You Are Not Alone

by Greer Hendricks

  STACEY WAITS UNTIL VALERIE texts to say the apartment is empty before she strides into the lobby of Valerie’s building, a toolbox in one hand and a baseball cap tipped low on her forehead.

  “I’m the contractor for Valerie Ricci,” she tells the doorman, who has been instructed to anticipate her arrival. He hands over the spare key, and Stacey is heading up in the service elevator within moments.

  She’ll have roughly an hour to work, while Valerie, who is posing as a woman named Anne today, distracts her houseguest.

  Stacey’s instructions are clear: Install an extra camera behind the couch where Valerie’s guest likes to sit typing on her laptop, and a key logger program on her laptop, which will automatically send everything she types to the sisters. Get the Bloomingdale’s bag from beneath the bed in the master bedroom. Find the houseguest’s leather notebook and photograph every page, making sure the words are clearly visible.

  Stacey didn’t question why Valerie would invite someone into her home and then invade the person’s privacy. Nor did she ask why Valerie was using the alias Anne.

  Her formidable streak of loyalty runs wider for the sisters than for anyone else, except maybe Beth, who was Stacey’s court-appointed defense attorney when Stacey was charged with aggravated assault and drug possession.

  By the time Valerie and Shay conclude their outing to the Thirty-third Street subway station ninety minutes later, Stacey is already on a different subway, heading to Moore Public Relations.

  The moment she arrives, Jane ushers her into Cassandra’s office.

  “No interruptions, please, unless it’s an emergency,” Cassandra instructs her assistant, who can’t resist sneaking glances at Stacey, clearly curious about this small, swaggering woman with an emerald-green streak in her hair and a metal toolbox.

  As soon as the door is closed, Stacey pulls a laptop out of her toolbox and opens it to reveal the first page of Shay’s Data Book. Without being asked, she steps aside to give the sisters privacy to review the contents.

  They scan the entries rapidly:

  Roughly 40 percent of Americans report feeling isolated …

  In a study of people who witnessed a suicide …

  If you’re going to tell a premeditated lie, here’s how to do it …

  Nurses have access to fentanyl, OxyContin, Valium, Percocet, Vicodin …

  Some police departments use “bait” packages with a hidden GPS locator …

  Cassandra’s eyes widen as they rise to meet Jane’s.

  Ever since the sisters first scrutinized the photograph of Shay on Amanda’s doorstep holding a yellow zinnia, Shay has seemed cloaked in different personas, morphing from threatening to innocuous and back again. She is an optical illusion, like the famous black-and-white picture that flips between two different illustrations—the old crone and the beautiful young woman—depending on how the artist’s lines are interpreted.

  This new evidence does nothing to solidify the contrasting images.

  Shay’s masquerade as a former patient at City Hospital was not recorded in her notebook.

  Nor was her bizarre trip to Amanda’s mother’s house to drop off a bouquet of flowers. Why that long journey for a simple errand that could have been handled by a florist? Shay is obsessed with Amanda and suicides; perhaps she went to Delaware to dig more deeply into Amanda’s background.

  Shay is highly inquisitive and overly analytical. Her curiosity and determination to make sense out of seemingly disparate facts are dangerous.

  The sisters have a lot to discuss, but they don’t want to talk in front of even Stacey.

  “Can you send us the full file for our records?” Jane asks.

  Stacey nods and steps forward. She clicks a few keys. “Done. And here’s your Bloomie’s bag.”

  Cassandra reaches for the bag and tucks it under her desk. “You’re amazing, Stacey. Thank you.”

  Stacey, uncomfortable with praise, shrugs. “Oh, I put the additional camera in an air-conditioning vent. If anyone uses a laptop on the couch, you should be able to see their screen.”

  As Stacey heads toward the door—she has a busy day ahead of her, with three clients stacked back-to-back—Jane calls out, “Let us know how the appointment goes for your mom next week.”

  The sisters secured Stacey’s mother a consultation with a top Alzheimer’s specialist in her hometown of Philadelphia. At just fifty-six, Stacey’s mother no longer recognizes her daughter.

  “Thank you.” Stacey’s voice is uncharacteristically soft. “I hope he can help her.”

  Stacey hides her pain well. Few people know she always carries it with her.

  Stacey leaves the door open behind her, so Jane hurries to close it.

  They need to scrutinize every word in Shay’s notebook. But they’ve barely begun when they receive a phone call from Oliver, the gallery owner.

  “Lovelies! Strangest thing. A police officer just came into my gallery. At first I thought she could be a stripper, but it isn’t my birthday. Plus you two would know she wasn’t my type.”

  Oliver’s laughter dies away when the sisters don’t join in. Jane reaches over and grabs Cassandra’s hand, squeezing it tightly. Cassandra stares straight ahead, her expression resolute.

  “Anyway,” Oliver continues, sounding subdued, “she had some questions about that exquisite friend of yours, Daphne, you sent in a couple months ago. She wanted to know what time she came in and how long she stayed. Luckily I had a copy of the receipt from the little watercolor she bought, and I even had the selfie of us on my phone that she suggested I text to you. Darlings, is she in some sort of trouble?”

  For once, the sisters have no answer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  SHAY

  The term déjà vu means “already seen,” and as much as 70 percent of the population reports having experienced it. The rates seem to be highest among people aged 15 to 25, and déjà vu experiences decrease with age. When it comes to what déjà vu really is and what causes it, there are more than 40 theories—ranging from reincarnation to glitches in our memory processes.

  —Data Book, page 36

  I’M A DIFFERENT PERSON here in this apartment.

  At night, I stretch out in the blissful quiet of the guest room, with its soft blue walls and blackout shades.

  I brought along my bottle of Ambien just in case, but it remains untouched on my nightstand. I don’t need the drug to fall asleep.

  And—I can hardly believe it—I’m riding the subway again.

  This morning, I made my favorite banana-and-almond-butter smoothie, using the Vitamix on the kitchen counter, the one that rests near a weird vase in the shape of an upside-down hand. Then I met Cassandra and Jane’s friend, Anne, on the corner. I thought Anne might be one of the women I’d seen at the memorial service, but I didn’t recognize her. She didn’t have any distinguishing features: Her hair was medium brown, and neither long nor short. It was midway between wavy and straight. Her eyes were brown, the most common color, and she wore simple black pants and a black top—like half the women in New York.

  She strode toward me with a big smile, and I instantly liked her.

  “So good to meet you!” she’d said. I detected a slight Southern accent as we chatted for a bit. Anne had an exuberant personality; she gestured expansively and spoke quickly. She was married with two kids in elementary school, she told me, and she’d left her job at a law firm after her second one was born. That explained why she had free time in the middle of a workday to help me.

  “How long have you known Cassandra and Jane?” I asked.

  “Those two?” She threw back her head and laughed. “Feels like I’ve known them forever!”

  We began walking toward the green pole marking the Thirty-third Street station and continued down the concrete stairs. “Let’s do this!” she said, and took my hand.

  I didn’t even have time to hesitate; I was pulled along in her undertow.

  “You’re doing awesome!” She kept
up a steady stream of chatter as we pushed through the turnstiles and walked onto the platform. Panic kept rising in me like a set of waves, but she helped me battle it. “Breathe,” she’d say, or she’d distract me with questions like “What’s the strangest food you’ve ever eaten?”

  Right as the train roared into the station, she cracked a joke: “This station is shaking more than my vibrator!”

  I actually laughed. The tension coiled within me broke; it felt like a physical snapping. The next thing I knew, we were stepping onto the train together, just as I’d done thousands of times before.

  The way I now knew I would do thousands of times again.

  “Hope to see you again soon!” Anne said, giving me a hug as she left me on the corner. I waved as I watched her go, then stood there almost in disbelief.

  Cassandra and Jane had irrevocably changed my life in a week.

  I had to keep up the momentum. I wanted to tell them about my day when I thanked them for introducing me to Anne. I wanted to seem busy and interesting, like them.

  As Anne disappeared from view down the street, I hurried into my temporary Twelfth Street apartment, grabbed my gym bag, and rode the subway to my favorite CrossFit class in SoHo.

  “Where’ve you been, Shay?” the instructor said when she spotted me in the front row.

  “Just a little under the weather,” I fibbed. I offset it with a truth: “But I’m better now.”

  All the time I’ve spent planning my routes and sitting on slow-moving buses is mine again; I’m going to reclaim my life.

  I decide to use some of it tonight to check out various dating websites. I imagine turning it into a funny story for Jane and Cassandra, and hearing them laugh again.

  * * *

  When I get home, I take a warm shower, then change into clean sweats. I pop a frozen veggie pizza with cauliflower crust into the oven, grab a beer, and settle onto the couch. I begin collecting data, trying to analyze which dating sites are best for women in their thirties who want a lasting relationship. I jot everything down in my notebook. I don’t create a profile—I need better photos than the ones on my phone—but at least I’ve made a start.

  I get off the couch, feeling the welcome burn in my thighs from the intense CrossFit class, then I walk over to the mirror hanging by the entryway and take a good look at myself. I pull off my glasses and squint.

  I could give contact lenses a try again. Mel urged me to, telling me I shouldn’t hide my pretty eyes. But after I got an infection once that left my eyes red and sore, I went back to glasses.

  I tilt my head to one side. Then something in the corner of the reflection catches my eye. I lean closer and confirm it: The apartment isn’t exactly as I left it this morning.

  I’ve been back here for hours, but it’s only now—with the living room and bedrooms behind me at a certain angle—that I notice the master bedroom door seems to be the slightest bit ajar.

  I put on my glasses and walk over to it.

  It’s barely cracked open, but it’s definitely not tightly shut, as it was last night. I’m certain of this. I stood here, my hand on the knob, for several seconds.

  Could I have inadvertently twisted it just enough to release the catch? I wonder.

  But I know I didn’t.

  Someone must have been in the apartment. They could even be here now.

  I back up, fast.

  “Hello,” I call out, my voice wavering.

  No answer.

  I force myself to consider the facts: I’ve been here for several hours, and nothing has happened. I’ve even taken a shower. I haven’t heard a sound. And nothing’s out of place in the apartment. Maybe the super needed to check on the radiator or something. I wouldn’t have been notified, but rather the apartment’s owner.

  Just to be safe, I grab my phone and text Cassandra and Jane: Hi guys, hope you’re doing well. Everything’s great here, just wanted to let you know I found the master bedroom door cracked open. You may want to double-check with the super in case he came by when I was out.

  Almost immediately, three dots appear, indicating one of them is typing back.

  Oh, we should have told you! It was the super, he needed to check on a leak. But it was all fine, Cassandra types.

  I breathe a sigh of relief and walk back over to pull the master bedroom door shut. Then I return to the mirror in the hallway.

  I remove my glasses again and pull my hair up with my free hand, wondering if I should get it cut. I’ve worn it long and straight, all the way down to my bra strap, since high school. I imagine it layered around my shoulders.

  The oddest sensation—something akin to déjà vu—creeps over me as I stand there, twisting my head from side to side. My glasses are off, and my hair is flatter from the shower. I remind myself of someone, but I can’t pinpoint who.

  My mind scans through the possibilities: Maybe a woman I went to college with? A former colleague? An actress I glimpsed on TV?

  Finally I give up trying to figure it out. I let down my hair, fluff it up, and put on my glasses. Just like that, I look like me again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CASSANDRA

  SHE LOOKS LIKE AMANDA.

  Cassandra stares at her computer monitor, her skin prickling.

  Shay is staring almost directly into the camera installed at the top of the hallway mirror.

  Cassandra leans in closer, barely breathing. Weeks ago, when she flipped between the photograph of Shay carrying a yellow zinnia and the image of Amanda holding a calico cat, she noticed a passing resemblance—the height, the general shapes of their faces.

  Now, with Shay’s hair up and her glasses off, Shay could almost be Amanda’s sister.

  Cassandra snaps a screenshot to capture Shay in this moment.

  When Cassandra clicked on the icon on her computer to access the cameras in Valerie’s apartment right after Shay texted about the door that Stacey must have left cracked open, Cassandra expected to capture Shay typing on her computer or writing in her notebook.

  Instead, Shay’s face looms so close it almost appears as if she is peering back into Cassandra’s computer.

  In her mind, Cassandra further alters the image, lightening Shay’s hair and cropping it to a layered bob that hits her collarbone. Instead of baggy sweats, she envisions Shay in a dress—the kind of feminine, flowy style Amanda used to favor.

  Cassandra studies Shay, her pulse quickening, as Shay tilts her head from side to side. Amanda’s eyes weren’t as widely spaced as Shay’s, and she didn’t have a cleft in her chin. But with the right clothes, the right hair, the right coaching …

  Cassandra reaches for her phone and dials Stacey, who picks up immediately.

  “Do me a quick favor?” Cassandra’s words are terse and clipped. “Can you access Shay’s calendar off her computer?”

  “Hang on.” It’s silent except for a rapid clicking. “Got it. What do you need?”

  “Send me a screenshot for the month of August.”

  Almost before Cassandra finishes the sentence, Stacey replies, “Done.”

  Cassandra pulls up the calendar, her eyes sweeping across it as she searches for a specific date.

  She holds her breath when she finds it.

  She’s almost scared to look.

  One of the threats facing the group is Detective Santiago’s interest in Daphne’s connection to James.

  The other is Shay, and her unrelenting probing into Amanda’s life.

  There may be a way to join together these menaces and extinguish them both simultaneously.

  Cassandra reads the entry for a specific date: Temp, dentist, 6-mile run.

  Cassandra exhales slowly. Her skin tingles.

  Everything is snapping into place so beautifully it’s almost as if the chain of events were preordained—as if an unseen hand had guided Shay onto the Thirty-third Street subway platform to stand next to Amanda on that fateful Sunday morning.

  Initially, the sisters believed Shay was the worst p
ossible person to become entangled in the aftermath of Amanda’s suicide. Now the opposite seems true.

  She is perfect.

  All this time, they have been struggling to figure out who Shay was.

  Now the sisters will turn all their focus onto who she could be.

  PART

  TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  SHAY

  The average woman spends about $313 per month on her appearance—and about a quarter of a million dollars over her lifetime—according to a study funded by Groupon. Women are most likely to splurge on facials, followed by haircuts, then manicures and pedicures. Another study, this one conducted by Clairol, found that about three-quarters of women dye their hair. And 88 percent of women say their hair has an effect on their confidence.

  —Data Book, page 41

  “YOU LOOK … PERFECT,” JANE SAYS, sounding a little awed.

  The stylist, Philip, unfastens my black cape and whisks it off to the side. Then he runs his hands through my hair while I gape at myself in the mirror.

  “Isn’t she gorgeous?” Philip asks as he looks to Cassandra and Jane, clearly seeking their approval.

  What a difference it made to chop off four inches, add layers, and lighten my hair by two shades. “I totally see you in this color,” Jane had said as we’d walked to the salon, showing me a tear sheet from a glossy magazine that she’d pulled out of her purse. I’d given it to Philip, and he’d matched the shade perfectly, added a few blonder streaks around my face that make me appear like a more polished, pretty version of myself.

  “Your eyes really pop now!” Cassandra exclaims, leaning in close to me to get a better look.

  Philip shaped my eyebrows, too, at Cassandra’s suggestion. “Defined brows will help frame your face,” she’d explained. All these beauty tricks made a huge difference.

  As with most of the other good things happening to me lately, I have Cassandra and Jane to thank.

  It started so simply: When Cassandra called me a few nights ago with the good news that I could have the apartment for another week, we’d chatted for a while. I’d just received an email from the head of human resources at the Avenues Agency asking me to come back for a second interview, and Cassandra couldn’t have been more encouraging.