You Are Not Alone

by Greer Hendricks

  How did someone get into my apartment and put all this stuff around me?

  I had plans to go out with Ted last night. He was coming to my lobby to pick me up. Is it possible I let him in? Could he have done all this?

  I look at the wallet and watch again. “I was supposed to have a date. Are these things his?”

  “Who was your date with?” the older officer, the one with the harder face, asks.

  “This guy named Ted.” I realize I don’t even know his last name. “I met him online.”

  The vanilla-bourbon candle on the coffee table is almost completely burned out; the air smells cloyingly sweet. My stomach heaves. “Could I please get some water?”

  Then I hear the creak of a footstep in the hallway.

  A moment later, a tall, lean woman with a close-cropped Afro appears behind the two officers.

  She scans the room, her gaze roving over the scalpel and towel and dress.

  Then her eyes fix on me. They widen with shock.

  “Shay?” Detective Williams asks.

  * * *

  An hour later, I’m in one of the small blue rooms at the Seventeenth Precinct that I passed not long ago when I came here to give the necklace to Detective Williams.

  I can’t stop shivering, even though Detective Williams gave me a blanket and brought me a cup of hot coffee.

  “Why don’t we start at the beginning.” She pulls out the chair opposite me. The metal feet scrape across the linoleum floor. “Would you mind if I recorded this?” She gestures to the camera in the corner.

  “I guess that’s okay.” I pull the thin black blanket tighter around me.

  Detective Williams must have been stunned to see me in Amanda’s old apartment—looking a lot like Amanda. I’m still not entirely clear why the police showed up, but from what I can gather, a neighbor who noticed my open door and saw the bloody towel near the threshold dialed 911.

  My phone is tucked in my bag, and this room has no clock. I feel completely disoriented.

  “Is it Saturday?” I blurt.

  Detective Williams nods. “Yes.”

  At least I haven’t lost a bigger chunk of time.

  She is staring at me with that impassive expression, the one that makes me think she can handle hearing anything. So I finally confess to her, even revealing how I went to Amanda’s mother’s house and retrieved Jane’s necklace.

  Detective Williams takes notes while I talk. When I mention my makeover, her pen pauses on the page and her gaze rises to roam over my face. She seems to be scrutinizing everything from where I part my hair to the cleft in my chin.

  I have no idea what she’s thinking.

  I take another sip of coffee. It’s lukewarm by now, but at least the caffeine is clearing away the fuzziness from my brain. The sensation reminds me of how I felt when I took Ambien—I was so sluggish the morning after.

  Is it possible that I took Ambien last night?

  Hallucinations. Lack of memory. Altered consciousness. And women are more susceptible to the effects. All of this is in my Data Book.

  I’ve read cases of rare instances of people sleep-driving, cooking meals, and even having sex with no memory of these activities.

  Did I let Ted in without knowing it? Or did I open my door to someone else?

  I recoil from the thought. It seems impossible.

  More flashes from the evening come to me, like shards of a dream: Cassandra topping off my glass. Jane tucking the blanket around me. The soft sound of a door shutting.

  “Do you want to talk to my friends?”

  Detective Williams tucks her pen into the spiral at the top of her pad. She regards me steadily for a long moment. “You mean Amanda Evinger’s friends?”

  My voice is shaking. “They might know more about what happened.”

  Instead of responding, she stands up. “I’m going to grab another coffee. Need anything?”

  I shake my head.

  She leaves, closing the door behind her.

  Maybe she doesn’t intend to call Cassandra and Jane, but that doesn’t mean I can’t. I grab my phone from my purse. I dial Cassandra first, then Jane. Neither answers so I leave them both messages: “Please call me back as soon as possible. It’s an emergency.”

  Then I text Ted with the same message.

  But none of them immediately replies.

  I try to think about what to do next. I’m tempted to phone my mom, but then I imagine Barry answering, and I decide against it.

  I look around the spare, hard-edged room. Nothing is in here other than the table, metal chairs, the camera in the corner, and a frosted pane of glass on one wall. I wonder if it’s one of those mirrors that the police use when a suspect is being questioned.

  I press my fingers to my temples, trying to piece together fragments of memories: Cassandra in her burgundy dress … Jane hugging me … the smell of her sweet perfume … delicious, foamy champagne …

  My head spins.

  Detective Williams has been gone a long time. The waiting is torture.

  I finally walk to the door, the blanket still wrapped around my shoulders, and reach for the knob. I’ll just stick out my head and see if I can spot her.

  I pull but the door refuses to budge. I’m locked in.

  I turn around, staring at the four walls. Are other police officers watching me right now?

  My vision swims. My breath feels stuck in my throat.

  I can’t succumb to a panic attack.

  Am I locked in this room because Detective Williams wanted to give me privacy?

  Or am I a suspect for a crime I don’t even know about?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  AMANDA

  Two months ago

  AMANDA HAD PLANNED TO hurry to a restaurant right after leaving James on the bench in Central Park. She’d intended to sit as close to the center of the room as possible and ask the waiter about the night’s specials and pay with a credit card. She’d wanted to be memorable.

  Instead, she burst through her apartment door, stripped off her tan dress and left it crumpled on the floor of her bathroom next to her purse, and turned on the shower.

  She stood under the hot spray, compulsively washing herself, attempting to dig the dried blood out from under her fingernails.

  And struggling to push the images out of her mind: James’s body, convulsing on the bench. Blood trickling down his face from the letter R that had been carved above his right eye. His lips swelling. His pale skin gleaming with sweat. And Stacey staring as Valerie stood over him, holding the bloody scalpel in her gloved hand.

  Amanda shivered despite the hot water beating down on her. She couldn’t get warm.

  Call 911! Amanda had cried. He’s having a reaction to the medication!

  Valerie had merely bent over him again, wiping away the blood on his face with a small blue towel. She was clearing her canvas so she could finish carving the word into his forehead, the one that would tell the world what James had done to Daphne.

  Stop! He could die! Amanda had cried.

  Now she wrapped her arms around herself, shaking. She remembered the Nightingale Pledge she’d recited at her graduation from nursing school: I solemnly pledge … to practice my profession faithfully.… I … will not take or knowingly administer any harmful drug.…

  They were supposed to punish James, not kill him.

  She could hear a ringing over the noise of the shower. The burner phone the Moore sisters had given her was still in her purse, next to the bloody towel. Wrapped in the towel was the scalpel.

  Amanda stared straight ahead, the water blurring her vision.

  “Did he show Daphne any mercy?” Valerie had asked, finishing the R.

  “Val, he’s foaming at the mouth,” Stacey had said.

  James’s movements had begun to slow down as his body gave up the fight.

  From the pledge Amanda had recited as she’d stood onstage at her graduation, her posture straight and proud, and the sun brightly shining overhea
d: I will dedicate myself to devoted service to human welfare.

  Amanda had tried to push Valerie aside. If James’s airway was closing, it would be too late to save him by the time an ambulance arrived. But there was one chance: She’d spotted the pen in James’s breast pocket, the one he’d used to sign the check at the restaurant. She’d seen doctors perform emergency tracheostomies before. She could cut a hole into his trachea with the scalpel, then use the tube of the pen to keep air flowing through his swollen throat.

  “Give me the scalpel,” she ordered.

  Valerie ignored her and started on the downward slash of the second letter, A.

  Cassandra and Jane, who had been serving as lookouts, came running over.

  “Someone’s coming. We’ve got to get out of here.” Cassandra grabbed Valerie’s arm, causing Valerie to drop the scalpel.

  Amanda picked it up. “I have to help him!”

  James’s body gave a final shudder, then stopped moving.

  “I think he’s dead,” Stacey said.

  Cassandra didn’t hesitate. “It needs to look like a robbery.”

  “With that letter on his face?” Still, Valerie reached into James’s back pocket and slid out his wallet. Cassandra unclasped his watch.

  Then Jane lifted a finger to her lips.

  On the other side of the sprawling oak tree, a dog barked.

  “We need to go, now,” Cassandra whispered.

  Amanda touched two fingers to James’s neck. His pulse had vanished.

  “No,” she whispered.

  She’d seen death many times in the hospital before; she’d fought it with her hands and instruments and skills. It was never easy to lose. But this was different.

  She’d never before been death’s accomplice.

  She reached for the towel Valerie had left on his chest and wrapped the scalpel in it, then stuck it in her bag as Stacey grabbed her elbow, roughly pulling her away. “C’mon, Amanda. Move!”

  The five women hurried toward the edge of the park. Ahead were the bright lights of headlights and restaurants and buildings. “Separate now,” Cassandra directed them. Her expression was impassive under the glow of the streetlight. Her voice was steady and even. “Meet at my place.”

  Amanda watched as the others split in different directions—Cassandra and Jane hailing a cab, Valerie melting into the shadows along the edge of the park, and Stacey jamming her hands into the pockets of her jeans and heading toward the subway.

  Amanda stood there, alone.

  Then she began to run. But not toward Cassandra’s apartment.

  She ran home.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  SHAY

  About 50 percent of Americans say they rely on their instincts to help them determine what feels truthful and what doesn’t. One in seven say they strongly trust their gut to make decisions, while one in ten rarely do.

  —Data Book, page 66

  WHEN DETECTIVE WILLIAMS FINALLY comes back into the room, she apologizes for the door being locked. “It automatically bolts when it shuts. You’re free to go anytime you like.”

  “Oh, okay.” I feel my sense of claustrophobia recede. “Do you have any update on what happened last night? Whose stuff is in my apartment?”

  “We don’t have any information about that right now.”

  But the wallet must have had something in it to indicate who it belonged to—a driver’s license or credit card. Before I ask about that, though, Detective Williams sits down and leans forward, her forearms resting on the table.

  Her tone doesn’t change when she asks me her next question. But I feel a shift in the air, as if some sort of switch has been flipped.

  “Where were you on the night of Thursday, August fifteenth, Shay?”

  I blink and shake my head slightly. That was months ago.

  “I don’t know offhand,” I whisper. I look down at my phone, which is on the table now. “Can I check my calendar?”

  “That would be great, if you don’t mind.”

  I pull it up. Temp, dentist, 6-mile run.

  “I temped all day, then I had my teeth cleaned. I went for a long run that night. See?”

  I tilt my phone in her direction and Detective Williams nods. But she’s not glancing at my screen. She’s staring at me.

  The silence feels oppressive.

  “Sorry it’s not more exciting,” I say, trying to ease the tension.

  She doesn’t smile. It’s almost like she’s waiting for me to tell her more.

  “What’s going on?”

  “That’s all for now,” Detective Williams finally says. She stands up, and I do the same.

  She leads me back to the front door. “I’ll be in touch,” she says as I step out.

  I stand on the busy street, feeling disoriented. The last thing I want is to be by myself.

  So I phone Sean. The moment I hear his warm, familiar voice—“Hey, Shay!”—I burst into ragged sobs.

  * * *

  I’m so grateful that for once Jody isn’t around. She has an organizing job that’s supposed to last all afternoon.

  It’s just me and Sean on his new couch—the one he got to replace the sofa I took away—with big glasses of water in front of us. I’m still feeling dehydrated, as I often do after taking Ambien. So maybe I did swallow a pill at some point last night.

  We’ve been talking for a long time. Sean was so stunned by what had happened that I had to tell him the whole story twice.

  It still doesn’t feel real to me, either.

  “So how did you leave things with the detective?”

  I’m hunched over, with my legs pulled up and my arms wrapped around my knees. “She asked if I had any plans to travel out of the city, and I said no. She obviously knows where I live. I’m not sure I can go back to my apartment. I mean, what if the person who left all that stuff comes back?”

  I can’t suppress a shudder.

  “So you’ll stay here. Like old times.” Then Sean smiles, and I can tell he’s trying to get me to do the same: “Except you should know that Jody has turned your room into an office.”

  Of course she has, I think. When I look up again, Sean is staring at me with concern in his eyes. “Hey, have you eaten today?”

  I shake my head. When I went into the bathroom at the police station, I’d recoiled at my reflection: Mascara was smeared under my eyes, and my hair was disheveled. I’d dampened a paper towel and run it under my eyes and splashed cold water on my face before trying to tame my hair. I’d taken out my contacts and put on glasses, thankful I’d been carrying them in my purse and that I’d thought to grab it before Detective Williams had driven me to the station.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Come on.” He gives me a little tap on the knee. “You’ve gotta stay nourished. How about I make you one of your favorite banana smoothies?”

  I follow him the few steps into the kitchen.

  “Do you want to try your friends again?”

  I look down at my phone. Ted still hasn’t replied to my text. And neither Cassandra nor Jane has returned my calls. So I text the Moore sisters again: Please call me as soon as you can. Something awful has happened.

  I wait a moment, staring at my screen, but I don’t see the three dots that would indicate one of them is typing a reply. “They’re probably with a client or something.”

  Sean pulls a banana out of the fruit basket and begins slicing it up. “They’re in PR, right?”

  “Yeah.” I can tell he’s trying to get my mind off the past few hours, to give me an oasis of calm, but I can’t make small talk.

  He reaches for the almond butter in the cabinet and continues to chat, telling me about the new student he’s tutoring. “So this helicopter mom called me the other day and said her son got a 1580 on the SAT. She wants me to help him get to a perfect 1600.” Sean pulls vanilla extract from the spice drawer. I notice the drawers are now lined with brightly striped contact paper.

  “Oh, wow,” I say listles
sly.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Should I stop talking?”

  I shake my head rapidly. My thoughts are too unnerving in the silence.

  “More talk coming up right after this intermission.” The loud grinding noise of the blender startles me and I flinch. Sean notices and turns it off. “Sorry.”

  He pours the smoothies into two glasses and adds reusable metal straws. “Jody got us these. They’re much better for the environment.”

  I flash to Cassandra handing me my glass of champagne last night, and the feel of a soft hand on my forehead. I suppress a shudder.

  “Come on, have a sip,” Sean urges me.

  He takes a long drink and I do the same. The cool liquid feels good against my throat, but I don’t know if I can manage to drink any more.

  “What did I forget? They don’t taste exactly like the one you always make.”

  “The cinnamon.”

  My phone buzzes in my jeans pocket. It’s a text from my mom: Sweetie! Mashed or sweet potatoes for Thanksgiving? Or both?

  I can’t believe the world is still spinning on its usual axis—that people are thinking about holiday meals and reading the Saturday paper and jogging in Central Park.

  “Was that from your friends?”

  I shake my head.

  “I remember they liked your smoothies, too.” He takes another sip.

  I frown. “Why do you say that?”

  “That night when we met for a beer and you called them about the apartment, they mentioned it.” He walks over to the couch and pats the cushion. “C’mon, you look a little pale.”

  I slowly walk over and sink onto it. My legs suddenly feel like they can’t hold me up.

  I never made a smoothie for Cassandra or Jane. I have no recollection of ever bringing up the subject.

  “Shay?”

  “Can you remember exactly what they said?”

  He looks up and to the left—which a lot of people do when they’re trying to retrieve a memory. I find myself holding my breath.

  “One of them—I’m not sure which—told you she could picture you in your new kitchen, making your famous smoothie.”