joining us? The poor thing had no one to spend Christmas with. Her family left her all alone for the holiday.”
His eyes are wide and round behind his glasses.
“Thomas, you know how attached I get to these young girls.”
He flinches. “But you said she was harassing you!”
You recover from your shock admirably quickly, much faster than Thomas. By now you are visibly bristling, Jessica.
“Did I say that?” A pause. “Wait, is she the girl you said was following you?”
Thomas blanches. It is time to redirect this line of conversation.
“There must be some misunderstanding. Shall we sit?”
The small love seat and two straight-back chairs form a semicircle. The coffee table is parallel to the love seat.
Where you choose to position yourself will be informative, Jessica, just as it was on the first day you entered my office.
But you don’t move; you remain just inside the room, as if you might break for the front door at any time. You jut out your chin and say, “I don’t believe you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“There’s no recording of me in this house.”
You can be so predictable, Jessica.
The room is crossed and the slim silver laptop resting on the piano is opened. With a touch of a button, the digital recording plays.
The camera, which was purchased and hidden in the foyer at the same time the new deadbolt was installed, captured you entering the house and bending down to remove your shoes. The images are shadowy, but your distinctive hair is immediately recognizable.
The laptop is abruptly closed.
“Satisfied?”
You shoot an accusing look at Thomas, who shakes his head almost imperceptibly.
You hesitate a moment, no doubt running through mental calculations before accepting that there is no other option available to you, then your shoulders slump. You skirt the coffee table and choose the chair farthest away from my husband. You place the gift on the floor by your feet.
There could be many reasons for your seat selection. One is that if you ever saw Thomas as an ally, you do not now.
Thomas already has a Scotch on the coffee table in front of him, and the bottle of white Burgundy rests in an ice bucket. It is retrieved and two glasses poured.
The wine is crisp and refreshing, and the heavy crystal glass feels satisfying in my hand.
“What do you want from me?” This is a question that could be asked in many different ways, from belligerence to obsequiousness. Your tone contains pure resignation.
Your body language is protective now; your arms are folded across your lap.
“I want to know the truth,” you are told. “What is the true nature of your relationship with my husband?”
Your eyes flit to the laptop again. “You know everything. He cheated on you and you set me up to see if he’d do it again.”
Thomas recoils and glares at you.
If you and Thomas were a couple seeking marital therapy in my office on Sixty-second Street, establishing harmony would be the goal. Accusations would be discouraged; confrontation expertly diffused.
Here the opposite is sought. Your division is necessary to offset any collusion on your parts.
The fire crackles in the hearth. You and Thomas both flinch at the sharp, sudden sound.
“Mini-quiche?” The hors d’oeuvres platter is offered to you, but you shake your head without even looking at it.
“Thomas?” He reaches over and pops one in his mouth so quickly the gesture seems automatic. A napkin is passed to him.
He takes a big sip of Scotch. You abstain from drinking anything. Perhaps you want to keep your wits about you.
Now that the opening tone has been set, it is time for the evening to truly begin.
And just as in the survey that brought us together, it starts with a morality query.
“Let’s backtrack. I have a question for the two of you.”
Your head jerks up, as does Thomas’s. You are both on high alert, wary of what might come next.
“Imagine you are a security guard stationed at a podium in the lobby of a small professional building. A woman you recognize because her husband has leased an office there asks you to hail a cab because she is feeling ill. Would you leave your post in violation of your duties to help her?”
You look utterly bewildered, Jessica. As you should; what could this possibly have to do with you? But the faintest hint of frown appears on Thomas’s brow.
“I guess so,” you finally say.
“Well?” Thomas is prompted.
“I suppose . . . I would also leave and help her,” he says.
“How interesting! That’s exactly what the security guard