You Are Not Alone

by Greer Hendricks

  Valerie takes a sip of coffee, then sets her mug on her glass-topped desk so roughly it nearly shatters.

  Why haven’t the police arrested Shay yet? Where has Shay gone?

  Maybe they shouldn’t wait for the police to act, Valerie thinks. Perhaps Shay should disappear permanently.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  SHAY

  An estimated 1,800 people go missing in the United States every day—though most of those reports are later canceled. There are roughly 90,000 active missing person’s cases in the U.S.

  —Data Book, page 72

  I DUCK MY HEAD against the wind as I walk through Times Square, passing a person in a Cookie Monster costume posing for a photo with a young boy, a tour-bus operator who tries to sell me a spot on a day trip to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, and the flashing neon lights that never cease.

  My footsteps are instinctively leading me toward the Moore sisters’ office on Sullivan Street. I need to see something solid about the sisters, even if it’s just their names on the company display in the lobby.

  My job was fake, so perhaps theirs is, too.

  I walk all the way to the Moore sisters’ building, trying to burn off my edgy feelings and clear my mind. After the first half mile, my face and hands begin to feel numb, but at least I’m doing something.

  I arrive at the address on the PR firm’s website and stare up at the six-story structure with a plain but elegant façade. A little flag outside says MOORE PUBLIC RELATIONS. So at least one part of their story seems real.

  It appears to be an ordinary Monday in Manhattan: Men and women are hurrying down sidewalks, talking into cell phones, many carrying to-go cups of coffee or bags with take-out lunches. It’s hard to believe that only a week ago I was one of the 1.6 million people in the city doing the same thing.

  Maybe I’ll see Cassandra or Jane exiting the building. I could try to follow them and find out more.

  I imagine them striding around their offices in their stylish clothes, their phone lines constantly ringing with people vying for their attention.

  I wait and watch—just as I suspect they’ve been watching me.

  Before long, I start to shiver. The cold rises up through the sidewalk and seeps through my body. I wish I could buy a cup of coffee to warm me, but I don’t want to leave my post, even for a few minutes. I shift my weight from leg to leg, trying to get my circulation flowing.

  At a little before 4:30 P.M., I see a woman approach the building. She’s wearing red leather pants, a black wool cape, and high platform boots. Her white-blond hair is choppily cut to her chin, and her bangs look like broom straw across her forehead.

  But it’s not her striking appearance that draws my attention. I recognize her immediately from the photo on the Moore Public Relations website: Willow Tanaka.

  I keep watching as Willow disappears through the revolving door. When she comes back out, I can try to engage her in conversation—perhaps she’ll tell me something about the Moore sisters.

  I know I’m clutching at air, but I’m desperate.

  The sun begins to sink behind the city’s tallest buildings, casting giant shadows over the streets. I tuck my hands deeper into my pockets and stamp my numb feet against the concrete.

  About twenty minutes later, I see that distinctive hair and a flash of red leather.

  Willow is exiting the building.

  I push away from the pillar I’ve been leaning against and take a step toward her.

  Then I see the woman emerging from the revolving door directly behind her.

  I recoil.

  It’s Valerie Ricci.

  She’s wearing gray slacks with a fitted wrap sweater, and her hair is up in a twist. She looks neat and efficient—as if she’s transposed a new persona over the warm, talkative, slightly bawdy woman I knew as Anne. I watch as she and Willow stand together on the sidewalk. Then Valerie hails a cab, raising her hand with a crisp flick of her wrist, and Willow climbs inside the vehicle.

  Valerie spins on her heel and walks back into the building.

  Cassandra and Jane described Valerie as a friend when they told me she’d help me overcome my subway phobia—and they used the same word when they described her as the tenant of the apartment they got me to “house-sit.” And when I first met her, she gave me the impression she was a stay-at-home mom.

  Now I wonder if Valerie actually works for the Moore sisters, even though I never came across the mention of her name on their website.

  It seems crazy that they would have paid her to take me on the subway and use a fake name and temporarily move out of her home so I could sleep in her guest room. But maybe it isn’t; the Moore sisters have done far more outrageous things to me.

  While I’m digesting this, the three of them—Cassandra, Jane, and Valerie—exit the building. I shrink behind the pillar.

  I don’t think they can see me; a busy street is between us. I watch them approach the curb, then lose sight of them briefly when a delivery truck rumbles by. When my line of vision is clear again, a taxi is pulling up for them.

  I begin to jog, keeping my eyes fixed on their yellow cab as it merges back into traffic and starts to blend in with dozens of others. When it idles at a red light, I scan the street, holding my hand up. But all the taxis that approach are full. It takes me three more blocks of running until I can catch one.

  “Can you follow that cab, please.” I point. “The one with the Chanel perfume ad on the roof.”

  We pass Washington Square Park, then head north past Union Square Park, my cab jerking and weaving through traffic. I keep my eyes fixed on the perfume bottle atop the vehicle I’m chasing. On Park Avenue South we briefly lose them when we get stuck at a red light, but their cab stops at the next light, so we catch up.

  Finally my driver manages to edge directly behind them. I can see three sleek heads in the backseat. For a moment it’s hard to tell who is who, then I realize Valerie is in the middle, with Cassandra to her right and Jane to her left.

  We’re getting close to the apartment I used to share with Sean and Jody; we pass the Thirty-third Street subway station, and the Starbucks on my old corner.

  A few blocks later, we turn east. My body grows rigid. I know this route well; I’ve traveled it many times.

  It feels surreal, but I know exactly where they’re going.

  Their cab pulls over and stops, and they climb out—first Cassandra, then Valerie, then Jane.

  They walk to the front door of the building directly in front of them and use a key to gain entrance. I slump low in my seat so they won’t see me if they suddenly turn around.

  “Lady?” My cabbie’s loud voice makes me flinch. “You getting out?”

  The Moore sisters are in my new apartment building—the one that used to belong to Amanda. They have a key to the main entrance. Do they also have one to my alcove apartment?

  Jane and Valerie disappear inside, but Cassandra remains by the entryway, like a guard.

  “Can you pull up to the end of the block?” I fumble in my wallet for one of my precious twenties.

  I give it to the driver and slip out of the cab. Enough people are on the sidewalk to provide camouflage, but I still move as close as I can to the pharmacy on the corner, glad it’s dark enough out that I blend in with the shadows.

  What are they doing in my apartment? Could they be trying to catch me there?

  Not five minutes later, I see all three of them approach the curb again and hail another cab. I duck into the pharmacy and try to look out the floor-to-ceiling window to see where they’re going, but I can’t tell which vehicle holds them.

  I wait another few minutes, then I step back out onto the sidewalk, wishing I had thought to use my burner phone to snap a picture of them with my building in the background as proof.

  When I’m a few feet away from the entrance where Cassandra stood only minutes ago, I pause. I’m afraid to go inside.

  Then I see a young couple I vaguely recognize with a b
aby strapped to a carrier on the man’s chest approaching. I’m pretty sure they live one floor above me. That little slice of normality gives me the security I need to move forward. I follow them into the building.

  When I reach my floor, the strong overhead bulb lights the hallway brightly, and I can hear laughter coming from Mary’s place across the hall.

  My door is shut. Nothing on the outside of my apartment looks out of the ordinary. And surely the police took away the bloody scalpel and other strange items.

  Still, I’d be even more reluctant to go inside if I didn’t hear Mary’s cheerful voice resonating from across the hall. I unlock my door and slip in, immediately flicking on the light switch.

  I scan my apartment quickly, then close the door and draw the chain across it. I don’t want to spend long here. But nearly every time I’ve been with the Moore sisters, they’ve either left me with something or taken something from me: Cassandra’s business card. Her raincoat. The necklace they retrieved. The tear sheet from the magazine. The photographs on the High Line. The bag of books Jane forgot at my new place on the first night I welcomed them here. The fancy purse and other gifts.

  And, of course, the man’s watch and wallet and the tan sundress that I’m now convinced they planted in my apartment.

  If they took or left something again, I need to know what it is.

  I start in my kitchen, methodically going through every drawer, cupboard, and cabinet. I even check my freezer and the oven racks. Luckily I’m neat by nature, and since I moved in only weeks ago, my place is uncluttered. I work my way from the front to the back of the apartment. Within an hour, I’m in the alcove, peering under my bed and shaking out my sheets.

  I yank open the drawer of my nightstand, where I keep an extra set of headphones, a scrunchie, and an old iPad that I use to watch movies.

  Those items are all intact.

  But something new is beneath my iPad: a small piece of paper. When I pick it up, I see that it’s a receipt from a bar I’ve never heard of, called Twist.

  The bar’s phone number and address are printed at the top by the logo of a lemon twist, above the tally for two Seagram’s and sodas.

  I shudder, imagining Valerie or Jane sliding open my nightstand drawer, their hands lifting up my iPad.

  I don’t have time to figure out why they planted this now. I fold the receipt carefully and tuck it in my wallet. I finish searching my bedroom, moving as quickly as possible, but I don’t see anything else amiss.

  I grab a fresh sweatshirt, jeans, and socks, shoving the items into a duffel bag. I’m halfway to my door before I remember how cold I’ve been, and I hurry back to my closet to get my black puffer jacket, which I trade for my thin down vest.

  I peer out my peephole. The hallway appears to be clear. I unlatch my chain and race out, hearing my door slam shut behind me as I tear to the stairs, taking them two at a time, and burst through the entranceway door onto the street. I keep running, all the way to the next block, then I finally slow to a walk.

  I spin around to look behind me every minute or so. I cross the street and switch back over half a dozen times. I pop into a little bodega and stare at the passersby, searching for a familiar face. But I don’t see anyone who appears to be following me.

  I feel as if I’m in a pinball machine as I weave through Times Square, dodging the woman scalping theater tickets to Hamilton, the guy pushing fake Ray•Bans toward me, muttering, “Ten dollars,” and a man pressing flyers into the hands of tourists.

  I finally reach my hotel. Before I unlock my door, I look for the edge of the white toilet paper.

  It’s gone.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  SHAY

  When it comes to violent crime, especially murder, Americans are at much greater risk of falling victim to someone they know, perhaps someone they know intimately. According to a landmark study by the Bureau of Justice Statistics, between 73 and 79 percent of homicides during a fifteen-year period were committed by offenders known to the victim.

  —Data Book, page 73

  I’M HUDDLED IN A BOOTH in a diner about a mile from my hotel. I ran all the way here, my heart pounding and my duffel bag banging against my hip.

  It could just have been a maid ignoring my DO NOT DISTURB sign. But I can’t erase my fear that Cassandra, Jane, and Valerie were waiting for me in my room.

  “Freshen up your coffee?” a waitress with electric-blue eye shadow asks, startling me.

  She fills my mug before I can reply.

  I’ve already had two cups, and I forced myself to eat half of a grilled-cheese sandwich to justify taking up this table for so long.

  I’m facing the door of the restaurant, and I’ve positioned my body sideways, so my back is to the wall, even though the only people near me are the elderly couple sharing the booth behind me.

  I have no idea what to do or where to go. Not a single place in this city feels safe.

  My body begins to shudder with the sobs I’ve been holding back. I feel as if a noose is slowly tightening around my neck.

  I take off my glasses and wipe my tears with my sleeve, then put them back on. I don’t have the luxury of indulging my feelings.

  I pull my Data Book out of my duffel bag, then remove the receipt from my wallet. I start recording new data: Twist bar, two Seagram’s & sodas, Aug. 15…

  The voices around me seem to fade. I feel like I’ve been plunged underwater.

  When I sat in the sterile room at the police precinct, Detective Williams asked me, Where were you on the night of Thursday, August fifteenth, Shay?

  My fingers tremble as I reach for my burner phone.

  “August 15,” I type into a search engine.

  It yields countless hits.

  I narrow it by adding “New York.”

  There are still hundreds of millions of results.

  Something important happened on that date. That must be why Detective Williams asked me about it in the sterile questioning room.

  I close my eyes and see the bloody scalpel. When I first glimpsed it, I’d guessed that Amanda had taken it from work. I’d rolled around different theories in my mind, each more unsettling than the next: Maybe Amanda had used it in an earlier suicide attempt, but had changed her mind. Or it could be evidence of some malfeasance at City Hospital—maybe a surgeon had operated on the wrong patient with it.

  There are other possibilities, though.

  I add one more search term to further refine my results: “Twist bar.”

  A headline bursts onto my phone screen: BUSINESSMAN FOUND DEAD IN CENTRAL PARK.

  My eyes move frantically down the screen: James Anders was found murdered in Central Park just a few months ago—on Thursday, August 15.

  “He looked like he’d been butchered,” a police source told the paper.

  Butchered. The horrifying word seems to pop off the screen.

  I grab my notebook and start recording facts. My hands are shaking so violently my words are barely legible: He was thirty-seven. A divorced father of one. From a town called Mossley in upstate New York. No suspects.

  I click on a few more links, writing down everything I can find about James Anders. The obituary from his local paper, The Courier, described how he attended Syracuse University and married his college sweetheart. After his divorce, he’d begun to split his time between Mossley—where he’d lived his whole life—and Manhattan as he tried to start up a new business selling custom sporting equipment.

  This article also has a picture. I squint at the grainy photo of a man wearing a suit and tie.

  “Hey, hon, we’re closing up in a few.” The waitress puts the check on my table. It’s signed with her name—Shirley—and a smiley face.

  I lean back and briefly close my eyes. It seems like I should be inured to shock after the events of the past couple of days, but what I’ve just learned feels like a blow to my solar plexus.

  I hear the door to the diner rattle and my eyes snap open. It’s just a customer ex
iting.

  Still, it reminds me of how vulnerable I am. Keep moving, my brain tells me.

  In a few hours the city will begin shutting down. I don’t want to be wandering around, trying to find bars that close late and diners that open early. Hotels no longer feel safe.

  I need a different place to hide. Somewhere I won’t be disturbed, so I can think. Some place unexpected.

  I check the time on my phone. It’s almost nine P.M., and I’ve got 68 percent of my battery left. I’m down to less than a few hundred dollars.

  I know one other thing, too: I’m being set up for a murder.

  * * *

  The subway sways along the tracks, its wheels rumbling, as I head out to Far Rockaway in Queens for the second time tonight. When I reach the end of the line, I’ll cross the platform and ride the thirty-one miles back to 207th Street at the northern tip of Manhattan again.

  Then I’ll do it again and again, until dawn breaks.

  The subway in New York never sleeps.

  I made one phone call just before I descended the stairs to the turnstiles. I called the number on Detective Williams’s card. She didn’t pick up, maybe because I used the burner phone and she didn’t recognize the number, or maybe because she was busy with a case.

  My words rushed out uncontrollably in the message I left: “I know Amanda’s friends are setting me up for the murder of James Anders, but I didn’t do it! They planted that stuff and more in my apartment—you’ve got to believe me, please. I’m innocent!”

  I probably sounded completely crazy to her; I might even have made things worse for myself.

  Now I look out the window of the train and see the graffiti painted on the walls of the city’s tunnels has yielded to a suburban landscape since we’ve moved aboveground: We whiz by trees, single-family homes, and glowing porch lamps. A kid’s bike propped up against a railing. A doghouse.

  I’m sitting in the middle of the train, as close as I can to the conductor, who pays me no notice. I know exactly where the emergency buttons are in this car. My duffel bag contains my change of clothes, wallet, burner phone, a power bar, and my Data Book and pen. My arms are wrapped around it, and my eyes never stop moving as commuters get on and off the train. I scan every single face.