my things, tossing my brushes and cases into my kit rather than taking the time to organize them.
Mrs. Graham’s phone rings again.
“Feel free to get that,” I say. “I’m all finished here.”
“Oh, no, I’ll see you out, dear.”
She opens the closet door and hands me my jacket.
“Have fun tonight!” I say as I slip it on. “Happy Anniversary.”
Before she can reply, a man’s voice fills the room, coming from the old-fashioned answering machine next to her phone.
“Hey, Mom. Where are you? I was just calling to say Fiona and I are heading out now. We should be there in about an hour . . .”
Something in his tone makes me take a closer look at Mrs. Graham. She is staring down, though, as if she is trying to evade my eyes.
Her son’s voice grows rougher. “I hope you’re doing okay.”
The closet door is still ajar. My gaze is pulled inside, even though I already know what will be missing. Her son’s tone told me what I’ve misjudged.
Mrs. Graham isn’t going to dinner with her husband tonight.
I visited earlier today, she’d told her daughter.
I suddenly know where she went. I can see her kneeling to set down a bouquet of flowers, lost in the memories of the almost forty-two years they had together.
On one side of the closet hang three coats—a raincoat, a light jacket, and a heavier wool one. They’re all women’s coats.
The other half of the closet is bare.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Thursday, December 6
You’re fighting the urge to peek inside, aren’t you?
You picked up the package a few minutes ago. The wrapping reveals no clues about its contents. The sturdy, generic-looking white bag with the reinforced handle and no logo, is stuffed with tissue paper to protect the object within.
You retrieved it from a young man who lives in a small apartment building. You probably barely got a look at him as he handed it over; he’s a taciturn individual. There was nothing for you to sign; the object had been paid for and the receipt e-mailed to the purchaser.
As you quickly stride down Sixth Avenue, you might be rationalizing that it really wouldn’t be snooping. There is no seal to break, or tape to remove. The next time you pause at a street corner waiting for the light to turn, you could simply peel back a few layers of tissue and catch a glimpse. No one will ever know, you might be telling yourself.
The bag is heavy in your hand, but not uncomfortably so.
Your mind is curious by nature, and you alternately shy away from and embrace risks. Which side of you will win dominance today?
You will need to see the contents of this bag, but you should only view it on the terms dictated in this office.
You’ve been told these are our foundational sessions, but there is more than a single foundation being laid.
Sometimes a test is so small and quiet you don’t even notice it’s a test.
Sometimes a relationship that appears caring and supportive carries hidden danger.
Sometimes a therapist who coaxes out all of your secrets is holding the biggest one in the room.
You arrive at the office at four minutes past the appointed time. You are out of breath, though you try to conceal this by taking quick, shallow inhalations. A lock of hair has worked itself loose from your topknot, and you are wearing a simple black top and black jeans. It’s surprisingly disappointing that your ensemble is uninspired today.
“Hi, Dr. Shields,” you say. “Sorry I’m a little late. I was at work when you texted.”
You set down your large makeup case and offer up the bag. Your expression does not convey guilt or evasiveness.
Your response to the unorthodox request thus far has been flawless.
You agreed immediately. You did not ask a single question. You were not given much advance notice, yet you rushed to complete the task.
Now for the final piece.
“Are you curious about what is inside?”
The question is asked lightly, without the slightest hint of accusation.
You give a little laugh and say, “Yeah, I was guessing maybe a couple of books?”
Your response is natural, unfiltered. You maintain eye contact. You don’t fiddle with your silver rings. You don’t exhibit a tell.
You suppressed your curiosity. You continue to prove your loyalty.
Now the question you’ve carried for the past twelve blocks can be satisfied.
A sculpture of a falcon—Murano glass containing gold leaf flecks—is carefully eased out of the bag. The crest of the falcon is cold and smooth.
“Wow,” you say.
“It’s a gift for my husband. Go ahead,