You Are Not Alone

by Greer Hendricks

  I watch as the three women lean their heads close together again, talking, then the one with the purple streak in her hair turns to look at me, her close-set eyes narrowing. The two others do as well.

  I quickly move away in case they intend to approach me to talk about Amanda. Even though Cassandra welcomed me, I’m still an impostor.

  As I begin to walk toward the door, yet another woman appears in my path. “Are you okay?” She gives me a sympathetic smile and a dimple appears in her right cheek. “I’m Jane. You met my sister Cassandra earlier.”

  I would’ve guessed they’re related: They share not only the same ebony hair and luminous skin, but the same magnetic quality. Jane is more petite than her sister, with softer features and a gentle voice.

  “Thanks.” I take the tissue she offers. I reach beneath my glasses to dab at my eyes. “I guess … I just wish I could have helped Amanda.”

  Jane takes a step closer to me and I inhale the sweet smell of her floral perfume. “I know,” she says, her voice confiding. “A lot of us are grappling with complicated feelings today. I certainly am.”

  Perhaps everybody second-guesses themselves in the aftermath of a suicide, I think.

  I’d give anything to take back my lie about how I met Amanda, but since I can’t, I’m honest with Jane now. “I didn’t really know her well, but I can’t stop thinking about her. I suppose I came here to learn more about her.”

  “I see.” Jane cocks her head to the side, like something has just occurred to her. “You know, a bunch of us are going out for a drink after the service. You should come.”

  “O-oh,” I stutter, so surprised by the invitation I can barely talk. “I, uh, have plans.”

  She looks disappointed. “That’s too bad. I know we just met, but I have a feeling we might have a lot to talk about.”

  Before I can reply, Cassandra breaks away from her conversation with a tearful older woman holding a glass of wine who looks like she could be Amanda’s mother. Cassandra gives the woman a hug, then strides toward us, her gaze fixed on me.

  She touches my arm, keeping her hand there. “My sister and I know what it’s like to struggle with loss. Please reach out if you ever want to talk. Connecting with each other is one of the most essential things we can do. I only wish Amanda…”

  I find myself nodding. “I would really like that.” Cassandra awards me a full, genuine smile.

  “Here.” She’s holding out a business card with her free hand. The embossed black letters stand out sharply against the crisp white rectangle: CASSANDRA MOORE. Instead of any business contact information, there’s just a phone number and email address.

  “I hope we’ll see you again, Shay.” Cassandra removes her hand, but I can still feel the heat of its imprint on my bare forearm. Suddenly I don’t want to leave.

  It’s no longer about the connection I feel toward Amanda. It’s the connection I want to feel with her friends.

  CHAPTER NINE

  CASSANDRA & JANE

  CASSANDRA AND JANE LEARN two things about Shay during their brief encounter with her.

  She is a bad liar; her cheeks flushed and she avoided eye contact when she fabricated the story about the veterinarian.

  And Shay has a strange and alarming attachment to Amanda.

  Immediately following the memorial service, Shay walks to a bistro and sits at the bar. She is watched by Valerie, the sixth and final member of the group—and the only one who didn’t attend the service.

  Valerie, who was an actress in Los Angeles before moving to New York, is employed by Cassandra and Jane at their PR firm. She assists them with many professional assignments, as well as personal ones.

  There is little danger of Shay noticing that she is under observation. Valerie is a chameleon; tonight she wears a simple navy dress with her hair tied in a low ponytail. She stands near a high bar table populated by a group of tourists and effortlessly blends in with them.

  Initially, Shay’s story about having plans appears to be true. But as the minutes pass and no one joins her, it becomes obvious this is yet another lie. Shay sips a beer and eats a burger and occasionally looks down at her phone.

  After about an hour, she exits the restaurant. The credit card slip she signed was quickly retrieved by the bartender before her name could be verified.

  Shay walks thirty-eight blocks to her apartment with a loping, athletic stride, not even pausing at several subway stops that would quicken her journey.

  It’s another curious detail about her. Perhaps the subway carries a dark reminder of Amanda.

  She disappears into a five-story white-brick residential building.

  The same building that, according to the sisters’ tracking device, holds Amanda’s necklace.

  Valerie continues to watch the entrance, but Shay remains inside, keeping with her any secrets she might be holding about Amanda.

  Valerie is raising her cell phone to take a picture of a man as he enters Shay’s building—he might be a neighbor who could provide useful information—when an incoming call from Cassandra registers on the screen.

  “I’m with Daphne,” Cassandra begins.

  Valerie’s hand reflexively clenches the phone at Cassandra’s tone.

  “A police detective left a message for her while we were at the memorial service,” Cassandra continues. “She asked if Daphne could give her a call to answer a few questions.”

  Valerie sucks in a breath. “About Amanda?”

  “No. About a man named James whom Daphne went on a blind date with ten months ago.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  DAPHNE

  Ten months ago

  DAPHNE STOOD IN THE FOYER of the small Italian restaurant, adjusting the vintage scarf around her neck. No matter how many first dates she went on, her stomach always fluttered at this moment.

  She’d pulled a winter-white wool dress and high-heeled boots from the showroom of her West Village boutique and had gotten a blowout at lunchtime. I think you two will hit it off, Kit, the customer who’d set them up on a blind date, had said. James was in the same fraternity as my husband in college, and they recently reconnected. He’s a really fun guy.

  The door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man walked in. “You must be Daphne.” He broke into a wide smile and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “I’m James.”

  He was as attractive as Kit had indicated. Plus James had been so complimentary and warm in the texts they’d exchanged that she felt the night held promise. He’d told her he liked her name and suggested they eat at a restaurant that would be convenient for her.

  “The gnocchi here is insane,” James said as the hostess led them to an intimate table by the fireplace.

  Another point in his favor: A lot of guys would have suggested meeting for a drink. James seemed to want to get to know her.

  “Should we get a bottle of wine?” he asked, and when she agreed, he ordered Pinot Grigio.

  She preferred red wine, but she let it go.

  As a busboy filled their water glasses, James launched into a funny story about his buddy’s wedding to Kit, recounting how the band’s lead singer didn’t show up. “So we all took turns grabbing the mic and performing.”

  “What did you sing?”

  He started laughing so hard it was contagious. His laugh was wonderful—warm and inviting.

  “Tell me!”

  “‘My Heart Will Go On.’” He could barely choke out the words.

  “By Celine Dion? You did not!”

  “‘Near, far, wherever you are…’” he sang in a falsetto.

  “Please tell me there’s video!” She finally composed herself, taking a sip of the wine, which tasted good after all. James was solicitous, offering her a bite of his gnocchi and coaxing her to tell stories about her customers.

  It was, she thought, the best first date she’d been on in a long time.

  As he lifted the wine bottle to refill her glass, she said, “Oh, just a splash for me.” She had an early mornin
g tomorrow; she was opening the boutique.

  “C’mon.” He filled it up. “It’s the weekend.” As he put down the bottle, she noticed his fingers were thick and strong looking.

  Nothing set off alarm bells for Daphne during dinner. That was one of the worst parts; later she would go over the night obsessively in her head, asking herself if she’d missed a clue. A whiff of danger that had swept past her.

  When the bill came, James reached for it so quickly she didn’t have a chance to offer to split it, which made him seem chivalrous.

  As they stepped outside, James said, “Can I walk you home?”

  For a brief moment, she wondered how he knew she lived nearby. Then she remembered he’d chosen a restaurant in a location she’d said would be convenient. Naturally, he’d deduced it was near her apartment.

  He talked easily as they walked, stopping to pet a Standard Poodle as the smiling owner looked on. Then he slipped Daphne’s hand into his. His grip felt firm and welcome.

  By the time they reached her apartment building, Daphne was hoping he’d kiss her good-night.

  “This was really nice,” she said as they reached the entrance of her apartment. She looked up at him, feeling a little shy. She was picky; she hadn’t kissed a man in months. “Thank you for dinner.”

  He leaned in and kissed her, slowly and softly. She brought her hands to his shoulders. He pulled her in more closely. The kiss lingered, his tongue teasing apart her lips.

  It felt so good to be touched. To be wanted.

  When they broke apart, she smiled. “Thanks again,” she said, and turned to walk into her lobby.

  “Hey,” James said, and she turned back around. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom real quick?”

  She blinked. It felt like a strange request.

  “Sorry, it was that last glass of wine.” He laughed.

  How could she say no to this nice man who’d just taken her out to dinner; this guy who liked dogs and held open doors for her? “Sure.”

  She felt a moment of awkwardness when they passed the doorman, Raymond, who greeted her with no indication that he was surprised to see her bring home an unfamiliar man even though he’d never before seen her return at night with one.

  Raymond had probably been watching as she and James kissed; they were clearly visible through the glass-walled lobby entrance.

  “Good night,” she said to Raymond as they passed.

  “Night,” James added, which had seemed odd to Daphne—after all, he’d be leaving in a minute—but maybe he’d just spoken the word automatically.

  James put his palm on the small of her back as they walked to the elevator. So low it grazed her butt.

  Daphne flushed, wondering if Raymond was watching this, too. She reached back and removed his hand.

  They stood side by side as they rode the elevator to the tenth floor. The easy conversation between them stuttered. James was staring straight ahead, no longer smiling.

  Had he been expecting more?

  They’d flirted all night, but that didn’t mean she wanted to sleep with him so soon.

  She decided to leave the door to her apartment open and stand by it. She could gesture to show James the way to the bathroom; there was one in her hallway. Then she would motion him out; he’d get the message clearly.

  That’s exactly what Daphne started to do. She heard the toilet flush, then the sink faucet running—she flashed back to his strong-looking hands—then James reappeared.

  She was halfway out the door. There was no way he could misread her signals.

  James approached. She shuffled a bit to let him pass. Still with one foot in her apartment, and one in the hallway. But he paused right in front of her.

  Now he was straddling the threshold, too.

  James leaned down to kiss her again. She made the split-second decision to allow this; it seemed like the easiest way to get rid of him.

  It felt almost as if she were kissing a different man; his lips were no longer tender, and he pressed his body against hers. She could smell the garlic from his gnocchi on his breath.

  Her customer Kit had mentioned her husband recently reconnected with James. How well did they know him?

  Daphne didn’t even know Kit all that well, she realized.

  Daphne pulled away. “Thanks again.”

  But he didn’t move.

  The hallway was well lit, but her apartment was not. James’s face was half in the shadows, half in the light.

  “Does it have to be over?”

  Her heart began to pound, but she forced herself to smile. “I’ve got an early morning.”

  Daphne saw something enter his eyes that made her instincts finally scream the warning they’d been whispering ever since James had asked to come upstairs.

  “I’m just really tired.” Anxiety filled her voice. “But I’ll call you.”

  “Sure you will.” He still didn’t move.

  Adrenaline flooded her body. No one else was within view. The doorman was ten flights away. She prayed for the sound of the elevator ding, announcing that a neighbor was coming. But the hallway was still.

  He kept staring at her, his face expressionless.

  “So…” Her voice faltered. “It’s getting late.…”

  The instant he stopped blocking the door, she’d slam it and quickly engage the dead bolt. She’d also phone Raymond to make sure James had really left the building.

  After what seemed like an eternity, he finally lifted his foot and stepped into the hallway. But he didn’t turn his back to her. Instead, he edged sideways. Still, at least he was no longer in the threshold.

  Daphne leaped back into her apartment and began to slam the door.

  But his arm shot out and pushed it violently in the other direction while her palms were still on it. She tumbled backward, unsteady on her heels.

  It was James who slid home the dead bolt.

  * * *

  In the days that followed, Daphne picked up the phone a half dozen times to call the police. But she always hung up before dialing.

  She kept experiencing the sensation of James’s hands closing around her throat while she lay there, unmoving. His ugly words reverberated in her mind: I know you like it rough.

  The only evidence she had was the faint bruise on her neck. She imagined a prosecutor asking, Did you tell him to stop?

  It would be her word against his. Even her doorman likely saw them kissing, and definitely saw her leading him into the elevator. She knew the legal system had failed other women. She couldn’t trust that justice would prevail.

  Late one night, she reached for her phone and sent James a text: I hope you rot in hell. Then she blocked him. It felt like such an inconsequential reaction, but she didn’t know what else to do.

  She told no one at first. Daphne was an only child, and she wasn’t close to her parents, who’d had her later in life. They hadn’t been trying for a child and didn’t seem particularly pleased to be raising one, even a quiet, self-sufficient little girl.

  She tried to lose herself in long, exhausting runs along the West Side Highway, and she began dropping weight. Food held little appeal. She couldn’t meet the eyes of Raymond whenever she passed through her lobby.

  Then one day, a few weeks after the attack, a chime sounded in her boutique. Daphne had taken to locking up when she was alone and leaving a sign directing shoppers to press the doorbell.

  It was a slow Tuesday afternoon on a slushy winter day, but somehow, none of the dirty gray snow or salt on the sidewalks marred the high leather boots of the two women who strolled in. Daphne had never seen them before, but she immediately guessed they were sisters.

  “We’ve walked by your shop a million times and we’ve always wanted to stop in,” Cassandra gushed.

  “I can already tell this place is going to be my new favorite addiction!” Jane said, running her fingertips over a stack of cashmere sweaters.

  They’d stayed for nearly an hour, chatting easily as they tried on c
lothes and sipped from the flutes of champagne that Daphne brought out for good customers. They were much friendlier than most of the shoppers who passed through Daphne’s door; the sisters seemed truly interested in getting to know her.

  By the time she was packing their purchases into glossy shopping bags, Daphne felt a little lighter, as if the presence of these warm, vibrant, strong women had somehow provided a barrier against the emotions battering her.

  “We’ll be back soon, Daphne!” Jane promised as the sisters left.

  And they were, a few days later.

  A week or so after that, they’d invited Daphne to Jane’s apartment for drinks. It felt natural and spontaneous, like an extension of the drinks and conversation they’d shared in the boutique.

  Daphne hadn’t intended to reveal James’s assault to the sisters. She barely knew them after all. But something about them—she couldn’t quite put her finger on what—invited her confidence. They seemed to know exactly what to say to draw her out. As Daphne sat on Jane’s couch, stroking Jane’s pretty little calico cat, Hepburn, Daphne felt less alone.

  Cassandra’s eyes had darkened. “James is a criminal. He raped you, Daphne.”

  Jane had wrapped an arm around Daphne: “What can we do to help?”

  “I don’t know,” Daphne had whispered. “I just want him to pay for this.”

  Later the sisters told Daphne that was the moment they knew she was one of them.

  They were a group of five: First Cassandra, Jane, and Valerie, then Beth—whom Valerie had gotten to know because they were neighbors in an apartment building—had joined the circle. And shortly thereafter, Beth had brought in Stacey.

  Their vote was unanimous: Daphne would become the sixth member.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SHAY

  Strategies to alleviate panic attacks:

  1.  Breathe in through your nose to the count of five, hold it for the count of five, and breathe out through your mouth to the count of five.