Fool Me Twice

A sudden jolt of panic hits me when they arrive at the trendiest restaurant and café in town—the handsome, successful husband, his beautiful wife, and their two adorable daughters, the perfect family. Except they’re not.

I quickly shift my gaze back to our table when the husband turns around and looks directly at me. My fingers tighten around the steaming cup of green tea as I force my brain to focus on the ambience surrounding me—the chatter and laughter of patrons out for an evening of dining, the accompanying background music, and busy servers tending to their enthusiastic and upscale clientele.

What’s wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost, my husband Jason quips.

I knock over the cup, spilling my tea. I grab napkins from the dispenser and spring into action before the drink finds its way all over the table and causes a huge mess. Or worse, burns the children.

Aliens hijacked my brain to perform scientific experiments. I don’t know when they’ll give it back. I laugh weakly at my lame joke.

I don’t think so. What spooked you, Shelby?

Jason sits across from me at our booth near the window, eyeing me through ridiculously long lashes, the kind women envy on a man. The tube-shaped lantern dangling over our table illuminates his deep bronze complexion and Blair Underwood-like features that appear as though a makeup artist gave him a velvet matte finish. Our daughter, Abigail, is texting friends. Her stylish bob covers most of her acne-free face and large, expressive doe eyes—so like mine. Miles, a mini version of his father and quite tall for his eleven years, gripes about his food, his peevish behavior grating on my already frayed nerves.

I’m fine, I assure Jason. Just had a sudden flash of all the work piling up. I’m drowning, frankly. I missed another deadline to turn in my research manuscript. Dr. Nouri has already cursed me out in three languages.

Jason reaches over and gently runs a finger down my cheek. Then consider cutting back on your workload. You’re overextended as it is.

I’m a research scientist in the field of bioinformatics, which combines biology, computer science, and mathematics to develop tools that can analyze complex biological data and genetic codes. There is also a huge gender gap and even fewer women of color working in this specialty. Publishing my research is one way I get ahead, but work is the furthest thing from my mind tonight.

I don’t see any reason to slow down. Besides, why does the woman always have to be the one to make career sacrifices?

Abbie pays attention, sensing an argument is about to begin. Miles makes obnoxious slurping sounds with his hot chocolate.

Jason narrows his eyes at me. You’re not yourself tonight, he says finally.

I place my small hands over his enormous brown ones. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’ll get a full eight hours of sleep tonight. That should take care of my attitude.

Are you sure that’s all it is, work? Jason asks.

I must tread carefully. It’s not a good idea to get defensive, especially since I’m keeping secrets that could destroy my family. When my cell phone rings, I’m grateful for the distraction that saves me from having to tell more lies. I reach for my phone in the side pocket of my bag and glance at the screen. I recognize the incoming number and return the phone right away. The caller won’t give up, though. The phone keeps ringing.

Aren’t you going to get that? Jason asks.

It’s Vivian. I’ll call her later.

Who knows what part of the world she’s calling from? Pick up.

I have no choice but to answer the call. Hey, Vivian, what’s up?

I need to see you. It’s urgent, says the anxious caller.

I’m at Pennybaker’s with Jason and the kids.

Meet me out back. Then the caller hangs up.

I keep the phone pressed to my ear despite the silence on the other end of the line.

Can I talk to Aunt Vivian? Abbie asks.

Not right now, honey, I say, pressing my hand over the phone. Your aunt just met a new man, and she’s eager to give me the details. Knowing her, it’s probably X-rated.

I tell the family I need a quick bathroom break. I wade through the noisy crowd, then exit the restaurant. It’s the end of October, with temperatures dropping by the hour. I adjust my scarf and tighten the belt of my Burberry coat as I arrive at the parking lot located behind the restaurant.

The man who made eye contact with me inside the restaurant leans against my car, his figure highlighted by the splash of light from the lamppost. He sports a brown leather jacket with a double collar and dark jeans. His thick, dark hair is an unruly mess. His usually vibrant blue eyes are clouded over by something I can’t quite identify.

Are you nuts? I whisper. We can’t be seen out here. Do you want to get caught?

My eyes dart all over the parking lot, looking for nosy neighbors or acquaintances who might spot me.

Alessandro Rossi, my former physical therapist, to whom I owe a massive debt of gratitude, pats the front bumper of the Mercedes AMG S65 sedan. I like the new toy. I wonder if Jason would be so generous if he knew you’ve been a bad girl.

Is that supposed to be funny? I ask.

Relax, Shelby, he says. If anyone sees us, we have nothing to hide. It’s over, and besides, we’re friends, aren’t we?

Alessandro, both of our spouses are here. I told Jason I was going to the bathroom. I have to get back. What is so urgent that you hauled me out here?

His next words have me feeling flabbergasted. I’m leaving. For good.

I jam my hands into the pockets of my coat to ward off the chilly New England night. I stay silent for a beat, unsure of what to say.

Then I ask, When?

Soon, he says.

Why?

You know why. It’s not safe for my girls. Or me.

Did something happen?

Isabella slapped Morgana across the face, after I warned her not to, he says, clenching his jaw.

I’m so sorry, Alessandro. How are the girls?

They’re terrified of their own mother. That’s why I need your help.

I don’t see what I can do.

Help the girls and me leave the country, undetected. We’re going back to Brazil. If we stay here, I don’t know what Isabella will do next, and I’m not sticking around to find out. In exchange for your help, I’ll sign over half ownership of the business to you. All the centers are profitable. It will be a good investment.

You don’t ask for much, I say, mustering a half-grin. But you don’t need to compensate me. You built that business from nothing, and you should continue to be the sole owner, no matter where you end up.

So you’ll help us? he asks eagerly.

Of course I will. You’re doing the right thing, protecting your children. I lightly stroke his forearm and then pull back.

Time is of the essence, he says and then scans the area as if looking for someone.

Well, I need time to pull some resources together, and you haven’t told me the plan yet, I remind him.

We don’t have much time because something bizarre is going on, and I want the girls and me gone as soon as possible.

"What do you mean by bizarre?"

Strange phone calls. The person hangs up whenever I answer. I also think someone is following me. Mostly on my way to or from work. That’s why I wanted to meet out here. When I saw you inside the restaurant, I thought I should take advantage of the opportunity to talk.

Do you think Isabella could be behind this? I shudder, and the tiny hairs at the back of my neck stand at attention.

I don’t know anything for sure, he says. I’m sorry I called you out here like this, but you’re the only person I trust.

Okay. Then we should avoid contact. I’ll do what I can on my end and then hand things over to you.

Alessandro lets out a deep breath as if he’s been holding it since the conversation began. Thank you. And you’ll let me know if you run into any trouble? I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.

Chill out, Alessandro. Nothing is going to happen to either one of us.

As I pull down the visor to shield my eyes from the sun’s glare, a black SUV cuts in front of me. I slam on the brakes, hard. The driver behind me aggressively beeps his car horn. He misses rear-ending me by a split second. The stench of burned rubber floats in the air, triggering bad memories. I can’t get into another accident. The last one nearly killed me. Then, just like that, the SUV switches lanes. I breathe in and out to collect my bearings, then accelerate before the driver behind me honks again.

When I check my rearview mirror, I can’t believe my eyes. The SUV is on my tail and gaining speed. My gut tells me the earlier run-in was no accident. I rev the v12 engine of the Mercedes to put some distance between us, then switch to the opposite lane. I’m on the Framingham stretch of Route 9, a major east-west highway in Massachusetts, only twenty minutes from my hometown of Castleview.

My pursuer also switches to the opposite lane as I do. I’m nervous now. This isn’t some kid out joyriding. I’m being chased on purpose. Stay calm, I tell myself. Take deep breaths. The SUV remains on my tail, and I can’t shake it. The driver must have a sixth sense. He anticipates all my moves.

The Wellesley police station is only minutes away, and I contemplate exiting to the side street that would lead me there. I switch lanes again to take the exit, and to my surprise, the car speeds past me and disappears around the bend in the road. I exhale and loosen my hands on the wheel. My heart pounds louder than Miles whaling on his drum set.

My cell phone rings. I fumble for it on the passenger seat and swipe to answer without taking my eyes off the road.

Hello.

There’s no answer.

Is anyone there? I ask.

Silence.

I hang up.

I’m speeding now, eager to make the appointment I can’t miss. I turn over the strange encounter in my head. Why did the SUV suddenly back off? Why do I have the strong feeling that the driver was a man? And why was he tailing me?

I feed the parking meter with coins and take in the quaint village feel of the area, with its boutiques, restaurants, businesses, and parked cars lining the street. I stand at the entrance of Citibank in the town of Wellesley—home to the distinguished Wellesley College. Nervous energy overtakes me as I contemplate whether I’m doing the right thing, considering what Alessandro told me a few days ago, and now my recent run-in with an unknown driver.

I’m only a few minutes late for my appointment with Andrew Clarke. Andrew is built like a tank, his massive chest tugging at the buttons of his expensive dress shirt. The volunteer firefighter and my personal banker came into my life five years ago and has been my go-to guy for many financial matters, both simple and complex.

Andrew ushers me into his third-floor office with dark-red and gold oriental carpeting and a giant oak desk at its center. I decline his offer of Fiji water as he takes a seat behind the desk and repositions a wedding photo. I remove my gloves, undo the top two buttons of my coat, and take the seat across from him.

It’s always a pleasure to see you, Shelby. How is the family?

Abbie has a major crush on Ty, although she won’t admit it to me. I think she’s falling for him. Miles wants to play football. I’m glad the boy is fearless and willing to try anything, but I wish he would pick something and stick to it.

They grow up fast, Andrew says. Before you know it, Abbie will be off to college. Are you still pushing her to pick Duke?

You bet. I have to save her from her father’s influence, though. He keeps telling her she can go to any college she wants, and I agree—as long as it’s my alma mater.

We both chuckle, but it’s time to shift my attention to more serious matters.

Do you have what I asked for?

Yes. The funds came from your individual account, not the joint one, as you requested. And as I mentioned over the phone, I’ll take care of any paperwork without inconveniencing you. But if you don’t mind me asking, are you sure you want to walk out of here with that much cash?

I don’t have a choice, I say.

That’s okay. My job is to make sure you have what you need when you need it.

I sense a but coming. The normally straightforward Andrew is hesitant, hedging his bets as to whether or not he should speak his mind.

Shelby, you’re more than a client. I consider you a friend—

Is there a problem, Andrew?

Just making sure you’re not in trouble of any kind. I know it’s none of my business why you need that kind of cash, but I had to put it out there.

A friend needs help, I explain. She’s starting over, coming out of an abusive relationship.

I don’t know why I’m explaining this to Andrew, but I feel compelled to, as if I need him on my side.

That’s awful. I’m sorry to hear that.

His reaction spurs me on. There are children involved. I want to help her get as far away as possible and stay safe. What’s the point of having money if you can’t use it to help others?

Your friend is lucky to have you in her corner, Andrew says, completely buying into my explanation.

She certainly thinks so, but I’m lucky, too.

I bid Andrew goodbye and walk out of the bank with more cash than the average American makes in a year, all carefully hidden in what looks like a conventional ladies’ tote bag. I toss the bag on the front passenger seat and walk around to the driver’s side of the car. A white piece of paper trapped beneath the windshield wiper catches my attention. I snatch the paper and read the message.

Have you forgotten what you’ve done? I haven’t. Game on.

My eyes case the area like I’m a nervous thief. I expect the black SUV to come barreling down the street any minute. It takes great effort to hold on to the note as I unlock the driver’s side door and drag myself inside. Fear pools in the pit of my stomach. Someone is watching me.

I’ve been staring at a 3D model of the same gene cluster on my computer screen for a while. My mission is to identify which genes in the cluster need to be shut off. If we can design a drug based on my findings, it will effectively prevent an individual with a genetic predisposition, to diabetes in this case, from ever developing the disease. I’m determined to keep up my work routine, despite the paranoia that creeps up on me from time to time.

Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I spin around in the swivel chair with such force I almost injure myself.

Are you all right? Emma Chan, my postdoctoral fellow, frowns at me, concerned.

I’m fine. What’s going on? I ask.

Inez wants to see you. She says it’s important. Something about a group of kids visiting the lab.

Crap! I forgot! Thanks for letting me know, Emma.

I bump into a few colleagues as I make my way through the narrow aisle of the lab, apologizing on the way out. My assistant, Inez Diaz, meets me at the door.

Inez says, You’ve been looking forward to this for weeks. It’s not like you to forget.

Sorry. Time got away from me. Where are they?

Milan Conference Room. I have refreshments ready for after the tour.

Thanks, Inez. You’re a lifesaver.

Half a dozen high school girls are visiting as part of GeneMedicine’s STEM (science, technology, engineering, math) program, implemented when I came on board. The STEM fields are in dire need of more female representation, and I do my part to further that agenda. Twice a year, I host students from various parts of the state, explaining what we do and what’s possible for them in the STEM fields.

The lab tour is over, and we sit around the conference room table. It’s time for Q&A, my favorite.

What made you decide to become a scientist? The question comes from Anita, a junior from Everett High School.

I liked science classes in high school, and in college, I discovered there are many ways to use science to change the world.

Did your parents encourage you? Anita probes. They must be so proud.

My mouth clamps shut. The innocent question shouldn’t have distressed me, but it did. What is wrong with you? You’re over this. Aren’t you?

I pin a smile on my face. Parental support is important. If your parents aren’t available, don’t let that stop you. Stay focused. Hang out with people who have the same ambition you do. Take advantage of all opportunities. Never give up.

I pace back and forth in my office after my near meltdown in the conference room. A knock on the door startles me. Come in, I say.

Inez walks in, waving a padded manila envelope. This just came for you by messenger.

I don’t know what I would do without my administrative assistant of three years. Inez was fresh out of community college and didn’t have as much experience as the other candidates who interviewed for the position, but something in my gut told me she was the right person for the job. I’m glad I took that chance. Inez is efficient, highly capable, and we’ve developed somewhat of a friendship.

I take the envelope from her and head back to my desk. She asks, Can I get you anything?

What’s on your mind, Inez? She knows when something is bothering me.

Nothing. Just making sure you’re okay.

I’m fine. If I keep repeating that phrase, it’s bound to come true.

After Inez leaves, I inspect the envelope. There’s no return address, and my name is typewritten on a white label. Alarm bells ring in the back of my head. I reach for a letter opener on my desk and rip the envelope open. I pull out an eight-by-ten glossy photograph of Abbie on her way to class.

My breath hitches. My skin tingles, as if some invisible, slimy creature is crawling all over the surface. The time stamp shows that the photo was taken yesterday, two days after the incident with the SUV. I look closer to make sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me. They’re not.

Abbie prefers the preppy chic look and has on a flouncy, navy-blue skirt that stops above the knees, a white open collar blouse, and a gray cardigan sweater. Her footwear is a pair of knee-high Prada boots I bought her last year for doing well on her report card. Someone got a full-length shot of her at close range, inside the school. Game on, indeed.

I’m barely able to digest this latest development when my cell phone rings. I reach for it in the pocket of my lab coat. The screen says it’s a blocked number.

Hello.

Now, do I have your attention, Dr. Cooper? It’s a man. He speaks with the slightest hint of an accent.

Who are you? You tried to run me off the road the other day. What are you after?

You already know the answer, he says.

Keep him talking.

I don’t ask questions I already know the answers to.

It’s time you paid for your sins, Dr. Cooper.

What about yours? You’re targeting my underage daughter. That will not go unpunished.

He cooks up a hearty, deep-throated laugh, as if my anger is purely for his amusement.

Don’t be so dramatic, Shelby. I was just having a little fun.

He calls me by my first name in a tone that implies he knows me well. He has my personal cell phone number and gained access to my daughter’s school. That makes him a dangerous adversary, one who could do irreparable damage if provoked.

What do you want? I ask, hoping to extract some scrap of information about his identity.

Patience, my dear. Answers will come, although you’re not very good at practicing restraint, are you?

I don’t know what you mean.

You disappoint me, Dr. Cooper, with the phony innocence. I expected better from you.

You’re a very sick man. I’m done playing your games.

We’re just getting started, Shelby. There’s so much to discuss: The rules of the game, the consequences of breaking the rules, and how and when you will pay for your sins.

How about I get you acquainted with the police? Perhaps they already know you and would welcome a reunion.

Rule number one: do not repeat a word of this to Jason or the police. Consequence of breaking rule number one will be your children in matching coffins. I will not be kind in my methods.

My heart beats at the speed of a runaway freight train. He found my weak spot and knows how to exploit it. This was meticulously planned. The chase, the note, the prank calls, the photo of Abbie. He wants me scared, isolated, and vulnerable. Miles and Abbie are his weapons of choice.

Stay away from my family and me, I say. That’s my rule number one. Consequence for breaking rule number one: I will put my considerable resources into hunting you down and eliminating you. I will not be kind in my methods.

I hang up. Tremors take over my hands and fingers. I place them in the pockets of my lab coat. How do I protect my kids without their father finding out there’s a problem? Will the stalker really carry out his threat, or is he just a wannabe tough guy getting his kicks?

I pick up the photo of Abbie from the desk. I turn it over and shiver. Abbie’s class schedule is written in heavy black ink. The stalker most likely used a Sharpie. The letters are neat and deliberate in all caps, almost impossible to analyze.

Tears of frustration sting my eyes. I need to think, strategize, decide how best to protect my family. Our IT department is as good a place as any to start. I can ask one of the guys to see if they can track the blocked number. I suspect Mr. Stalker uses a burner phone, as do I when I communicate with Alessandro.

I instruct Inez to cancel my remaining meetings for the day. I have much to do. First, I need to call Alessandro. I didn’t mention the incident with the SUV when I called to tell him where he could pick up the bag of cash. Now that I’ve discovered that the SUV driver and stalker are one and the same, I want to find out if there are similarities in the MO. Alessandro received strange phone calls where the caller hung up without speaking, and he mentioned being followed.

It’s me, I say, when he picks up. Any strange calls in the past few days? It’s happening to me too.

I explain the SUV chase; the note trapped underneath the windshield wiper, the anonymous call only minutes ago, and the photo of Abbie. He listens attentively and then says there have been no calls, but he noticed a suspicious-looking vehicle parked across the street from the gym where he works out. When Alessandro tried to leave, the suspicious car pretended to be heading in the same direction but then backed off.

"You’ll be out of here soon with your