“I got a bike when I was a kid. But I paid for it myself. Earned the money on my paper route.”
“Barry,” my mother said softly. “Let’s have dessert.”
She put the first cupcake on his plate, then she served me and herself.
The icing was thick and gooey, with crunchy rainbow sprinkles on top. I licked some of it off, savoring the sweetness, because it was my favorite part.
At the exact instant I opened my mouth to take a big, greedy bite, Barry spoke up again. “If you’re gonna wear a dress like that, you need to lay off the cupcakes.”
I froze. Then I carefully put my cupcake back on my plate.
“Barry! That wasn’t nice!” My mom turned to me. “Sweetie, it’s your birthday. Eat as many as you want.”
Barry spread out his arms, as if he didn’t mean any harm. “Hey, I’m just trying to help. Guys don’t like girls who are bigger than them.”
I couldn’t stop the tears then. Even though I didn’t make a sound, my mom saw them rolling down my cheeks. She jumped up, her face flushed. I’d never heard her yell at my stepfather, but she let loose. “What’s gotten into you? Don’t talk to her that way!”
I slipped out of my chair. “It’s okay,” I said quietly. Barry didn’t even look at me; his apology was only to my mom. “I’m sorry, babe. I don’t know what came over me. I just had a really rough week.”
I ran into the backyard and climbed aboard my bike. As I passed the dining room window, I saw Barry pulling my mom into his lap, nuzzling his face into her neck. She wasn’t smiling, but she was letting him do it.
I rode around aimlessly until it began to grow dark, then I pedaled home. I put my bike in the garage and quietly entered the house. Barry was watching TV in the living room, but my mom was waiting for me upstairs. She gave me a big hug and whispered, “Barry’s really sorry. And I left a cupcake on your desk with a glass of milk.”
I ate it, but it wasn’t nearly as good as that first sweet taste.
I’ve been so lost in the birthday memory that my feet are leading me, almost unconsciously, toward the Seventeenth Precinct.
As I pass a glass storefront, I notice my reflection. My shoulders are hunched, and my arms are crossed. I know what I’m doing; I’m trying to make myself smaller. That’s the legacy Barry left me with, even though after that birthday, he was careful to save his barbs for moments when it was just the two of us.
I stop and turn to look at myself face on. I uncross my arms, letting them hang freely at my sides. I straighten up and square my shoulders.
I reclaim the woman I was only a few minutes ago, when I sat with Cassandra and Jane.
Barry’s words are extinguished by the ones Jane uttered: Your arms are so toned! Do you have Michelle Obama’s trainer?
I reach the precinct and step inside, past the parallel wooden benches. This time the officer manning the entrance is a woman. She lifts her eyes to look at me but doesn’t speak, and I’m reminded again of what an intimidating place this is.
But I press on: “Hi, I’m here to see Detective Williams.”
“She isn’t in.”
I’m instantly deflated, but I recover and ask if I can leave her a note.
The officer nods and I find a pen and an old receipt in my tote bag. Please call me, I scribble. The necklace actually didn’t belong to Amanda.
I write down my cell phone number, just in case Williams no longer has it.
I’ve already got a plan in place in case the necklace is now in the hands of Amanda’s mother. I can research her. I can find out her phone number and address and explain what happened.
I won’t tell the Moore sisters about the lengths I went to get it back. I’ll just deliver the good news.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CASSANDRA & JANE
THE SISTERS ONLY LIE when absolutely necessary.
Making Shay feel better about herself was essential, which was why Cassandra invented the story about Jane’s heartbreak—Jane had ended the relationship with the handsome banker who grew too demanding of her time.
The only other fabrication they concocted concerned the true owner of the missing necklace. Jane’s was resting in her jewelry box.
Shay had seemed so eager to get it back for them. The sisters expected to hear from her quickly—especially since Valerie followed Shay when she departed Bella’s and observed her going to the Seventeenth Precinct police station, presumably to retrieve the necklace.
But the rest of that evening passed without a single word from Shay. By now, hours have stretched into days, and still, Shay is silent.
When Cassandra and Jane’s assistant interrupts them by knocking on their door during a strategy session to announce they have an urgent call, for a moment both sisters think, Shay.
Instead, Daphne is on the line, hyperventilating so furiously she can barely get the words out: “Kit—the customer who set me up with James—she—she just called. The police stopped by—they asked her about—”
“Wait!” Cassandra interrupts. The line might not be secure; this is something Stacey warned them all about.
Daphne seems to get it. “Sorry.” Her voice is still ragged but her words are more circumspect. “Kit’s on her way here—to my boutique.”
Cassandra and Jane are scheduled to have lunch with a new columnist for the Post. But they can’t let Daphne handle this alone. Cassandra phones the restaurant to change the reservation from three to two people, while Jane runs outside to hail a cab.
By the time Kit comes rushing into the boutique, pushing her oversize dark sunglasses onto the top of her head, Jane is in the back, browsing the rack of fall blazers. No other customers are in the small boutique.
Kit flings her arms around Daphne. “Can you believe it?” she cries, her voice carrying easily in the small space. “I opened my door this morning to go to Pilates and there’s this man standing there with his fist raised!”
Daphne nods and crosses her arms over her chest. Clearly this understated reaction isn’t what Kit is seeking.
“He was just about to knock, but still, it gave me such a fright. Anyway, he pulls out his badge. It’s bigger than it looks on TV when it’s in your face, I’ll tell you that. He asked a bunch of questions—how did we know James, yada yada—and then he wanted to know about your date with James. Isn’t that weird?”
“Careful,” Jane breathes, too softly for either woman to hear.
“Why would the detective ask about that? I only went out with him once.”
“I know!” Kit exclaims. “And that was forever ago! You said he was cute, but not really your type. And James never brought you up either. I explained all that to the cop—”
A loud crash from the back of the store makes both women spin around.
“So sorry!” Jane calls. “I can’t believe I’m such a klutz!”
Daphne hurries to help Jane, who is kneeling beside the fallen torso of a display mannequin adorned with crisscrossing scarves and belts.
“Don’t worry about it,” Daphne says.
Jane notices Daphne’s hands are shaking as she begins to pick up the accessories. Kit comes to hover beside them, practically vibrating with impatience.
“I’m trying to find some new pieces to wear to work,” Jane says to Daphne. “Could you help me?”
“Of course.” Daphne rises and sets the half mannequin back on the table. “Do you prefer dresses or slacks?”
“Both. I pretty much need a whole new wardrobe.”
Kit, disappointment written over her features, looks back and forth between Jane and Daphne. “I better get going. I’ll call you later!”
Daphne and Jane watch until Kit is out the door, then Daphne collapses onto a tufted chair by the display table. “I can’t believe the police are still asking about me.” Her face is drawn and pale.
The detective had surely homed in on the huge discrepancy in Daphne’s story: Daphne had told the police that James never contacted her after what she described as an intimate night that
ended in her apartment. She’d explained that was the impetus for her angry text telling James to rot in hell. But Kit had revealed a different version of the evening. She’d said Daphne had told her that the date was pleasant, but that she hadn’t felt a spark with James.
This tiny, nagging thread could unravel everything.
“You’re handling everything beautifully,” Jane assures Daphne, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I promise you don’t have anything to worry about.”
The lie was necessary; they can’t have Daphne start to spiral the way Amanda did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SHAY
Most people lie in a conversation when they are trying to appear likable and competent. One famous study found that 60 percent of people lied at least once during a ten-minute conversation. If you’re going to tell a premeditated lie, here’s how to do it:
• Make it believable
• Practice saying it
• Keep the lie short
• Be confident
—Data Book, page 24
JODY ISN’T SUPPOSED to move in until the end of the month, but her presence is all around me when I walk in the door: New floral throw pillows adorn our brown cracked-leather couch, and a Monet water-lily poster hangs above the bench where we put our shoes. A silver-framed picture of her and Sean sits on the end table; only yesterday, all the table held was coasters.
It’s all a reminder—as if I needed one—that my time here is limited. I spent two hours today searching sites such as Apartments.com and Trulia. I finally found a place that looked promising—but when I called the real estate agent, she told me a new tenant had signed the contract an hour after the listing went up.
I hear Jody’s voice as I take off my shoes. She and Sean are in his bedroom with the door shut, but the walls are thin.
“It’s called the one-minute rule.” Jody’s voice sounds a little higher and shriller than usual. “If it takes less than sixty seconds, then you should do it immediately. That’s why there are dishes in the sink and clothes flung over your chair.”
I can picture Sean running his hands through his gingery hair. He’s not a messy guy, but he sometimes lets the recycling pile up or he leaves nonperishables in grocery bags on the counter for a few hours.
His voice is deeper and softer, but I think I can detect annoyance: “… work … want to relax…”
If it only takes a minute, why don’t you just do it, Jody? I think.
“Well, I can’t relax when things are so messy!” She’s definitely snippy now.
A tingle of excitement runs through me. This is the first time I’ve heard them fight. If they break up, then I won’t have to move.
There’s the rumble of Sean’s voice again. Then Jody laughs. And just like that, the moment’s gone.
He’s so good with quick quips.
It’s one of my favorite things about him.
I change out of the pants and top I wore to work and put on running shoes and tights and an old T-shirt. I love to jog along the East River when the weather’s on the cusp of fall.
I grab my headphones and tie a light jacket around my wait. Before I head out, I do one more thing. I phone Detective Williams.
She hasn’t responded to the note I left. I called a couple times yesterday, but she was out in the field and I was embarrassed to leave my name again. She’s probably dealing with murders and burglaries. Returning my message is on the bottom of her to-do list.
This time, she answers.
I’ve got my little speech all planned. It comes more rushed than I want because just hearing her voice makes me nervous. “Hi, it’s Shay Miller. I’m just calling because the necklace I gave you wasn’t actually Amanda’s. Another friend lent it to her. So could I just swing by and pick it up?”
She doesn’t reply and I can only imagine what Detective Williams thinks of me. She told me to let all this go and suggested I could use professional help.
The silence is so heavy I begin babbling. “I—I know this all sounds strange, but I ran into a couple of friends of hers, and we got to talking, and they told me the necklace didn’t belong to Amanda.… I really need to get it back to them.… I promised I would—”
“Wait a second.” Her voice is so commanding I flinch. “You’re talking to Amanda’s friends?”
“I just bumped into them on the street.… We recognized each other from the memorial service.”
Detective Williams sounds annoyed. “Look, Shay, stop talking to Amanda’s friends. I already mailed the necklace back to Amanda’s mother. You need to let all this go.”
Her tone has a finality to it.
I’ve run into a dead end. I think about Jane’s delighted expression when I told her I’d get back the necklace. I remember Cassandra saying, Fate must have brought us together.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Detective Williams just before she hangs up.
I’m not apologizing for bothering her.
I’m apologizing because I’m not going to let this go.
“Hi, I’m Melissa Downing,” I say to the woman behind the ER desk at City Hospital. “I was hoping to speak to Amanda, that nice ER nurse.”
The woman’s eyes widen. “Oh.” She hesitates and I can almost see her thoughts scrambling. “May I ask what this is in reference to?”
I stretch my lips into a smile. Keep the lie believable. “I was brought here a few weeks ago. She was the nurse on duty. She took care of me, and she was just so wonderful. I wanted to come back and thank her.”
In my hand is a bouquet of flowers. Yellow zinnias again.
I avoid covering my mouth, chest, or stomach—all clues that someone isn’t telling the truth.
“I see. Can you give me a moment?”
“Sure.” I step back and take one of the plastic bucket seats, making sure my movements are nonchalant.
It’s more than a moment. I stay in that chair for at least fifteen minutes while the woman at the front desk first murmurs into the phone, then goes back to working on her computer, her eyes avoiding mine.
The TV in one corner is silently tuned to CNN, with captions scrolling below. A few others are waiting, but nobody appears to be in terrible distress. Still, I can hear someone’s faint moans from not too far away, then a man shouting.
It must take an extraordinarily compassionate person to work in this sort of environment—not to mention a highly competent one. I looked into stats on nurses before I came here and found a study that showed 98 percent of hospital nurses describe their work as mentally and physically demanding.
I wonder if Amanda was one of them. Witnessing near-constant suffering and death must be overwhelming. Another article I read showed nurses are 23 percent more likely to commit suicide than women in general—perhaps because many nurses have easy access to lethal doses of medicines.
Amanda must have had such access: fentanyl, OxyContin, Valium, Percocet, and Vicodin. Yet she chose to leap in front of a subway train.
I jotted all this down in my Data Book. Even if her suicide makes a little more sense to me now, her method does not.
“Melissa?”
I don’t react until my name is called a second time. I look up and see a nurse in pink scrubs standing there. Her hair is in a ponytail, she wears no makeup, and she looks completely exhausted. I have even more respect for her profession now—nurses are as underpaid as teachers.
“Oh! Sorry, I was just lost in thought.” I get to my feet. I look at her quizzically, hoping she gets the impression I was expecting Amanda.
“I’m Gina. I was Amanda’s supervisor. Why don’t we talk over here.” She leads me to a relatively quiet corner. “You were a patient of Amanda’s?”
“Yes,” I lie. “Ruptured appendix.”
I’d prepared this story because I knew it was highly unlikely a hospital employee would share any personal information about Amanda if they knew my true connection to her.
She nods and I’m grateful no one ran my name th
rough the system to verify that I’d actually been admitted here.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Amanda died a few weeks ago.” For a moment I’m taken aback by her matter-of-fact delivery. Then I realize she probably has to give news like this all day long.
“Oh my gosh! What happened?”
“It was sudden and unexpected.” Gina pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She glances at a man walking through the door, his leg bandaged, leaning on the arm of a younger woman, then turns back to me. “But I’m sure she would have appreciated your visit. She truly cared for her patients.”
I shake my head as if in disbelief. I look down at the flowers in my hand. “I was going to give her these. She saved my life.”
The mournful wail of an ambulance trails off as the vehicle pulls up on the other side of the wide glass doors. I know I don’t have much time left; Gina has probably already given me more than she can afford.
I lift my head and blink. “I’d like to write to her mom, Mrs. Evinger. I feel like I should send her a sympathy card and tell her what a wonderful nurse Amanda was.”
Gina starts to respond, then a staticky announcement comes over the intercom. “Why don’t you leave a card at the front desk and we’ll forward it.” She takes a step away from me.
I’d assumed Amanda and her mom had the same last name, since the Moore sisters indicated her mother never remarried after the death of Amanda’s dad. Gina didn’t correct me when I called her Mrs. Evinger, so I feel confident that piece of information is correct. But I still need more data.
“Could I just get her mother’s first name? So I can personalize the note.”
The announcement comes on again and I can barely hear Gina’s distracted response over it: “Um, it’s Ellen.… Wait, no, it’s Eleanor. Just leave the note at the desk and I’ll forward it on.”
Eleanor Evinger.
I already know she’s from Delaware. There can’t be too many of them. All I need to do is find the right one.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
VALERIE
You Are Not Alone (ARC) Page 10