INSTEAD OF TIDYING UP in anticipation of her visitor’s arrival, Valerie begins to create chaos.
In the master bedroom of her apartment in the East Village, she gently tosses the contents of her dresser drawers and mixes her summer and winter clothes together in her closet. She removes the light-green polka-dot dress from a back hanger, hiding it in a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag under her bed. She scatters a few pairs of shoes on the floor and throws a couple of light jackets over the back of a chair.
Securing this appointment with the professional organizer wasn’t difficult. During the introductory phone call to arrange the meeting, Valerie had claimed to be free anytime in the late afternoons or evenings. Which was true—Cassandra and Jane had told her this was far more of a priority than any work waiting at their PR firm.
Jody had suggested four P.M. the next day. “My clients make the most progress with a three-hour window, since any more than that is fatiguing.”
“I’m excited,” Valerie had replied, smiling over the edge of her cell phone at Jane and Cassandra, who were leaning in close. “I know you’re going to be so helpful.”
There has been no word from Shay despite her vow to retrieve the necklace. And the police seem to be circling nearer to Daphne. The sisters need to go on the offensive. Perhaps Sean’s girlfriend, Jody, can provide some insight into his mysterious roommate.
Now, less than twenty-four hours later, Valerie takes a final walk through her apartment, tucking away personal photos as well as pieces of mail with her identifying information on it. She also plans to pay in cash.
Valerie dresses in an outfit that suits her character of being a newly divorced, somewhat idle, well-off woman: ballerina flats, slightly distressed jeans, and a two-hundred-dollar T-shirt. As an added precaution, she wears her hair in a messy bun so its length and style can’t be identified, and she puts on fake eyeglasses.
Valerie heads to the lobby ten minutes before the appointed time. When Jody arrives, Valerie greets her with a warm smile and begins chatting about the weather as she ushers Jody past the doorman.
Most visitors give doormen the name of the person they’re going to see, but this can’t happen today. Valerie isn’t using her real name.
Valerie presses the button for the sixth floor and turns to Jody with a smile. Jody is exactly as she imagined—petite, bubbly, with an air of professionalism that feels slightly affected. Shay described her well to Cassandra and Jane, down to the high ponytail that bounces when Jody walks.
“Oh, Deena, your place is beautiful!” Jody exclaims after Valerie unlocks the door and welcomes her in. “I love the color scheme. And those granite counters! Your kitchen is a dream.”
“Thanks.”
Jody walks over and touches a white vase on the kitchen counter that holds bright peonies. The vase is in the shape of an upside-down hand, with a hollow wrist to hold the flower stems.
“What a fun vase! Do you mind if I ask where you got it? I’m always looking for things to recommend to my clients.”
“Oh, it was a gift.”
“Looove it.” Jody draws out the word, and Valerie responds with a light laugh.
After they chat for a few more moments, Valerie leads Jody to her closet. “As you can see, I need help.”
“Oh, this isn’t bad at all. You should see some of the closets I’ve worked with! Now, the first thing we’re going to do is pull out everything you own and put it on the bed.”
“Even bras and panties?”
“Everything!”
“Nobody else has seen my panties since I got divorced last October.” The divorce part is true; the timing is not. Valerie and her husband split up more than a decade ago.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, but don’t be.” Valerie injects a confiding tone into her voice as she begins pulling out dresser drawers, heaping T-shirts and socks onto her bed. “I’m happy to be rid of him.”
“Ugh. Well, good riddance. Let’s get rid of some other unwanted stuff now!”
They laugh in unison. The first seed has already been planted.
The two women begin sorting the clothes into three piles as Jody directs: Keep, Donate/Toss, and Repair/Alter. They talk the whole time, with Valerie weaving in tidbits about her life—some real, some fiction—and asking Jody questions, too.
Jody is candid and chatty, telling Valerie how she became an organizer—“It isn’t that easy, you have to get certified and everything”—and she confides that she is about to move in with her boyfriend.
Once a few green Hefty bags have been filled and all that remains are the Keep items, Valerie suggests a glass of wine. Jody demurs without a lot of conviction in her voice.
“Oh, come on, it’s after five. You’re not going to let me drink alone!”
“Maybe just one.”
Valerie brings in two glasses and an uncorked bottle of good Sancerre. She fills the glasses generously, then hands one to Jody. “Cheers! To new beginnings.”
Jody takes a sip. “Ready to move on to accessories?”
“Let’s do it.”
They continue chatting as they sort through Valerie’s shoes, then handbags.
Jody is admiring a metallic clutch when Valerie looks at the bed and frowns. She picks up a beige sweater from the stack. “This should actually be a toss. My ex bought it for me, and I don’t want the reminder of him. I was wearing it when I caught him cheating on me.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jody takes another sip of wine. It’s clear she is eager to hear a juicy story.
“Can you believe that jerk slept with our neighbor? She wasn’t even that pretty. They claimed to be just friends.” Valerie uses her fingers to put air quotes around the word friends and shakes her head.
This is a lie, but Valerie is so convincing: Her jawline tightens and her eyes grow momentarily flinty.
“That’s awful!” Jody puts her wineglass on the dresser and begins folding a T-shirt. “You really had no idea?”
“I mean, in retrospect, there were a few signs. They both loved golf, which I hate, so they played together now and then … What do you think? Can men and women truly be friends?”
“Well…” Jody flattens her palms, aggressively smoothing out another T-shirt against the bed. “My boyfriend is actually living with another woman, and they’re just friends. At least, he’s just her friend. But I think she’s secretly in love with him.”
Valerie nods. “Women always know. So what’s she like? The roommate.”
Jody slides the T-shirts into a dresser drawer and shrugs. She reaches for her wineglass again and takes a healthy sip. “She’s nice. I mean, she doesn’t really have much of a social life, though.…” Jody hesitates.
Valerie smiles encouragingly. “Come on, out with it.”
“The truth is, she’s a little weird.”
“Ooh, like how?”
Jody’s voice drops, even though they’re alone. “She’s got this strange book she carries around. When I first saw it, I thought it was a journal. But once she left it out…”
“I bet you couldn’t resist peeking. I know I wouldn’t be able to.” Valerie tops off Jody’s wine.
“I thought maybe she’d written something about Sean. Or me. But it isn’t like that at all.”
Valerie’s body tenses.
“She just has these crazy statistics written down.”
“Statistics?” Valerie frowns. “Like what?”
“I’m not sure if that’s what you call them, but it’s stuff about phobias and how many people commit suicide. There’s a whole page about nurses, too. Like what percentage of nurses commit suicide, and what kind of drugs they have access to when they do it. I mean, who researches stuff like that?”
Valerie is too stunned to speak. Luckily Jody mistakes this for shock at the revelation.
“She’s obsessed with death, I think. It’s just really creepy, and I wish she’d move out.”
“Yeah, I can see why.” Valerie turns around under the gu
ise of filling her glass again to buy time to compose herself.
She’s desperate to rush Jody out so she can call Cassandra and Jane, but she can’t. Jody could be an important resource in the future. Valerie has to behave normally for the next thirty minutes, until Jody’s allotted time is up.
They spend it chatting, sipping wine, and putting the clothes away. But all the while, Valerie’s mind is consumed by questions.
Why was Shay continuing to obsess over Amanda’s suicide? And how much did Shay actually know about what happened to Amanda Evinger?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SHAY
Nearly 500 million pieces of mail are delivered each day and 146 billion pieces are delivered every year. Mail theft is a felony punishable by up to five years in prison, and up to a $250,000 fine. Some estimates are that one in three people have had packages stolen from their homes. To combat this, some police departments use “bait” packages with a hidden GPS locator, left on the porches of volunteers. As soon as the package is moved, officers get an alert and can track it.
—Data Book, page 25
I FIND SEVERAL WOMEN with the name Eleanor Evinger, but only one who is the right age.
With a little more research, I discover an online site that verifies she is related to Amanda.
She lives in Wilmington, Delaware, about two hours from Manhattan.
On my next day off, I rent a Zipcar, which I’ve only done a few times before.
Traffic isn’t too bad since I leave the city after rush hour. I keep the speedometer at a steady sixty miles per hour as I head south on I-95. I listen to a TED Talk by a man named Daniel Kish to distract myself not only from the problems that feel like a dull, constant ache in my mind—my lack of a job, not to mention an apartment—but also from what I’m about to do: pay a surprise visit to a grieving mother.
My plan is to be honest with Amanda’s mom. I’ve told too many lies lately, and they only make things worse by twisting around me, ensnaring me. I’ll just explain that I found the necklace, I thought it was Amanda’s, and it’s not actually hers. When I practice saying it like that, it sounds so simple.
It also sounds coldhearted. But I don’t know what else to do.
I turn down Pine Street two hours later. The quiet neighborhood has nearly identical single-story brick homes filling both sides of the street. I find the right house—it has a little wooden front porch—and pull up to the curb across the street.
I pick up the bouquet of zinnias that I’ve been keeping fresh with a damp paper towel wrapped around the stems—by now I associate the flower so strongly with Amanda—and step out of the car. I reach for my blazer, since it seems more respectful than just wearing the plain shirt I have on, and smooth back my hair.
The first thing I notice is the bedraggled look of the lawn, as if it hasn’t been weeded or mowed in weeks. A peeling wooden two-seater swing is in the side yard.
It’s so similar to the house my mom and Barry live in—the one we moved to when I was ten—except that Barry scrupulously maintains the yard. I see a few fuzzy white dandelions growing by the front walk, and I picture Amanda as a little girl, picking one and blowing away the fluff. Just the way I used to.
The tinge of guilt I felt earlier expands. I force myself to keep moving.
I open the screen door to the porch, wincing as it loudly creaks. I intend to take the few steps to the front door and knock.
But I can’t help looking around first. It’s crowded with a rocking chair and a few other pieces of furniture, including a side table cluttered with stacks of mail, magazines, and newspapers. A recycling bin next to it is close to overflowing.
In the corner, asleep on a wicker settee, is the woman I’ve come to visit. Amanda’s mother. I recognize her from the memorial service, where she sat in a chair near Amanda’s picture, accepting a hug from Cassandra.
Her mouth is slightly open, and she’s lying on her side with her hands curled up beneath her chin. On the table before her is a mostly empty bottle of Chardonnay, an overturned wineglass, and a half-eaten tuna sandwich. I hear the drone of a fly buzzing around the sandwich.
It feels voyeuristic seeing her like this; there’s an intimacy in watching someone sleep. She looks so vulnerable, and much older than the fifty-something I imagine she must be.
I wish I’d called to let her know I was coming. But I’d figured the element of surprise wouldn’t give her time to come up with a lot of questions. Or worse, tell me I should stay away.
I step toward her, then stop. To be shaken awake by a stranger on your front porch would alarm anyone.
Maybe I should go back to my car and wait. But this doesn’t look like a catnap. I could be here for hours.
I consider a few options—clearing my throat loudly, going back outside and knocking on the porch door—but then I look at the stacks of mail again. They appear to have been piling up for some time.
I already mailed the necklace back to Amanda’s mother, Detective Williams had said.
I edge a little closer, my breathing turning shallow.
The first item on top is a Sears catalog in a plastic wrapper. I see the corners of envelopes beneath it, but it’s impossible to tell what they hold.
The detective could have sent it in the plain letter-size envelope I gave her, or maybe she put the necklace into a thick padded mailer.
I glance at Amanda’s mom. She hasn’t moved, and her breaths are slow and even. I gently set down the flowers on the coffee table, next to the wine.
Then I take another step closer to the table, which is just inches from her head.
My hand hovers above the catalog. If I pick it up, there’s going to be no plausible explanation for my actions.
I ease my fingers beneath it and slowly lift it. There’s nowhere to set it down, so I hold it in my left hand while I reach for the next piece. It’s a water bill.
Detective Williams’s envelope could be anywhere; there’s no organization to the stacks. I hope it’s near the top, with the more recent mail. But it might not even be here at all.
The fly buzzes past an inch away from my nose and I flinch, batting at it with my hand.
Amanda’s mother makes a soft noise. I hold my breath. All she has to do is open her eyes to see me looming above her. But she remains asleep.
I pick up the water bill and shift it into my left hand, on top of the catalog. Then I lift up the next few pieces of mail quickly. With each one, I’m aware I’m getting in deeper and deeper.
It’s like I’ve tumbled into the something called the Snowball Effect, which I researched a while ago. Basically it means that people who commit small acts of dishonesty find it easier to tell more lies. As your fabrications pile up, your anxiety and shame start to disappear.
The first time I met Cassandra, I lied to her. Then, when I had tea with her and Jane, I continued the lie about sharing a veterinarian with Amanda. After that, I concocted a story when I went to the hospital and saw Gina. Now this.
It’ll be the last time, I vow. It ends here.
When I try to pull away a magazine, the stack topples. A dozen letters and bills slide to the floor, making a shuffling noise.
I cringe as Amanda’s mother shifts over, onto her other side. One of her arms rises and for a moment I’m terrified she’s going to grab me. But it just flops above her head, so close her fingertips almost graze my leg.
After an agonizing moment, I scan the items that fell to the floor. Two are in pretty pastel envelopes, the kind that come with Hallmark cards. They must be sympathy notes.
Hot shame engulfs me. But I can’t stop, not when I’m so close. The necklace has to be in here. And Detective Williams is so busy she probably didn’t even call to explain she was sending it. If so, Amanda’s mother won’t ever know it’s missing.
I lift up another six or seven envelopes. Then I see a long white one with a preprinted return address in the upper left-hand corner: NYPD 17TH PRECINCT, NEW YORK, NY 10022.
I stretc
h out my hand and slowly lift it. It’s so light, but I can feel something hard inside through the thin paper.
If it was important to her, she would have opened it, I tell myself.
Slowly, I ease the stack of mail in my left hand back onto the table. It’s impossible to do so soundlessly and I wince. But Amanda’s mother doesn’t move.
I slip the envelope in my tote bag.
Opening up someone else’s mail, let alone stealing it, is a federal crime.
But I’m not really stealing, I tell myself. The necklace never belonged to Amanda at all.
I look down at the pieces of mail scattered on the floor. I can’t risk making any more noise by picking them up, so I just leave them. Maybe she’ll think a breeze blew them off the table.
I take small, quiet steps toward the door. When I reach it, I look back at Amanda’s mother in her shapeless housedress. Sadness overtakes me. This poor woman lost her husband, and now her daughter. And she seems to have lost herself, too.
She is utterly alone.
I wish I could spend a few hours here, cleaning her porch and bringing her a cold glass of water. It wouldn’t make up for what I’ve done, but it would be a way of apologizing.
I ease open the door, bracing myself as it creaks.
Then I step outside, into air that feels fresher than it did in the cluttered screen porch with the old sandwich.
I walk briskly toward the Zipcar, feeling with every step that I might hear Amanda’s mother call out. My hands are shaking when I pull the key out of my tote bag.
As I open the car door, I realize I left the flowers on the table. I’m about to risk going back to get them when I hear someone call out, “Hello!”
I spin around, my heart exploding. A woman in jeans and a flannel shirt, with short white hair, is kneeling in the garden edging the sidewalk. She’s obviously the neighbor who lives directly across the street.
She stands up and approaches me and I take an instinctive step back.
“Are you a friend of Amanda’s? We were so sorry to hear the terrible news.” She clearly wants to talk; maybe she even watched Amanda grow up in this neighborhood. But I can’t get into a conversation with her.
You Are Not Alone (ARC) Page 11