CHAPTER
FIFTY-SIX
Saturday, December 22
The key glides into the lock.
My hand shakes as I twist it. Then I push the door open.
A soft beeping sound erupts as I step into Dr. Shields’s town house. I close the door behind me, sealing off the light from the two outside sconces. Now the hallway is so shadowy I can barely make out the alarm keypad on the left side of the entranceway.
I slip off my shoes so I don’t track any mud or dirt inside, but I keep my coat on, in case I need to leave fast.
Thomas gave me the security code when he called today. He told me he’d leave the keys he’d copied under the doormat.
Use the silver one for the bottom lock the for the top, he’d said. I’ll try to keep Lydia out until eleven.
He also told me I’d have thirty seconds to deactivate the alarm.
I walk over to the keypad and punch in the four digits: 0-9-1-5. But in my haste, I mistake the 6 for a 5 in the dim light.
I realize my error a split second later.
There’s a long, shrill noise, then the beeping resumes. It’s faster now, sounding almost frantic, blurring with the thudding of my heart.
How many seconds have elapsed? Fifteen? I have to get it right or the security company will summon the police.
I press in each number carefully.
The alarm makes a final, high-pitched sound. Then it falls silent.
I withdraw my gloved hand from the numbered pad and exhale. I wasn’t sure until now if Thomas had given me the right four digits.
My legs are so weak I have to lean against the wall to steady myself.
I stand there for a full minute. Then another. I can’t dislodge the fear that Thomas and Dr. Shields are just a floor above me, hiding in her study.
I could still leave; I could put on my shoes, arm the alarm, and replace the keys. But then I’ll never know what Dr. Shields might be holding over me.
I saw your file upstairs on her desk this morning, Thomas had said. It was resting on top of April’s.
Finally, I know where the elusive manila folder is—the one I’d seen on Dr. Shields’s office desk during our early sessions. The one Ben had told me I needed to find.
Did you look inside? I’d asked Thomas.
I didn’t have time. She was asleep, but she could’ve woken up at any second.
I’d squeezed my eyes shut in frustration at his words. What did it matter if I knew where Dr. shields kept my file when I’d never be able to get it?
Then Thomas had said: I can get you into the house.
His tone told me there was a catch even before he continued.
But only if you agree to photograph all of Lydia’s notes on April for me. I need that file, Jess.
It didn’t hit me until after we’d hung up that maybe this was why Thomas pretended to still be in love with Dr. Shields: He was staying close to get April’s file.
Just a few minutes have elapsed since I entered Dr. Shields’s home, but it feels like I’ve been frozen in the hallway for much longer. I finally take ten steps forward. Now I’m next to the staircase landing. Still I can’t bring myself to begin to climb: Even if this isn’t a trap, with every progressive movement, I’m going deeper into this morass.
Other than the soft hiss of a nearby radiator, it is completely quiet.
I have to do something, so I put my foot on the first step. It groans.
I wince, then continue to slowly make my way up. Though my eyes have adjusted to the murky light, I place each foot down carefully to make sure I don’t slip.
I finally reach the top and stand there, unsure of which way to turn. The hallway stretches to the left and right. Thomas only told me Dr. Shields’s office was on the second floor.
There’s a light coming from the left. I start to head that way.
Then my phone rings, shattering the oppressive silence.
My heart leaps into my throat.
I fumble in my coat pocket, but my gloves slip against the smooth surface of the phone and I can’t get a firm grip on it.
It rings again.
Something’s gone wrong, I frantically think. Thomas is calling to tell me they’re coming home early.
But when I finally pull out the phone, instead of Thomas’s code name—Sam, the last three letters of his name reversed—I see my mother’s smiling face in the little circle on the screen.
I try to hit Decline Call but with my glove on, the touchscreen doesn’t work.
I use my teeth to grip the fingertips of the glove and try to pull it off as my phone rings again. My hand is so clammy the leather sticks to my skin. I tug harder. If anyone is upstairs, they certainly know I’m in the house now.
Finally, I manage to switch my phone to vibrate.
I remain immobile, listening intently, but there’s no indication anyone else is nearby. I take three deep breaths before I can force my shaking legs to move again.
I continue walking toward the dim glow of the light and arrive at its source: the nightstand by Dr. Shields’s bed. Thomas and Dr. Shields’s bed, I correct myself as I stand in the doorway, staring at the steel-blue quilted headboard and creaseless comforter. Next to the small lamp is a single book, Middlemarch, and a tiny bouquet of anemones.
This is the second time today I’ve violated such an intimate space. First April’s old bedroom, and now this one.
I’d give anything to be able to scour it for more clues about who Dr. Shields is, like a diary, old photos or letters. But I keep walking, toward an adjoining room.
It’s the study.
The folders are right where Thomas said he’d seen them this morning.
I hurry to the desk and carefully remove the top one, the one with my name on the tab. I open it and see a photocopy of my driver’s license and the biographical information I gave to Ben back on that first day, when I blithely walked into the study, hoping to make some easy money.
I pull out my phone and photograph the first page.
Then I flip it over and gasp.
The faces of my parents and Becky smile up at me from the second page. I recognize the photo that Dr. Shields has printed out: It’s from my Instagram feed, last December. The image is slightly blurred, but I can still see the edge of the Christmas tree that was in my parents’ living room.
Questions fire in my brain: Why does Dr. Shields have this? How soon after she met me did she copy it? And how did she get access to my private Instagram account?
But I don’t have time to stop and think. Dr. Shields always seems to be a step ahead of me; I can’t shake the fear that she’ll sense I’m here. That she could come home at any minute.
I continue snapping pictures, making sure I keep the pages in order. I see my two computer-survey questionnaires printed out. The prompts flash by:
Could you tell a lie without feeling guilt?
Describe a time in your life when you cheated.
Have you ever deeply hurt someone you care about?
And those final two questions before Dr. shields asked me to expand my participation in her study:
Should a punishment always fit the crime?
Do victims have the right to take retribution into their own hands?
Next come notes and notes from a yellow legal pad filled with neat, graceful handwriting.
Surrender to it . . . You belong to me. . . . You look as lovely as ever.
I feel nauseated, but I keep flipping the papers like I’m on autopilot as I document each one. I can’t let myself take in the significance of what I’m seeing.
Through the slight gaps in the slatted wooden blinds covering a window, I see the sweep of headlights. I freeze.
A vehicle is traveling down the street slowly. I wonder if the flash from my iPhone’s camera was visible from the driver’s vantage point.
I press my phone against my leg to block the glow of the screen and remain completely motionless until the car passes by.
It could have been a neighbor, I think, as my anxiety swells. Maybe even one who saw Thomas and Lydia leave together an hour ago. If they noticed anything strange, they could be dialing the police right now.
But I can’t leave yet. Not until I finish photographing the pages. I flip them as fast as possible, alert for any noise that could indicate someone is approaching the town house. After I’ve turned the last page, with several underlines beneath my words He’s a hundred percent devoted to you, I straighten them all, tapping the edges against the desk to make sure they are aligned. I slip them back into the manila folder.
Then I pick up April’s file.
It seems a little thinner than mine.
I dread opening it; it feels like lifting aside a rock, knowing a tarantula might lurk beneath it. But I’m not photographing it just because Thomas wants the information. I need to know what it contains, too.
The very first page looks identical to the one in my folder. April’s grainy photograph stares out at me from her driver’s license, her too-big eyes making her appear startled. Beneath the photocopy are her biographical details: full name, date of birth, and address.
I snap a picture, then turn to the next piece of paper.
There, in Dr. Shields’s flowing blue script, is the answer I desperately need. April entered Dr. Shields’s study and became Subject 5 on May 19.
Fifteen days before that, on May 4, April posted the photograph of Thomas in her bed on Instagram.
Even if she’d taken the picture of Thomas days or weeks before and waited to post it, her encounter with him came before she entered Dr. Shields’s study.
Thomas is the one who drew in April.
I suck in a sharp breath. My gut was wrong; he is the more dangerous of the two.
I stare at the date again to make sure I’m getting the facts correct. The one thing that’s now clear is that my story no longer mirrors April’s. Dr. Shields couldn’t have used April to test Thomas, like she did me.
It’s also apparent that April didn’t remain one of Dr. Shields’s subjects for long. She’d only answered a few survey questions and didn’t even go back for the second session. Why did she stop?
Thomas is the only person who knows I’m in the town house. And if he’s the one who orchestrated the events that led to April’s death, then I’m not safe.
I need to get out of here. I finish going through the file, snapping photos of the notes as quickly as I can. The second-to-last page is titled Conversation with Jodi Voss, October 2. And then there is only one piece of paper left.
It’s a certified letter dated only a week after Dr. Shields met with Mrs. Voss on April’s birthday. It’s addressed to Dr. Shields.
A few lines sear themselves into my vision as I wait for my phone camera to focus: Investigating the death . . . Katherine April Voss . . . family requests voluntary release of notes . . . Possible subpoena . . .
This is what Mrs. Voss must have been alluding to when she told me she’d never stop looking for answers. She’d hired a private investigator to help her find them.
I close the file and center it directly beneath mine, just the way Dr. Shields left it. I have everything I need. Though I still want to look around for more clues since I know I’ll never have this opportunity again, I have to leave now.
I retrace my steps back to the staircase, moving much faster than I did on the way up. In the entranceway I slip on my shoes, reset the alarm, and ease open the door. I tuck the key beneath the mat and stand up. No neighbors are within sight. Even if they glimpsed me, all they’d see is someone in a dark coat and hat casually walking down the front steps.
I don’t breathe easily until I’ve rounded the corner.
Then I collapse against the cold metal of a street lamp, my hand still clutching my phone in my pocket. I can’t believe I got away with it. I didn’t leave any evidence behind—no lights switched on, no dirt tracked on the pristine carpets, not even a single traceable fingerprint. There’s no way Dr. Shields can ever know I broke into her house.
But I find myself examining my movements in my mind again and again, just to make sure.
After I am safely home, with my own door locked behind me and the nightstand wedged against it, I start thinking about Mrs. Voss. She believes the file on April holds the truth about why her daughter killed herself. She’s so desperate to get it that she hired a private investigator.
But Thomas, who claims he only slept with April once, seems just as eager to see the file.
A part of me wonders if I should anonymously send the photos to the investigator, and let the chips fall. But that might not solve anything, and Thomas would know who gave up the file.
When it comes down to it, I’ve only got myself to rely on.
I wrote that line in Dr. Shields’s survey on my first session. It has never seemed more true than right now.
So before I e-mail Thomas the photographs of April’s file, I’m going to study them.
I have to figure out why hiding his connection to Subject 5 is so important to him.