Jody is crouched on the bottom stair, still holding the photo. “I feel sick,” she whispers. “I can’t believe this is the woman Shay says she saw commit suicide.”
“Jody, you’ve got to tell the police what you found,” Cassandra urges.
Shay’s history of stalking has already been established. She was fired from her last job, and she suffered a crushing romantic rejection. She has exhibited bizarre behavior, including trying to slip into the life of a dead woman.
Is it such a leap for anyone to believe Shay might also be capable of murder?
Jody stares down at the blue sky, the sunlight on Amanda’s face, the jagged X drawn across her skin. “I’ll call the police right now,” she whispers.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
SHAY
Some people contend there are two primal fears. The first and most basic is the end of our existence. The second is isolation; we all have a deep need to belong to something greater than ourselves.
—Data Book, page 68
RIGHT AFTER I SEE HER FACE, I google “Valerie Ricci” on my phone, trying every possible variation of the spelling that I can think of. I don’t feel safe lingering outside her building, so I head a few blocks away, to a diner I noticed when I house-sat, while I wait for the search engine to pull up results.
I slide into a booth toward the back, choosing the side that lets me keep an eye on the door, and order wheat toast. I’m still not hungry, but I know I need something to absorb the acid in my nervous stomach.
My search has thousands of results: One is a lifestyle blogger in North Carolina, another an attorney in Palo Alto, and there are schoolteachers, insurance agents, real estate brokers, and a self-published author. I can’t chase every one of them down.
I click on the images link and begin to look through the pictures: blond, blue-eyed Valeries, and lots of brunettes, and at least two redheads. Old Valeries and young ones, all shapes and sizes. As I scan through them, I realize I am unconsciously looking for the woman who just accepted the flowers from her doorman. But Valerie could have metamorphosed into the woman she is now. I slow down, giving each picture a careful look.
Then I see a familiar oval face with straight eyebrows and chestnut hair.
I’ve found her.
By the time the waitress slides a plate of toast triangles in front of me, I’m scrutinizing an old image of Valerie on the set of a now-canceled soap opera. From there, I locate a few of her past addresses in L.A. She was an actress, which seems fitting: She certainly made me believe she was someone else—and she convinced Jody, too.
I also discover she has an ex-husband named Tony Ricci, who still lives in L.A. His number is listed. I make a note of it so I can call him once I come up with a cover story—or a role of my own, like the ones Valerie plays.
Maybe he can tell me Valerie’s maiden name and hometown. If I have that information, I can try to trace her back in time.
My search turns up nothing about her in recent years, other than the address I just visited on East Twelfth Street. I can’t even find out where she works. Not a single current photograph of her exists online. It’s almost as if the person she used to be vanished when she came to New York.
I manage to finish a piece of toast and a half glass of water, then I slide out of the booth and walk back to Sean and Jody’s, hunching my shoulders against the cold. I check behind me every block or so and even cross the street twice. But all in the city seem engrossed in their own lives; no one appears to be watching me now.
Sean and Jody were asleep when I left this morning, and I’m hoping Sean will be home alone now. But after I climb the stairs to the second floor and use the spare key he gave me last night, I realize the apartment is empty.
I stand there, looking around, wondering what to do next. I’m so cold I can’t feel my toes.
Three flowered china teacups and saucers are on a little tray in the kitchen, along with a tiny china creamer and a box of chamomile. Jody must be expecting company, I think, since Sean only drinks his beloved dark-roast coffee. Maybe she ran out to get cookies or scones.
A cup of hot tea sounds perfect, I think. I reach into the cupboard for a chunky mug and drop in a teabag. As I reach for the teakettle, my fingertips brush its metal handle and I jerk back. It’s so hot I’ve burned myself.
I run the sink tap and put my fingers under the cold water.
Then I look again at the little tray Jody has set out. Why would she boil water for guests who haven’t yet arrived?
I turn off the sink. “Jody?” I call out.
All three doors are open—the one to the bathroom, the one to Jody and Sean’s bedroom, and mine. There’s no way she wouldn’t hear me if she were still here.
My head whips around to check my bedroom door again as something registers in my brain. The door to Jody’s office—the room I’m using—is wide open now.
But I’m certain I left it shut.
I stand there, a wet paper towel wrapped around my throbbing fingers, staring at the open door.
Déjà vu: When I stayed in Valerie Ricci’s apartment, I cut my finger slicing a red pepper and thought about opening her bedroom door to look for a Band-Aid. But I didn’t; the door was tightly shut and I left it that way.
The next day, however, I noticed it was cracked open.
I’d texted the Moore sisters, wondering if the super had been in the apartment, and Cassandra immediately responded that he had been by to check on a leak.
I accepted that at the time. But now, it seems a little too convenient that she’d known the super had been in the apartment of one of her friends.
If it wasn’t the super, then who came into Valerie’s apartment while I was supposedly house-sitting?
It could have been Valerie. Cassandra and Jane also had a key—they used it when they first showed me the apartment. Or Valerie could have given another key to someone else entirely. While I was feeling grateful to have the beautiful apartment as a refuge, someone could have come in and rifled through my things or even watched me sleep.
I shudder and drop the paper towel onto the counter. Then I lift my head and slowly sniff the air.
I wheel around, hurrying back out the door.
I’ve felt many things in the city I’ve lived in for nearly a decade: hopeful, despondent, joyful, irritated, and deeply lonely.
But I’ve never felt the gut-wrenching, primal sense of fear I experienced just now when I inhaled the faint traces of the distinctive floral perfume Jane always wears.
* * *
I stay aboveground, my hoodie pulled over my hair. Even though the streets are relatively crowded, I still spin around every now and then to make sure someone isn’t following me.
All I have are the clothes I’m wearing, my wallet, and my iPhone, but I know I can’t go back to Sean and Jody’s. I need to find a safe place to stay.
As I’m pondering this, I receive a text from Jody: Hey, my grandmother is sick, so Sean and I are going to head out of town for a few days.
I stare at the text, thinking about how I’ve never once heard Jody mention a grandmother.
I feel as if I’ve been punched in the gut.
Only yesterday, they were so caring and concerned about me. Why the abrupt change?
I blink back tears as I shove my hands deeper into my pockets. Maybe I misconstrued Jody’s tone, which is easy to do in a text, I try to tell myself.
I begin walking aimlessly, thinking again of those three delicate teacups on the tray, and the still-hot kettle. Jody had pulled out her good china instead of simply taking mismatched mugs from the cabinet.
It’s as if she wanted to impress her visitors. Now I understand why.
Did something happen to make her turn from caring to brusque? Or did someone make it happen?
Cassandra and Jane met Jody and Sean when they came by to pick up Jane’s necklace.
Did the Moore sisters come to the apartment to convince Jody and Sean to turn against me?
Someone brushes past me and I whirl around. But it’s just a teenager on a cell phone with a big backpack.
I look up at the buildings towering over me. So many windows. Anyone could be watching me.
I can’t go to my new apartment or stay with my mom or Mel. The Moore sisters probably know their addresses, and I can’t put anyone I care about in jeopardy—or risk having Cassandra and Jane turn the people I love against me, too.
I don’t know what the Moore sisters have planned, but I doubt they’re finished with me yet.
I dial Detective Williams’s number, but she doesn’t pick up. I hang up before leaving a message. What could I even say? I know it sounds crazy, but I think Cassandra and Jane Moore—they’re the friends of Amanda’s that I’ve been hanging out with—are watching me. They know things about me, like what I eat or where I’ll be. And they turned my old roommate against me.
I have to collect more facts before I go to the police.
I wander the city for hours, until my feet are aching and my body feels numb. By the time dusk falls, I’ve figured out where I can stay tonight. I’ve seen enough movies to know that if I want to be untraceable, I have to pay in cash. So I stop by an ATM and withdraw the maximum $800.
Then I walk through Times Square and head west. It will be easier to be invisible in one of the most crowded places in the city.
It doesn’t take me long to spot what I’m looking for—a seedy small hotel with a neon VACANCY sign blinking outside.
I try to pull open the door, but it’s locked. A red buzzer is to my left, and I press it while I cast another look back over my shoulder.
At the loud humming noise I instinctively reach for the door again to pull it open. I step inside the dim lobby. The man behind the front desk barely glances up from his computer. He’s got a fringe of gray hair over his ears and a matching mustache.
“Reservation?” he asks when I reach the desk.
“Sorry, no. But I saw the vacancy sign.…”
“We’ve got a room with a double bed on the second floor.”
“Is there anything higher?”
“No elevator. Most people want lower.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Got one on the fifth floor. Eighty a night. Just need a driver’s license.”
I pull the wad of twenties I’ve just taken out of the ATM from the pocket of my jeans and peel off five beneath the counter. “I was mugged. They got my wallet. I don’t have a license.” I slide the bills to him, making sure they’re fanned out so he can see the extra twenty. “Is that a problem?”
“Not for me. One night, then?”
“For now.”
He’s barely even made eye contact with me. And if the Moore sisters—or anyone else—are looking for me, they may not know exactly how to describe me. I’m wearing my glasses again, and I used one of the scrunchies I borrowed from Jody’s supply in the bathroom.
“Name?” He clicks on an ancient-looking computer.
Once I looked up the most popular baby names for girls born during my birth year, and I immediately recall a name that dominated in the late eighties and early nineties.
“Jessica. Jessica Smith.” Smith is a perennial common surname in the United States.
He hands me a key. “Vending machines with pop back there.” He points toward the rear of the lobby.
“Thanks.” I look down at the heavy metal key. The clerk is already back on his computer, playing solitaire.
I want nothing more than to barricade myself in my room. But I don’t have any food, or a change of clothes. So I force myself to head back out.
I find everything I need within a block’s radius: a three-pack of underwear, a long-sleeved shirt, and a down vest on sale for twenty dollars. I then head to Duane Reade and pick up travel toiletries, a few Cup-a-Soups, some protein bars, and a burner flip phone with internet access and a prepaid SIM card.
I’m almost at the register when I remember something and whirl around and head toward the back of the store, where there are office supplies. I grab a cheap spiral notebook and a ballpoint pen before heading back to the register. I pay in cash, then return to the hotel.
I buzz again to gain entry, and the clerk gives me a vague nod as I pass him on my way to the staircase.
I trudge up, then unlock my door and look around. The room is tiny and utilitarian, with just a double bed, a straight chair, and two nightstands. I check under the bed and in the tiny bathroom before I even put down my shopping bags. I secure the flimsy-looking chain and blockade the door with the chair, wedging it under the knob.
I finally sink onto the edge of the faded bedspread. Breathing hard, I stare out the window that faces a brick building three feet away.
If I don’t keep my mind busy, it feels like the weight of my fears will crush me. So I get to work.
I start by pulling out my phone and begin plugging terms—“scalpel,” “New York City,” “Cassandra and Jane Moore”—into a search engine.
I scan dozens of articles and pictures. Most of them I’ve already seen from my previous searches about the Moore sisters.
I expand my search, trying to picture the pages of my Data Book containing all the information I recorded about the Moore sisters: the name of the yoga studio Cassandra frequents. Bella’s, the bar where we had Moscow Mules. Daphne’s boutique. Thirty-third Street subway station suicide. The Rosewood Club, where the sisters hosted Amanda’s memorial service.
I get tons of hits. I read until my eyes are gritty. But I can’t find the missing link that will help me make sense of all this.
When heavy footsteps tromp through the hallway, I flinch. But they pass by my door without pausing, and a moment later I hear someone enter the room next to mine and turn on the television. The canned laughter of a sitcom seeps through the thin walls.
I don’t want to turn on my television, which could mask the sound of someone trying to get through my door. I also don’t want to leave my room. I’m not hungry, but I am thirsty. I should have known there wouldn’t be a complimentary bottle of water on my nightstand.
The front-desk clerk had mentioned a vending machine in the lobby. Pop, he’d said, which is a regional term that a lot of people in the Midwest use. I think about walking down that dim hallway and descending four flights of stairs. Instead, I head to the bathroom and cup my hand under the sink tap and drink from it.
I should eat something, I realize, but my stomach feels too tightly clenched to handle even the soup I bought.
I lie down on the bed, listening to the distant wail of a siren. I’ve left on the bathroom light so I won’t be in darkness.
I felt alone before I met the Moore sisters, when my biggest problems were a dead-end temp job and hearing Jody’s giggle coming from Sean’s bedroom.
Now I know how much worse things can become.
I’m convinced the Moore sisters set me up for something. But what?
Fatigue starts to overtake my body, as if someone has laid a weighted blanket on me. I think back to Jane laying the throw over my body, saying, This will keep you cozy. I’ve been in such a frantic state, but now I’m shutting down. My body and brain can no longer sustain the intense stress. I feel completely numb. I just want to disappear.
As I stare into the darkness, I wonder, Is this how Amanda felt on the day she died?
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
AMANDA
Two months ago
IT HAD BEEN TEN DAYS since James died. No, since she had killed James. The hissing voice was right: It was her fault.
Gina had left several more messages, but Amanda didn’t respond. What could she say?
Then came a final call from City Hospital, this one from human resources, letting Amanda know she’d been fired.
Her life as she’d known it was over. But at least she could do one right thing.
Early on a Sunday morning she slipped on the first article of clothing her hand closed around in her closet, a green polka-dot dress. She found a manila en
velope and filled it with the evidence she’d been hiding beneath her sink.
Then she stood by her door, listening intently. She heard nothing.
She unlatched the chain and peered down the hallway. It was empty.
She hurried to the stairs, taking them two at a time as she wound her way down to the lobby.
It was completely still—no other residents were picking up their Sunday papers or coming in with lattes in hand.
But that didn’t mean someone wasn’t waiting for her outside.
Amanda looked down at the bulging manila envelope in her hand. What might they do to her if they knew she was planning to deliver it to the police?
They would intercept her.
They would destroy the evidence.
They would destroy her.
Amanda thought hard and carefully, concentrating as deeply as her weary, jumbled mind would allow. Then she spun around and walked back to her mailbox, using her key to open it. She shoved the envelope to the very back.
She reached for her phone and dialed the nonemergency police number. She wasn’t going to tell the police everything. At least not yet. But she wanted them to know she was coming, just in case.
“My name is Amanda.” Her voice shook. “Could I speak to someone in Homicide? I have evidence of a crime.”
As she headed uptown, Amanda continually scanned her surroundings. Her ringer was turned off but her phone kept buzzing in the side pocket of her dress, like a furious wasp. It wasn’t quite nine o’clock in the morning, but it was already so hot she felt her hair sticking to the back of her neck.
It was less than a fifteen-minute walk to the Seventeenth Precinct. She’d told the officer that she was on her way, though she didn’t provide her last name or any details about the felony she said she’d witnessed.
“You say your name is Amanda?” the woman had said. “Ask for me when you get here. I’m Detective Williams.”
But the detective had sounded weary and distracted, as if this was far from the first call she’d received from someone who sounded paranoid and made grandiose claims.
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