to the town house.
“I completely forgot to tell you! Here, come inside.”
He hangs his coat in the closet, alongside the lighter ones you so cunningly noticed, before he is led into the study.
Instead of champagne, two snifters of brandy are poured from the bottle on the sidebar. A story like this calls for a bracing drink.
“You look distressed,” he says, taking a seat on the couch and patting the cushion beside him. “What is it, sweetheart?”
A soft sigh hints that it isn’t easy to begin. “There’s this young woman who entered my study,” he is told. “It’s probably nothing . . .”
It’s better if he coaxes out the story; Thomas will believe he has a stake in it.
“What did she do?” he asks.
“Nothing yet. But last week, when I stepped out of the office for lunch, I saw her. She was standing across the street from my office. She just . . . watched me.”
A sip of brandy. Thomas’s hand closing protectively over mine. The next few sentences are delivered with a slightly halting quality.
“There have been a few hang-ups on my phone as well. And then last Sunday, I saw her outside the town house. I have no idea how she obtained our home address.”
Thomas’s expression is attentive. Perhaps gears are beginning to spin in his head as he is led toward a conclusion to a vexing puzzle. But he needs to hear more.
“For confidentiality, I can’t reveal much about her. But even during those initial survey questions, it was clear she had . . . issues.”
Thomas grimaces. “Issues? Like the other girl in your study?”
A nod provides the answer to his questions.
“That explains it,” he says. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I may have seen her, too. Does she have dark curly hair?”
Now your appearances at the museum and diner have an explanation.
Downcast eyes camouflage the expression they contain: triumph.
Thomas likely imagines a swirl of other, troubling emotions that cannot be voiced due to professional rules of discretion. Actions always speak louder than words: Thomas’s sensible wife would not install a new lock without good reason.
Thomas’s embrace feels like his voice did in the darkness on the first night we met. Finally, it feels like safety again.
“I’m going to keep her away from you,” Thomas says firmly.
“From us, don’t you mean? If she has followed you as well . . .”
“I think I should sleep here tonight. In fact, I insist. I can stay in the guest room if you’d prefer.”
His eyes contain hope. My hand touches his cheek. Thomas’s skin is always so warm.
This moment feels suspended, infused with a crystalline quality.
My response is whispered. “No, I want you with me.”
You were the one who shaped tonight. He’s a hundred percent devoted to you.
Jessica, everything is riding on your words.