You Are Not Alone (ARC)

by Greer Hendricks

  She needed ten more seconds.

  Beth tapped James on the shoulder.

  He ignored her and raised an eyebrow. “I promise I’m not using an alias. My name isn’t really Doug.”

  Beth melted away, into the crowd. Back to her position at the bar.

  Amanda was on her own.

  James reached for his drink—the wrong drink.

  She could jostle his arm and try to spill his whiskey and soda and offer him the other one, or—

  Cassandra’s calm, authoritative voice floated into her mind: Play to his ego.

  Amanda reached out and put her hand on James’s, trapping it. “That kind of thing must happen to you a lot. That gorgeous blonde back there”—Amanda lifted her chin to indicate a direction behind him—“has been checking you out since I got here.”

  James’s head whipped around. She gave her drink a quick stir, then put it on the bar and slid it close to him. The two glasses were indistinguishable—but if she hadn’t forgotten to wipe off her lip gloss, a telltale crescent would have marred the rim.

  She grabbed his beverage and held tight to the col d glass as she raised it to her lips and pretended to take a sip.

  “You’re the only woman I’ve got eyes for,” James said as he turned back. “With that sexy librarian thing you’ve got going on.”

  The liquid was still swirling slightly in the glass in front of him. But he didn’t seem to notice.

  He clinked it against hers. “Bottoms up!”

  Then he took a deep drink.

  Twenty minutes later, he set down his empty glass.

  “Another round?” The medicine was beginning to take effect; his words were slightly slurred. Or could that just be from the alcohol?

  Amanda leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “Would you mind if we went somewhere quieter?”

  He made a little checking motion in the air with his index finger, and the bartender nodded and delivered the bill for the drinks James had consumed before Amanda’s arrival.

  James paid with a credit card and squinted down at the receipt as he pulled a pen out of his breast pocket, blinking repeatedly. Amanda knew his limbs were likely beginning to feel heavy. His speech was about to grow almost unintelligible. Soon he’d have difficulty walking.

  She had to get him out of here fast.

  She stood up the moment he signed the check. Then she heard a tiny, almost imperceptible plinking sound. Her hand instinctively went to her ear. It was bare.

  She didn’t have time to retrieve her earring, she decided. It was just a basic gold hoop; nearly every woman in New York had a pair. It would probably be swept up at the end of the night along with crumpled napkins and swizzle sticks and food crumbs and tossed into the trash can.

  James stumbled slightly as he stepped down onto the sidewalk, nearly bumping into a man talking on his cell phone.

  “I’m tipsy,” Amanda giggled, hanging onto his arms.

  “Sh’we get a cab?” he suggested, his voice garbled.

  “Would you mind if we walked a little first and got some air?” Amanda reached for his hand, but she was the one guiding him.

  They entered Central Park. It was the shadowy hour that preceded darkness. Dog walkers and joggers and even a few late commuters were walking through other parts of the park, but this area was empty. A breeze cut through the summer night, raising goose bumps on her arms.

  She led James toward a bench in a secluded area, under the overhang of a giant oak tree’s low-lying branches. She knew exactly where to go; she’d practiced this route before.

  James’s knees buckled just as they reached the bench, and he fell heavily onto it.

  He slumped to one side, his head lolling on his neck, his eyes closed.

  Amanda turned and walked briskly away, letting her hair down, then slipping off her glasses and tucking them into her purse.

  In less than ten minutes, she’d enter a restaurant that bordered the park and request a table for one. She’d ask to be seated toward the center of the room; she didn’t want to be invisible tonight. She’d engage the waiter in conversation before ordering, and she’d pay with a credit card bearing her name.

  She moved faster, her breath coming quickly. Her part was finished.

  She was nearly at the edge of the park when her burner phone rang and Stacey’s voice rushed the line. It held something Amanda had never before heard in it: fear.

  Amanda stopped short.

  “Something’s wrong,” Stacey blurted. “Get back here.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CASSANDRA & JANE

  “SHAY JUST READ TED’S new text apologizing again for standing her up,” Jane says the next morning, showing Cassandra the burner phone. “She hasn’t replied, though.”

  “Give it until tonight. Ted can grovel a little more.” Cassandra reaches out and touches the buzzer for 3D. A moment later, they hear Shay’s voice: “Come on up!”

  The sisters climb the steps to the landing for the third floor. When they turn the corner and step into the hallway, both stop short.

  Shay is standing in Amanda’s doorway, smiling broadly.

  The sisters’ shared sense of déjà vu is overwhelming. They’ve seen Shay a few times since her makeover, but the image of her in the precise spot where Amanda used to wait to welcome them is still jarring.

  “It’s so good to see you!” Cassandra says.

  Shay ushers them through the threshold into the apartment as they look around. The open kitchen is less cluttered than when Amanda lived here: She kept pans on every stove burner and a Cuisinart, bread maker, and tins of flour and sugar on the kitchen counter. Both women chose the same place for their sofas, but Shay’s coffee table is square, whereas Amanda’s was round.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Shay offers.

  “We’ve got a little prezzie for you first,” Jane says as Cassandra extends a heavy box, wrapped with a silver bow. Jane is holding a plain brown shopping bag, which she casually sets down on the floor by the couch, where it’s partially concealed from view.

  “It’s a combo gift to celebrate your new job and your new place,” Cassandra says.

  Shay looks down at the box. “You guys really didn’t need to bring me anything.”

  “Open it!” Jane orders, laughing.

  Shay unfurls the bow and removes the box’s lid to reveal a sea-blue leather purse. It’s much more feminine and luxurious than the simple tote she uses.

  “Oh my gosh!” Shay stares at it, not even touching it. “It’s gorgeous!”

  “Take it out,” Cassandra says. “One of our new clients designed it, so we each got one, too—look.”

  Other than the colors—Jane’s is a dusky rose and Cassandra’s is black—the hobo-style bags are identical.

  Shay carefully removes hers from the box. She lifts the strap and hangs it over her shoulder.

  The tracker is hidden inside the lining, which was sewn back up expertly.

  “It’s perfect with your new look,” Jane says.

  “I love it!”

  “Let me take a picture to show our client,” Jane says.

  Shay smiles awkwardly while Jane lifts her phone and snaps one.

  “Now check inside,” Cassandra tells Shay.

  She unzips the bag to reveal a sugar-cookie-scented Nest candle, with notes of Tahitian vanilla and bourbon-infused caramel. “Just looking at this makes me hungry!” Shay laughs.

  The bag also holds Warby Parker sunglasses, a gauzy floral scarf, and a peachy-pink lip gloss.

  “This is too much—” Shay starts to protest.

  Cassandra cuts her off. “We have a closet in our office filled with this sort of stuff. A lot of companies send us their products because they want our clients to wear them. So you’re just helping us do a little seasonal cleaning.”

  “Promise us you’ll use it all,” Jane says. “Especially the purse. There’s no point in having a beautiful bag just hanging in your closet.”

  “
Don’t be afraid to carry it all the time,” Cassandra adds. “This is your new everyday purse.”

  Shay looks a little overwhelmed—maybe from all the gifts, or maybe from the sisters’ concerted effort to quash any objections she might have to accepting them. “I will. I’ve had that old tote forever, and I’m going to switch everything out today.” She gives them each a hug. “Thank you so much.” Then she takes the candle out of the box and sets it on her kitchen counter. “How about some iced tea?”

  “Love some,” Cassandra says. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

  “Of course. It’s right—”

  Shay cuts herself off, clearly remembering that it isn’t the sisters’ first visit to the apartment.

  As Cassandra opens the door to the tiny bathroom, Shay recovers with a joke: “The other day I dropped my washcloth in there and suddenly I had wall-to-wall carpeting.”

  Both sisters laugh as Shay cuts lemon wedges and puts them on the rims of the tall, matching glasses, along with little sprigs of mint. She’s also set out a cluster of dewy red grapes in a little bowl, next to another of almonds.

  Cassandra closes the door on that image. She runs the water in the sink to cover the sounds of her movements as she eases open the medicine cabinet. Just as she suspected, the bottle of Ambien that the sisters noticed while they were surveilling Shay in Valerie’s apartment sits on one of the shelves. Cassandra twists open the childproof cap; the bottle is almost completely full. She removes four capsules and slips them into the pocket of her jeans.

  Her task is complete, but she takes a moment to scan the other items in the medicine cabinet: Tom’s peppermint toothpaste, contact lens solution, and the usual toiletries. She pulls open the door to the tiny shower: nothing of interest. She bends down and opens the small cabinet beneath the sink. It’s filled with cleaning supplies, extra toilet paper, and Kleenex. She’s about to close it when something catches her eye. It looks like the edge of a large manila mailer.

  Jane is talking loudly, relaying a story about a terrible date she’d been on the previous night. “The guy asked zero questions about me, but I learned all about his fancy clients and first-class trip to Istanbul. It’s so hard to find a good one, isn’t it?” Her voice provides cover for Cassandra’s movements.

  Cassandra’s hand closes around the manila envelope. She unclasps the metal fastener and peeks inside, sucking in a sharp breath when she spots the stained blue towel.

  She unwraps it and sees a bloodstained scalpel.

  She recoils, rocking back on her heels, barely able to process what she’s seeing.

  Jane’s voice filters through the door: “So, Shay, you’re still liking the new job? And how’s the online dating going?”

  It seems impossible that Shay could merely have discovered the envelope: the sisters meticulously searched the apartment after Amanda’s suicide, and again before Shay rented it. How had she obtained it?

  Cassandra has to make a snap decision: Take the envelope, or leave it?

  She can’t carry it out of the bathroom; she has nowhere to hide it. They can come back for it if need be.

  She puts the envelope back, making sure the tip of one edge is visible. Then she stands up and opens the door.

  “I was actually stood up last night,” Shay is saying. “Well, the guy claimed he had a work emergency, but I was already at the bar.…”

  Jane catches Cassandra’s eye. Something in Cassandra’s expression tightens; Jane knows her sister well enough to sense that something is very wrong.

  Cassandra touches her sun-charm necklace; it’s time to go.

  “Oh, no,” Jane says. “Did that disastrous Rolling Stone review come out?”

  Cassandra nods, hoping Shay doesn’t notice that Cassandra isn’t holding her phone.

  Shay merely passes her a glass of iced tea. “What review?”

  Cassandra turns to Shay, elaborating on Jane’s spontaneous fib. “I’m so sorry we have to run. It’s the nature of our job. There’s this musician we rep and he just got panned. But let’s have a quick toast!”

  Both sisters look at Shay, who lifts up her glass. It covers a bit of her face, distorting her left eye slightly, making her features appear mismatched.

  “Yes, a quick toast,” Jane says. “To your new life!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  SHAY

  Some uses for a scalpel: surgery, anatomical dissection, and crafts projects. As many as 1,000 people per day are injured while providing medical care, with scalpel blade injuries making up 7 to 8 percent of accidental cuts and puncture wounds.

  —Data Book, page 61

  TO MY NEW LIFE.

  Those words seem to echo through my apartment even after Cassandra and Jane rush out to deal with their work crisis.

  “A temperamental musician and a bad review are a dangerous combination,” Jane explained as she gave me a quick goodbye hug.

  Only after they’re gone do I notice they left a plain brown shopping bag by my couch. I peek inside and see a stack of books by an author named Sienna Grant. The sisters had mentioned working on her memoir, and lately I’m seeing it everywhere—including yesterday, in a big window display at Barnes & Noble.

  I quickly text Jane to let her know she’s forgotten the books. Her reply comes almost immediately: Shoot, can you hold on to them? I don’t need them right away.

  Of course, I text back.

  I begin switching out the contents of my tote bag into my new purse. I’m going to take their advice and use it every day. I run my fingers over the soft leather and inhale the rich aroma, then I place it on my little dining table. It’s so bright and elegant, it’s almost like the sisters left a piece of themselves behind.

  I’m pretty sure I saw a bag just like this one in Daphne’s boutique. It makes sense that she’d sell it, given her connection to the Moore sisters. I frown, wondering if Daphne ever brought up my visit to them. I don’t plan to go into her boutique again, but it’s possible I might see her if Cassandra and Jane invite me out with their group sometime.

  I pick up Jane’s shopping bag and tuck it onto a shelf in my bookcase, alongside the books and knickknacks I’ve collected through the years, such as the perfect conch shell I found on a beach with my ex-boyfriend, and the old world globe I bought at a yard sale when I was in grade school.

  Then I putter around, putting our glasses in the dishwasher—Cassandra only had a single sip of tea after we toasted—and hand-washing the pitcher. I dry my hands on the dish towel slung through the handle of my stove.

  I’d thought about showing the envelope containing the stained blue towel and scalpel to the Moore sisters this morning. But they rushed out so quickly there wasn’t a chance. Maybe that was for the best. I’ve brought too many strange associations with Amanda into their lives already.

  I could just toss the envelope in the trash and be done with it. I don’t need this tainted, unsettling package in my apartment.

  I walk toward the bathroom to get the envelope, then pause. I turn around.

  Amanda must have saved it for a reason. Something is telling me to hold on to it, too.

  I’m on my couch that night, binge-watching Game of Thrones again, when my cell rings.

  The number looks familiar—it’s the local 212 area code—but I don’t immediately recognize it.

  “Shay?”

  My pulse accelerates. I know this voice.

  “It’s Detective Williams from the Seventeenth Precinct.”

  “Hi.” My voice sounds strangled so I clear my throat. A fear leaps into my mind: Could she be calling because she knows I stole the necklace?

  Mail theft is a felony punishable by up to five years in prison, and up to a $250,000 fine.

  “I was just thinking about you. I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  “Oh, I’m good,” I blurt.

  “Glad to hear it. You were pretty shaken up the last time we talked.”

  This can’t simply be a friendly call, can it?
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  She lets the silence hang between us. My palms are sweating now; I jump up and start to pace. “Everything’s much better now,” I babble.

  Another pause.

  “I got a call from someone at City Hospital.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “A woman who looks a lot like you went by the other day asking about Amanda’s mother.” Detective Williams’s voice is as calm and steady as if she were giving me a weather report. “Know anything about that?”

  How could anyone at the hospital have known who I was? My mind feels so jumbled it’s hard to think straight. I have to tell Detective Williams the truth. Or at least a piece of it.

  “It was me. I just wanted to write a condolence note to Amanda’s mother.”

  Detective Williams sighs. I can picture her at her neat desk, in one of her plain suits, her forehead creasing into waves.

  “You really think Amanda’s mother wants a letter from a woman who watched her daughter die?”

  I swallow hard. If that’s all the detective knows, she can’t arrest me.

  “I thought about it later. And, um, I decided not to send her a note.”

  I hear Detective Williams exhale again. I have no idea if she believes me.

  “You’re not still hanging around Amanda’s friends, are you?”

  I can’t pile on another lie. “I’ve seen them around a few times. They’re really nice.”

  “I’m telling you to let this go, Shay. Understand?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “I hope I don’t have to talk to you again.” Then she hangs up.

  It feels like a near miss; Detective Williams doesn’t know that I actually went to Mrs. Evinger’s house. That I stole a package from her porch while she slept a few feet away.

  Then I remember the flowers. If Detective Williams talks to Mrs. Evinger, will she mention a mysterious visitor who came while she was sleeping? Nausea roils my stomach and I cover my hand with my mouth, fighting it back.

  Maybe I should call back Detective Williams right now and confess everything. She might take pity on me. And Jane could confirm that the necklace belongs to her.