You Are Not Alone

by Greer Hendricks

  They don’t want to stop. But more than that, they aren’t sure they can.

  Their successes are completely addictive.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  SHAY

  Blackouts represent episodes of amnesia and can be the result of excessive consumption of alcohol. The two main types of blackouts are en bloc and fragmentary. Some subjects who experience fragmentary blackouts—which are the most common form—can become aware they are missing pieces of events if they are later reminded about those events.

  —Data Book, page 64

  AT A LITTLE PAST 5:30 P.M., I begin preparing for my guests. The Moore sisters should be arriving soon.

  They have a work event later this evening, but they suggested we have a quick drink in my apartment first when they swing by to get the books they forgot the last time they were here.

  “We’ll bring the wine,” Cassandra had said. “A glass before your date will help relax you.”

  Your date.

  I find myself singing along with Pink as I set out the food. Ted is coming by at seven-thirty to pick me up and take me out to dinner.

  Nothing will keep me away this time, he’d promised in his last text, after I’d agreed to reschedule.

  After so many nights alone, my Friday evening promises to be full of excitement.

  By now, I’ve completely reframed my silly anxiety about the makeover that highlighted my resemblance to Amanda. The Moore sisters have done nothing but try to help me ever since we met. Maybe it’s a little strange that they didn’t bring up my resemblance to Amanda when I first walked out of the optometrist’s office. They were probably a bit thrown, but perhaps they didn’t want me to feel uncomfortable.

  They couldn’t have been trying to make me look like Amanda, unless it was subconscious. It’s more likely that they were simply helping me become the best version of me.

  And I’m the one who found Amanda’s apartment up for rent; they had nothing to do with that. Maybe they even felt a little discomfort about me moving in here, but they hid it because they knew how badly I needed to find a new place.

  How could there be anything sinister about all the kind things they’ve done for me? I’ve felt so much less alone since I met them.

  I’ve picked up a bouquet of flowers to brighten my kitchen counter. I went to the same corner deli where I purchased flowers the last two times—the single yellow zinnia that I laid on Amanda’s doorstep, and the bigger bunch I left with her sleeping mother.

  This time, I chose orange alstroemeria.

  I light the new chunky candle the sisters gave me and dim the overhead light, then survey the room. Everything looks perfect in my cozy new place, and the vanilla-and-bourbon-spiked-caramel candle smells like I’ve just baked something delicious.

  Happiness bubbles within me, making my body feel light and tingly.

  I’m not planning to let Ted up when he calls from the lobby later tonight—I’ll just go straight downstairs to meet him. Even if the evening goes as well as I hope it does, I won’t invite him up after dinner, either—so my efforts are just for the Moore sisters.

  When the buzzer sounds, I press the button to allow them in and open my door. As I watch them walk down the hallway, side by side, I’m struck anew by how stunning they look. Cassandra is in a fitted burgundy dress with ankle boots, and Jane wears a black jumpsuit belted at the waist with a gold chain.

  I wonder if they’ve become inured to their reflections in the mirror, or if they still appreciate how dazzling they are. But I feel good, too—it’s like their dazzle is contagious. I styled my hair and I’m wearing the shirt I bought at Daphne’s boutique. I’m going to wear the floral scarf they gave me with my leather jacket tonight, too.

  “Come in!” I say when they reach me. I point to the bag of books that I’ve placed by the door. “So you don’t forget them again.”

  “Oh, thanks,” Jane says as I close the door behind her. “Wow, that’s a perfect first-date outfit.”

  “You look effortlessly chic,” Cassandra adds.

  “Thanks. I’m actually a little nervous. The last guy who chased after me was trying to sell me a fake Rolex.”

  They laugh, then Cassandra says, “Well, I’ve got something that can help with your nerves.” She holds up a bottle of champagne. “A client just gave this to us, and believe me, we need it after what she puts us through. Total diva. Okay if I open it?”

  “Of course. I don’t have any champagne flutes, though.…”

  I look at my kitchen counter, where I set out three of the new wineglasses from the set I bought earlier this week. They’re pretty and feminine, with different-colored glass balls—amber, cobalt, and emerald—near the bottom of the stems. They look nice alongside the flowers and platter of snacks.

  “Oh, Shay.” Jane comes over to give me a hug. I smell her now-familiar delicate floral perfume and feel her soft hair brush my cheek. “You didn’t need to do all this.”

  I think I detect a melancholy tone in her sweet voice, but it’s hard to tell because Cassandra interjects, “But I’m glad you did!”

  She walks over to the kitchen counter and pulls the foil off the mouth of the bottle of Dom Pérignon, then removes the metal cage. She twists off the top, and I reflexively wince as a loud pop fills the room. Froth instantly begins to bubble over the rim of the bottle. She expertly catches it in one of the glasses, then fills the other two.

  I take a sip from the glass she handed me. I’ve never had Dom Pérignon before, and it tastes delicious.

  I watch as Cassandra takes a long drink from her glass—she has the one with the amber ball, which complements her eyes—then she sighs. “I wish we could hang out with you tonight instead of going to this work thing.” She helps herself to a slice of cheese. “I’d love nothing more than to collapse on the couch, drink and eat, and watch a movie.”

  I can’t quite believe that the Moore sisters would prefer being here than at whatever fabulous event they’re scheduled to attend, but maybe when you spend so much time out socializing, you yearn for the allure of a quiet evening in.

  Jane puts a hand on Cassandra’s arm. “We had some fun nights in this apartment with Amanda, too.”

  I don’t know what to say at the mention of Amanda’s name, so I just look down.

  Cassandra adds, “We’re really happy we’re here with you now, Shay.” She clears her throat softly. “As hard as Amanda’s death was for us, the only silver lining is that it led you to us.”

  Her generous words pierce through my chest. I blink back the threat of tears. “I know how much you both loved her.”

  “We think about her every day,” Cassandra says. I can see tears in her eyes, too.

  “I still picture her in that green polka-dot dress, walking to the subway for the last time,” Jane adds, sounding wistful. “I’d thought about calling her that morning, to check in. But I got busy—I can’t even remember with what. I always wonder if maybe that could have changed the course of everything.…”

  Jane sighs and takes another sip of champagne. I do the same. The only thing filling the silence is the music still playing from the little speaker I’ve attached to my iPhone, but by now Pink has yielded to Alicia Keys.

  “Do you guys want to sit down?” I gesture to my sofa and the chair flanking it.

  “Let me just top us off.” Cassandra takes my glass and turns her back to me as she reaches for the champagne bottle.

  “So, how was your week, Shay?” Jane picks up the platter and brings it to the coffee table. “Hopefully less hectic than ours.”

  Before I can answer, Cassandra turns back around: “Here you go.” She stretches a drink toward me and I reflexively take it.

  I know immediately this glass isn’t the one I had before. This one has the amber ball on the bottom of the stem; I had the emerald-green one.

  “Oh, I already drank from that one.” I gesture to the glass in Cassandra’s other hand.

  I expect her to switch with me. But she jus
t smiles. “Who cares?”

  Jane raises her glass. “Cheers.”

  Then they both take a sip. So I do the same.

  “Mmm, isn’t Dom the best?” Cassandra says.

  “Yummy,” I agree. The bubbles take up half the glass and tickle my nose. I wonder if all expensive champagnes are so frothy.

  Jane flops onto the far end of the couch, and Cassandra takes the chair. Which leaves the spot between them for me. I sit down, feeling my weight sink into the pillows. When I first bought this couch on Craigslist, I thought it was too soft and squishy. But tonight it feels heavenly.

  I curl my legs beneath me and take another drink, reflecting on how I’ve lost some of my connections to my other friends, but now I have Cassandra and Jane. It sounds too corny to say, but I can’t help thinking it: The Moore sisters saved me.

  We chat for a while about my date with Ted, then I ask about their plans for tonight. As Jane explains they’re going to a benefit for a battered-women’s shelter, Cassandra fills up our glasses, which are all empty again.

  I lean my head back against the couch, feeling more relaxed than I have in months, listening to Jane talk about the charity auction.

  “Our friend Beth is a defense attorney—you might have seen her at the memorial service—and she occasionally does pro bono work for the shelter. That’s how we got involved.”

  Beth, I think. I was pretty sure I saw one of their friends at CrossFit. Could it have been her? But it takes too much effort to form the question.

  My eyes are so heavy that it’s an effort to drag them back open after I blink. My legs and arms feel loose and weighty the way they do after a long run.

  “Are you okay?’ Cassandra’s voice sounds so distant.

  “Just a little sleepy,” I murmur.

  Jane gives a big yawn, and it’s contagious: I do the same.

  “You’ve had a long week. Here, why don’t you stretch out and take a little catnap before your date? We need to get going anyway.” Jane moves over and I uncurl my legs, resting my head on the arm of the couch.

  My exhaustion is so overwhelming I’m not even embarrassed. Yes, a quick nap, I think. That’s all I need.

  Jane is spreading the throw I keep on the back of my couch over me. “It’s kind of cold in here. This will keep you cozy.”

  Thank you, I try to reply. But all I can do is sluggishly nod.

  My mind starts to drift again. I hear Cassandra and Jane move about my apartment as they speak in whispers. They’re clearing away the platter and glasses and running water in the kitchen sink.

  I’m blissfully cocooned. One of the sisters—I’m not sure which—rests a warm, soft hand on my forehead. It feels nice, almost maternal.

  They loved Amanda. Maybe soon they will love me, too.

  “Do you want me to turn off the lights and close the blinds?” Cassandra offers.

  No, I think, Ted will be here in a little while. But I’m not sure if I actually say it. I must not have, though, because the room plunges into shadows. The only source of illumination is the sweet-smelling candle flickering on the coffee table.

  My door softly opens and shuts. It’s so quiet now.

  I jar awake, out of one of those strange half dreams where I feel myself falling.

  A woman is standing over me.

  I can’t see her face; she blends into the shadows, almost like a ghost.

  Amanda? I try to cry out, but can only muster a croak. I blink a few times and she’s gone.

  Did I hallucinate her again, like I did that day outside the subway?

  Jane also said she can still picture Amanda walking in her polka-dot dress for the last time.

  But Jane wasn’t there that day. It was just me and Amanda, listening to the rumble of the incoming train, I think hazily.

  There’s a tickle in my brain. It keeps pulling me back to the surface of consciousness. It has something to do with Amanda on the day she died.

  Adrenaline battles my deep fatigue as I try to recall the piece of information that’s eluding me. But my thoughts are too slow and clumsy to compete with the crushing exhaustion that grips me.

  I hear a whispered voice: “Enjoy your rest while you can, Shay.”

  The detail I’ve been searching for finally floats into my mind just before I descend into a deep, black hole of sleep: How could Jane know that Amanda was wearing a polka-dot dress when she died?

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  VALERIE

  VALERIE STANDS WATCHING OVER SHAY.

  Shay’s eyelids flutter, as if she senses a new presence in the apartment.

  Valerie remains immobile, watching the candlelight flicker across Shay’s face.

  She whispers, “Enjoy your rest while you can, Shay.”

  Shay gives a soft sigh as her body surrenders to sleep.

  The drug used on Shay—a double dose of the Ambien that Cassandra took from Shay’s medicine cabinet just a few days ago and ground up before adding to Shay’s glass of champagne—is certainly effective.

  Cassandra and Jane are now in a taxi speeding away from the apartment, their books in hand, en route to the charity auction. Before they left, they washed and dried and put away the glasses and platter Shay so thoughtfully set out. Valerie passed them in the hallway after they buzzed her in; their eyes met but they didn’t speak a single word.

  Valerie carries a nondescript brown paper bag with supplies of her own. She enters the tiny bathroom and bends down to peek beneath the sink.

  She sees the manila envelope, exactly where Cassandra told her it would be. She pulls it out with her gloved hand and checks the contents.

  Valerie stares down at James’s dried blood, remembering how he’d looked splayed on that bench in Central Park. It had taken so much work—countless hours of thought and planning and strategizing—to get James alone and vulnerable so that he could be punished.

  Now Valerie wonders how Shay located the envelope containing evidence from the night James was finally punished, when Cassandra and Jane had carefully sifted through the contents of Amanda’s apartment immediately after her death, then again several days later.

  Valerie feels a bit of grudging respect for Amanda, who must have found a cunning hiding place.

  Shay, however, left the envelope out almost in plain sight.

  It’s her own fault, Valerie thinks. Shay—so annoyingly tenacious—brought all of this on herself.

  Valerie checks her phone. By now, Cassandra and Jane are mingling at the crowded charity auction. Establishing alibis.

  Valerie exits the bathroom, passing Shay’s inert form, and places the scalpel and towel on Shay’s floor, near the threshold of the door. From the brown bag she carried into the apartment she removes the wheat-colored sundress Amanda wore on the night she led James into Central Park. She leaves two other items she brought on the floor beside the dress: James’s wallet and watch.

  Then she takes a hard look around the apartment, making certain no detail has been overlooked. She sees Shay’s leather jacket hanging over a chair, along with the floral scarf that exactly matches one Amanda used to wear. Inside Shay’s new purse are the sunglasses that are an exact replica of Amanda’s favorite pair.

  Shay, Valerie thinks, has no idea what’s in store for her.

  Valerie steps through the door, leaving it ajar, and disappears into the hallway, her head ducked low.

  She exits the building and walks unhurriedly down the street. Smiling at the shopkeeper sweeping the sidewalk as he closes up for the night. Inhaling the crisp late-fall air. Feeling better than she has in a long, long time.

  PART

  THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  SHAY

  Ambien is one of the most popular sleep aids in the United States. Twice as many women as men use this prescription drug; 77 percent of those who take Ambien do so incorrectly.

  —Data Book, page 65

  I AM NOT ALONE.

  A male voice is calling my name: Shay Miller!

&n
bsp; I open my mouth to answer but I can only make a croaking sound. My tongue is thick and fuzzy feeling. A horrible taste fills my mouth.

  I lift my groggy head from the end of the couch. Everything is blurry, and my eyes feel painfully dry. I blink a few times, until my living room comes into focus. I must have fallen asleep with my contact lenses in.

  For a moment I think the voice belongs to Sean. Then I remember I’m not in my old apartment.

  I try to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forces me back down. My blinds are closed but bright light seeps through the cracks between the slats. It must be morning.

  What happened last night?

  “Shay Miller!” The man’s voice is more insistent now.

  I look toward my doorway and see two uniformed police officers. One has his hand on his gun holster.

  I slowly push myself to a sitting position. “What’s going on?” My voice sounds raspy.

  “Why don’t you tell us?” says the officer with his hand on his gun. He has dark, flinty eyes and a lined face.

  I’m still in my jeans and blue blouse. The last thing I clearly remember is Cassandra popping the cork on a bottle of champagne.

  I’ve never blacked out from drinking too much, not even in college. But my head is splitting, and last night is a jagged hole in my memory.

  “I was with my friends—I must have fallen asleep.”

  Then I jerk back.

  The bloody scalpel and towel that I’d hidden under my sink are splayed across my living room floor. So is a man’s wallet and a gold watch I don’t recognize.

  A crumpled tan sundress with a rust-colored stain on the hem is next to my coffee table. I’ve never seen it before.

  The officers are staring at me intently, not coming any closer.

  “Wh-what is all this?” I stutter.

  My body starts to shake. I wrap my arms around myself and rock back and forth.

  “Take a deep breath,” says the younger officer, the one who isn’t touching his gun. “We’re just here to try to figure out what’s going on.”