The music now switches to John Legend’s “Tonight.”
“Let’s dance.”
Thomas’s eyes follow the path of my cardigan as it slips from my shoulders down onto the love seat. As he rises, he reaches with his free hand to massage the back of his neck.
The gesture is a familiar one.
He appears a shade paler than normal.
Our bodies fit together seamlessly, just as they did on our wedding night. It’s as though the memory has always been stored in our muscles.
The song ends. Thomas removes his glasses, then presses his thumb and index finger to his temples. He grimaces.
“Are you feeling unwell?”
He nods. “Do you think there were nuts in the torte?”
He isn’t in danger; his allergy is not life-threatening. However, it is triggered by even the tiniest taste of tree nuts.
The sole side effect is a severe headache. Alcohol worsens this sensation.
“I did ask at the patisserie . . .” My voice trails off. “I’ll get you some water.”
Five steps toward the kitchen, where his cell phone stills rests on the counter.
Now Thomas is positioned closer to the staircase.
This is important; he will be more inclined to think his next movements are of his own accord, rather than the result of a subtle manipulation.
“Would you like some Tylenol? It’s just in the medicine cabinet upstairs.”
“Thanks, I’ll be right back,” he says.
His heavy footsteps ascend the stairs, then sound directly overhead as he moves toward the master bathroom.
The path has already been traced and timed with a stopwatch. He will likely be occupied for sixty to ninety seconds. Hopefully, it will be enough time to gather the desired information.
One of the first questions in the morality survey: Would you ever read your spouse’s/significant other’s text messages?
Thomas’s passcode has traditionally been the month and day of his birth.
It is unchanged.
“Lydia? The Tylenol isn’t in the medicine cabinet.” His voice carries from the top of the stairs.
My footsteps are swift, but when my tone comes from the bottom landing, it remains steady and unhurried.
“Are you certain? I just bought some.”
The Tylenol is in the medicine cabinet, but tucked behind a box containing a new skin-care cream. More than a cursory glance will be necessary to locate it.
A creak in the floorboard indicates he is moving toward the master bathroom again.
His glass of water is procured. Then the green phone icon is touched. Recent texts and phone calls are surveyed.
My phone’s camera function is already engaged.
Quickly, but meticulously, the record of Thomas’s many recent calls is captured. His texts appear completely unremarkable and so are disregarded.
Every photograph is assessed to make sure the digital evidence is clear; quality cannot be sacrificed to speed.
The house is utterly quiet. Too quiet?
“Thomas? Are you okay?”
“Yep,” he calls.
Perhaps he is applying a cold washcloth to his pulse points.
More photographs are amassed, documenting perhaps thirty-five phone calls. Some numbers are assigned to contacts with recognizable names: Thomas’s dentist, squash partner, and parents. Others, eight in total, are unfamiliar. They all have New York City area codes.
The deleted call record log is similarly documented, which turns up one additional unfamiliar number, this one with a 301 area code.
It will be a simple matter to determine whether these numbers are completely innocuous. If a man answers, or it it belongs to a place of business, the phone number will be considered irrelevant and the call will be immediately terminated.
If a woman answers, the call will also be quickly aborted.
But that number will be saved for further scrutiny.
His phone is replaced on the counter. His glass of water is brought to the library.
He should have returned by now.
“Thomas?” He does not respond.
He is met at the top of the staircase just as he emerges from the bedroom.
“Were you able to find it?”
He looks distinctly unwell now. He will require three aspirin followed by a long rest in a darkened room.
The evening’s encounter will come to a necessary, abrupt end.
The hope in Thomas’s eyes that further intimacies would progress has been extinguished.
“No,” he says. His distress is evident.
“I’ll get it,” he is told.
In the bathroom, he squints against the bright light. The medicine cabinet is surveyed. The luxury moisturizer is moved aside.
“It’s right here.”
Back downstairs, he swallows three pills and is offered a respite on the couch.
He shakes his head, then winces at the movement.
“I think I’d better go,” he says.
His coat is retrieved and offered to him.
“Your phone.” He nearly left it on the counter.
As it is picked up, a quick glance at the screen confirms it has automatically