“I know Amanda’s death was as devastating to each of you as it was to Jane and me,” Cassandra begins. She briefly bows her head. “Amanda was one of us.”
The women murmur in agreement. Cassandra lifts her head and looks at each of them in turn:
Stacey, so small and scrappy and smart, who possesses at least a dozen Marvel T-shirts, a temper quick to flare, and a reservoir of loyalty that appears bottomless.
Daphne, who at thirty-two owns a chic boutique in the West Village and has the sort of innate sophistication that makes it easy to imagine her charming clothing designers and selecting styles that will entice her clients. Daphne always appears camera ready; her buttery-blond locks are professionally blown out twice a week, and her makeup is flawless.
And finally Beth from Boston, a thirty-four-year-old public defense attorney who often seems to be overwhelmed and a little flustered—her purse filled with crumpled receipts, half-eaten granola bars, hair bands, and loose change—but who possesses a sharp, uncanny intuition about people.
Cassandra admires these women greatly. They are smart and loyal. They have something else in common, too: All have overcome obstacles that range from job loss to assault to cancer.
“I just can’t believe it,” says Beth. Despite the strains of her occupation, Beth is quick to laugh. But today, tears glisten on her cheeks. “The last time I went to her place she baked the most amazing butterscotch cheesecake”—Beth pronounces it butta-scotch—“because, y’know, Amanda and sweets. And we made plans to see the new Julia Roberts movie. I’m still in shock. I keep thinking I shoulda done something differently—tried harder to get her to talk.”
“Look, I know things spiraled out of control,” Jane says. “It’s no secret that Amanda was upset by our … experience.”
“We all wish she’d come to us instead of shutting us out.” Cassandra clears her throat. It’s time to reclaim the women’s focus. “We don’t want to alarm you. But we have to consider the possibility that Amanda may have talked to someone about our group.”
What the sisters haven’t told the others is that Amanda’s necklace—the one Cassandra designed and created—didn’t disappear beneath the subway wheels when Amanda died.
A GPS tracking device was inserted inside the sun-shaped charm the sisters had given to all of the women. It was a precaution, intended to protect them during the sometimes-dangerous work they performed—but perhaps it was also the result of a faint premonition. Other than the sisters, none of the women know that their necklaces aren’t simply a piece of jewelry.
When the sisters checked the location of Amanda’s tracker on their phones a few days after her suicide, they expected to see nothing: surely the necklace had been destroyed.
But a gray marker on Jane’s phone screen revealed the tracker was transmitting from just a few blocks away from the Thirty-third Street subway station, in a small apartment building in Murray Hill.
Cassandra’s face had blanched when Jane had told her the news. She’d grabbed Jane’s arm.
“Who?” Cassandra had whispered. “Who would Amanda have given it to?”
Two dozen people lived in that building. Any of them could have the necklace.
Now Jane distributes copies of a photograph of the young woman with tortoiseshell glasses who laid a single flower on Amanda’s doorstep.
Stacey glances at it. Her head snaps up. “Hey, that’s from the video I took the other day,” she blurts, then crosses her arms and stops talking. The streak of color in her blond hair is purple now—she changes it every few months—and her mouth is a thin, hard line.
Stacey isn’t typically one of the more vocal members of the group, and given her background and the recent events in her personal history, it’s unsurprising that she feels uneasy in this posh setting.
“Has anyone else seen this woman before?” Jane asks. One by one, the others shake their heads as they study the picture.
“Was this taken in front of Amanda’s apartment?” asks Beth. “I recognize the entrance.”
Cassandra awards her an approving nod. “Yes, this woman went to Amanda’s building yesterday and left a yellow zinnia by the front door.”
Jane’s gaze shifts to the bouquets on the buffet and mantel, composed of dozens and dozens of yellow zinnias. This was Cassandra’s touch. If the flowers are significant in some way, and the visitor appears, they may provoke a reaction.
Daphne—the member of the Rosewood Club who reserved the room for the occasion—lifts her hand, her Hermès cuff bracelet slipping down from her wrist. Until fairly recently, Daphne favored Hermès scarves, too, but she can no longer tolerate having anything around her throat, other than the most delicate of necklaces.
“Is this the woman you think Amanda talked to?” Daphne asks, her voice tight with anxiety.
“We don’t know if Amanda talked to anyone yet,” Cassandra replies. “But we need to find out exactly what links this woman to Amanda.”
Stacey speaks up again. “Seems weird she’s sniffing around right after Amanda died.” Her foot begins a rat-a-tat-tat against the hardwood floor.
“Agreed,” Beth chimes in.
Jane nods. “We can anticipate some of the people who will come today—Amanda’s mother and her aunt, of course. Maybe a few coworkers. Perhaps this mysterious woman. Or Amanda may have reached out to someone else entirely.” Jane pauses. “That’s where you all come in.”
“Mingle among the crowd,” Cassandra instructs. “Strike up conversations with questions like ‘How did you know Amanda?’ ‘Had you seen her recently?’ ‘Did she seem any different?’ If something seems off to you—not just a response, but anything you overhear—come find me or Jane right away.”
Cassandra’s eyes sweep the room, again landing on each of the women in turn. Jane watches the effect Cassandra has on them—it’s as if her gaze infuses them with a clear, bright energy. A few sit up straighter or begin nodding.
“And what if someone asks one of us how we knew Amanda?” asks Daphne.
“Good question,” says Jane.
“Let’s see. She used to go to Al-Anon, because of her mother,” Cassandra says. “That would be a natural spot for us to have met her … but, no. Let’s not go that route. She liked the sunrise yoga class on Tuesday mornings at her gym on Forty-second Street, so…”
Cassandra shakes her head. “No, that won’t work either. Someone from her gym may show up tonight. Let’s take the role of book club members. Everyone comfortable with that?”
“Sure,” says Daphne.
Jane continues, “We haven’t known each other long, but we’ve become close friends. Sticking to the truth will make it simpler. The last book we read is Pride and Prejudice.”
Stacey clears her throat, “Uh, I’m not really sure I’m the book-group type.”
“Don’t worry if you haven’t read it,” Cassandra replies. “A lot of people go to book clubs just for the wine and conversation.”
For the first time since they’ve assembled, a laugh ripples through the room.
Then Beth speaks up. “Should we add other details? Like those lemon bars Amanda used to make … should I say she brought them to book club?”
“Sure, that would be a nice touch,” Cassandra says. “We’re here today as mourners, too. Our feelings of loss and pain are real. Remembering the qualities that made Amanda special will help us honor them.”
Cassandra glances at her watch. “We have a little more time. Why don’t we have a private remembrance now?”
She sinks onto an empty chair, crossing her legs, and Jane claims the seat next to her.
Cassandra’s husky voice takes on a soothing tone. Her hands remain easily clasped in front of her. Her measured affect is a testament to her self-control.
“A loss like the one we’ve endured can cause fissures,” Cassandra begins. “Right here, right now, let’s make a vow that we won’t let that happen. With Amanda gone, it’s more important than ever we stay aligned.…”
<
br /> Cassandra reaches out to take the hands of Jane and Beth, who are closest to her. They in turn reach for Daphne and Stacey, forming a circle as they listen to Cassandra’s words:
“Let’s remember why we came together in the first place. Let’s embrace the safety in our sisterhood.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
AMANDA
Ten days ago
AMANDA LAY IN BED, her knees curled tightly against her chest, her eyes squeezed shut.
Fresh memories pulsed through her mind: The smiling man clinking his glass against hers. The bitter taste of whiskey prickling her tongue. The two of them, hand in hand, stumbling slightly as they left the bar together, heading toward Central Park. A breeze cutting through the summer’s night air, raising goose bumps on her bare arms.
A loud buzzing sound interrupted the vision. She lifted her head. Someone in her lobby was insistently pressing the button for her apartment.
She tensed, barely breathing.
She pressed her hands over her ears, but the unyielding buzzer reverberated through her mind.
They won’t ever stop, she thought.
Then the noise abruptly ceased.
She looked around the shadowy apartment. Her shades were drawn, her windows locked, her door chained. All of her lights were off. She hadn’t left her apartment in days; it was possible that her place might appear empty to anyone watching.
There could still be time to save herself.
Her brain felt muddy due to lack of sleep and food, but she tried to formulate a plan: the call she needed to make, the supplies she’d take, the safest route to get there.
She had almost convinced herself it could work when a soft, chilling noise thrummed through the air.
Knuckles rhythmically tapped against her door. Then the scrape of a key turning in the lock.
A voice called out, barely above a whisper, “We know you’re in there, Amanda.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHAY
About 50 percent of people who try to kill themselves do so impulsively. One study of survivors of near-lethal attempts found that more than roughly a quarter considered their actions for less than five minutes.
—Data Book, page 7
I WEAR A SIMPLE black dress to my temp job on Thursday, even though I haven’t decided if I’m going to the memorial service.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
My supervisor leaves early to meet a client for dinner, but I stay a little longer, until I’ve finished proofing some new materials for the firm’s website. It’s not something he asked me to do, but I figure an extra set of eyes never hurts. I circle a typo on one of the sheets and walk into his corner office.
I leave the sheet on his desk and sneak a Reese’s mini-peanut-butter-cup from the glass jar he keeps on top of his desk for visitors. Then I take the elevator down to the lobby and step outside.
A late-afternoon thunderstorm has washed the sidewalks clean and broken the oppressive heat.
I should head to the grocery store—I’m out of everything—then go home and do my laundry.
But I’m already walking in the direction of the memorial service. The address is easy to remember. It’s a palindrome—the numbers are the same forward and in reverse.
Fifteen minutes later, I enter the Rosewood Club. Behind the plain exterior, the grandeur of the inside comes as a surprise. Thick, patterned carpets hug the floors, and an impressive spiral staircase winds to the second floor. Paintings with gold frames hang on the walls, each with a plaque beneath it.
I quickly read one—JOHN SINGER SARGENT, 1888—as a young man in a gray suit approaches me. “Are you here for the memorial service?” he asks in a tone that’s both authoritative and welcoming.
“Yes,” I say, wondering how he knows. Maybe it’s the only event here tonight.
“Second floor,” he says, gesturing to the staircase. “The room will be on your left.”
I’m only going to stay a few minutes, I tell myself as I tread soundlessly up the carpeted stairs. I can’t pinpoint exactly what I’m after. I guess I’m hoping to learn something that will assuage my guilt and close this chapter for me.
When I reach the landing, I turn to the left. The door to the room closest to me is open, and I can see people mingling inside. It looks like there are less than twenty. I’d imagined rows of chairs, with a speaker eulogizing Amanda. I’d thought I could slip in and take a seat in the back unobtrusively.
Coming to this intimate gathering was a mistake; I don’t belong, no matter what that flyer on Amanda’s apartment door said.
Before I can take a step back, a woman approaches me. Even in a city populated by models and actresses, she stands out. It isn’t simply that she’s beautiful. She radiates something indefinable, an aura that feels magnetic. She’s around my age and we’re both wearing black dresses. But she seems like she inhabits a different world.
“Welcome,” she says in a slightly throaty voice, reaching out to take my hand. Instead of shaking it, she folds it between both of hers. Despite the air-conditioning, her skin is warm. “Thank you for coming.”
It’s too late now. I have to muddle through this. “Thanks for having me.” I realize it sounds inane. It’s not as if she personally invited me here. She keeps my hand in hers.
“I’m Cassandra Moore.” Her almond-shaped eyes are golden brown, and her cheekbones are high and sharp. Her shoulders are pulled back, and her posture is so flawless I can almost imagine a book balancing perfectly on the top of her head.
I realize I’m staring, so I quickly say, “Shay Miller.”
“Shay Miller.” Cassandra somehow makes my name sound exotic. “And how did you know Amanda?”
I can’t tell her the truth—she’ll probably think it’s strange, just like Mel did. So I clear my throat and glance around the room frantically.
I notice two things: The first is that other than two men, everyone here is a woman—and almost all of them are around my age.
The second is the poster-size picture of Amanda holding a calico cat.
“We had the same veterinarian,” I blurt. “We both had cats.”
Cassandra releases my hand. “How sweet.”
I immediately wish I hadn’t lied. Why didn’t I just say we lived in the same neighborhood?
Before I can turn around her question and find out how she knew Amanda, she says, “Why don’t you have a drink and something to eat. There’s plenty.” She gestures toward the corner, where I see a bar and a buffet table. “And please make sure to sign the guest book.”
I smile and thank her.
“Shay?” she says as I turn away.
I look back at her, and I’m struck anew by her vibrant presence.
“It really is so kind of you to come tonight. We were expecting a larger crowd, but people are so busy these days.… We’re all so disconnected, living our separate lives. But you took the time to be here.”
Her words do more than wash away the embarrassment and shame I felt only moments ago.
They make me feel like I belong.
My posture straightens as I head to the bar and ask for a mineral water, then I wander through the room. There isn’t a program, or any other photograph of Amanda. It’s such an odd memorial.
I do a double take when I notice the big bouquet of yellow zinnias next to Amanda’s photograph. This one, I remember thinking as my hand reached past the lilies and roses to select it to lay on her doorstep.
My heartbeat quickens. Why did I pick that particular flower over all the other options displayed in buckets at the corner deli I passed on the way to Amanda’s apartment? Maybe she shopped at that deli, too. Could it actually have been her favorite flower?
I tear away my gaze and sign the guest book, as Cassandra asked. I write my full name—Shay Miller—but leave the spot for my address blank. The information is probably being collected for Amanda’s family, maybe so they can send thank-you notes to her friends for attending the memorial, or simply to k
eep in touch with them.
I put down the pen, then walk over to Amanda’s picture. I stare at it for a long time.
My impression of her in the subway is confirmed: She looks kind.
I wish I could have helped you, I think. I wish I had noticed sooner. I’m so sorry.
I feel a tear slide down my cheek. Then I notice something: In the photo, Amanda is wearing a gold charm on a fine chain. The charm is shaped like a sun.
Goose bumps rise on my skin as the realization slams into me: it’s the necklace I found on the subway platform.
Where is it now? I wonder. The hours following Amanda’s suicide are a blur. Maybe I put it in my shoulder bag. I reach into my tote and try to discreetly feel around, but my fingertips don’t catch on any small, sharp edges.
I probably dropped the necklace in the shock of the moment, but just in case, I’ll check my bag again later, I decide.
By now, two other women have come up to look at Amanda’s photograph.
“I’m going to miss the way she always teased me about my accent,” one says.
“I can still hear her asking if ‘ya pahked ya cah in Hahvad Yahd,’” the other adds.
Then a third woman comes over and wraps her arms around the other two. Other than that they all appear to be around thirty, they have almost nothing in common physically. The woman with the Boston accent looks a little like an unmade bed—her shirt is rumpled, her red hair is untamed, and she’s holding a wad of crumpled paper napkins. The woman who imitated her accent is small and tough looking, with a purple streak in her dirty-blond hair. The third is the kind of woman I think of as a glossy girl—from the tips of her fingernails to the delicate straps of her blush-colored sandals, she’s perfectly put together.
The affection between the trio is tangible. And Amanda—again, appearing so different from all of them—was obviously part of their group.
Maybe they were all sorority sisters in college, I think.
I wonder if Amanda, who clearly had such loyal friends, reached out to them for help. They obviously cared deeply for her. But I guess whatever she was grappling with was too strong for her to overcome, even with their support.
You Are Not Alone (ARC) Page 3