You Are Not Alone

by Greer Hendricks

  The people who appear and then disappear around me are like a microcosm of the city: late-night Wall Street workers in expensive suits mix with equally weary-looking cleaners in blue aprons, and a woman carrying a guitar case sits across the aisle from a guy in a Jets jacket, while voices from the boisterous party crowd—women in skirts and sequins laughing as they take selfies, a group of guys heckling their drunk buddy who fell over when the train lurched forward—soar over it all.

  But as the night wears on, the crowds grow thinner.

  Right now it’s just me in the subway car. I look at the conductor again, then clutch my duffel bag even tighter.

  It must be two or three o’clock, but I turned off my phone to preserve the battery when it hit 26 percent. Reception is so spotty on the subway that I ate up a lot of battery looking up everything I could find on James Anders, and my charger is back in the hotel room, along with my iPhone.

  A young guy wearing layers of dirty, frayed clothes enters my car at the next stop. I tense up, feeling my eyes widen, when he begins to head in my direction. He smiles, revealing a few missing teeth, and briefly holds up his hands, as if to show me he means no harm. Then he turns and takes a seat toward the opposite end.

  I feel bad about my instinctual reaction; I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings. He’s tall and beefy, and I actually feel a little safer with him around. We ride together as the hypnotic, rushing sound of the train’s movement fills my ears again.

  I know things don’t look good for me. I have no alibi for the night of August 15. I went for a long run—that much was in my phone’s calendar, which I showed to Detective Williams. But I can’t remember the exact route, or what I listened to on my headphones, or even what time I arrived home.

  I didn’t kill James Anders. So who did?

  Someone who knew him. Statistics I found earlier tonight show that between 73 and 79 percent of homicides were committed by offenders known to the victim.

  One of the articles I read noted that James Anders’s wallet and watch were stolen, but that he’d paid for his drinks at Twist right before leaving.

  So whoever killed him must have taken those items.

  I can still see the brown leather wallet and gold watch on my floor, by the tan sundress with dried bloodstains on the hem.

  The Moore sisters were in my apartment earlier that night, plus they—or Valerie—have a key to it. I’m convinced they planted those items. Every bit of data I’ve amassed tells me they must have killed James, too.

  But why?

  I have to find out how their lives intersected with his.

  I turn back on my phone and use some of my waning phone battery to search their names all together again—Cassandra and Jane Moore, Valerie Ricci, and James Anders—but nothing comes up.

  It seems logical that they must have crossed paths in New York. James lived here part-time for the past year, traveling to his home in Mossley on the weekends.

  They could have met him anywhere in the city—at a bar, at the gym, at a restaurant, on the street. Could he have been one of their lovers? If so, surely the police would have investigated them.

  I’ve gone over it a thousand times in my head. But I can’t figure out how to connect them. I underline James’s address in New York and the name of his company, my pen pressing hard against the page. Maybe the name Moore will mean something to one of his coworkers.

  The train pulls into another station and the doors hiss open. But no one gets on. By now the guy toward the far end of my car is snoring gently. The doors close and we move on.

  I look down at my phone screen again and read another obituary for James Anders, this one a brief few paragraphs created by the funeral home that handled his service. I’ve already written down the names of the people who survived him: his daughter, Abby; his mother, Sissy Anders; and his ex-wife, Tessa. His father predeceased him, the obit said. Except for the four years he spent at Syracuse, James resided in Mossley all his life.

  I click on a few tabs one by one: The first allowed people to buy flower arrangements to be displayed at the church during his funeral. The second provided information about where mourners could donate to an educational fund for Abby. The final one served as a “tribute wall” where people wrote condolence messages.

  I start to read through the notes. Someone quoted a line from the Bible about angels, another expressed outrage that James’s killer hadn’t yet been caught, and one wrote Billy Joel lyrics: “Only the good die young.…”

  Some of the tributes are anonymous, unfortunately. I begin to jot down the names of those who signed theirs.

  When the train plunges back underground, my phone’s connection cuts out. I hold my breath when the lights flicker, but they quickly stabilize.

  When we’re aboveground again, I scribble down as many of the names on the tribute wall as possible. I keep getting kicked off the internet, but by the time my battery dies, I’ve recorded a few that seem like promising leads.

  A man signed his comment “Principal” Harris—which I’m guessing refers to James’s old high school—and a few buddies referenced poker games, cookouts, and epic parties at the river. One signed his full name, Chandler Ferguson, and it’s unusual enough that I might be able to find him. He could be a link to James’s other friends, or maybe I could ask to see his old high school yearbook to collect more leads. A woman who signed only the name Belinda wrote, “You’ve always been like a son to me. God bless.” She could have been a next-door neighbor, or even a relative.

  If I can figure out a way to get the people who knew James best to answer my questions, they could unveil the connection between James and the Moore sisters.

  When my battery finally dies and my phone goes dark, my hand aches from writing so furiously, and pressure has built up behind my eyes.

  I didn’t know the Moore sisters when James was murdered. I only met them after another violent death—their friend Amanda’s. So they couldn’t have been planning all along to set me up for this.

  Why did they target me?

  It was the purest of coincidences that led my path to cross with Amanda’s at such a horrible moment. They couldn’t have engineered that; if I hadn’t stopped on that muggy August morning to tie up my hair and lost twenty-two seconds, I would’ve caught the earlier train.

  I lean my head back, trying to imagine what the police meant by butchered. I can’t see Cassandra or Jane killing anyone—let alone so brutally.

  We’re approaching the end of the line; I recognize the twisted tree trunk on a street corner from seeing it earlier tonight. I stand up, hearing my joints pop.

  The young man in the slightly frayed clothes is still sleeping. I reach into my duffel bag for my last power bar, then walk quietly down the middle of the train and lay it on the empty seat next to him.

  The train stops. I check the platform to make sure it appears safe. Then I step off, cross to the other side, and wait for the one heading back to Manhattan.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CASSANDRA & JANE

  Nineteen years ago

  AT FIRST, NOTHING SEEMED out of the ordinary on that Wednesday night.

  Cassandra and Jane ate roast chicken and green beans at the kitchen table, while their mother sipped a white wine spritzer and prepared a plate of what she called “crudités” for their stepfather’s arrival. Their homework was finished; their backpacks waited in the front closet for a new school day.

  They’d lived in their stepfather’s house for more than a year by now, and the unspoken routine was firmly established: When he arrived home, they became invisible.

  Usually, that occurred around seven P.M. on weeknights.

  But Cassandra had barely swallowed her last forkful of beans when the front door swung open and the sound of footsteps approached the kitchen.

  Their mother grabbed her purse off the counter and swiped on a fresh coat of frosted pink lipstick, using the shiny refrigerator door as a mirror.

  “You’re home early!”
she cried when their stepfather appeared, wearing one of his three-piece suits. It was her fake happy voice; Cassandra and Jane had heard it a million times before—like when Jane had given her a multicolored macaroni necklace she’d made at school, or when Cassandra had told her she’d signed up her mom to bake homemade cookies for the class Christmas party, or when their retired next-door neighbor struck up a conversation about his tomato garden.

  “I was eager to see you,” their stepfather replied, but his voice didn’t sound normal either. When their mother walked over to kiss him, the girls noticed he turned his head to one side.

  “All done?” She pulled away the girls’ plates. Jane wasn’t—she’d been saving the crispy skin of her chicken for last—but she didn’t protest.

  Something strange was in the air.

  Cassandra felt it, too. “C’mon, let’s go upstairs,” she said, taking Jane’s hand.

  Their stepfather’s nasally voice carried clearly after them: “So, how was your day?”

  “Good, good,” their mother replied. “Let’s get you a drink.”

  As the girls climbed the stairs, they heard the sharp crack of ice cubes coming free from the tray.

  “And did you enjoy step aerobics?” their stepfather asked.

  Silence. Then the cubes clattered into a glass.

  “Wait,” Cassandra whispered, pressing Jane’s hand. They crouched on the top step, huddled together. The girls could smell the lemon Pledge the housekeeper had used on the banister earlier that day; their socks pressed into the soft, plush wall-to-wall carpet, the one their mother had forbidden them to walk on wearing shoes.

  “Yes, it was fine,” their mother answered. There was a pause. “Is something wrong with your drink?”

  Another pause. A strange current ran through the house. It made the sisters feel like they’d stepped into a scary movie.

  Something was looming; about to pounce.

  “Is he angry?” Jane whispered.

  Cassandra shrugged, then put her index finger to her lips.

  “So, chicken for dinner?” their stepfather asked. “I thought you’d be more in the mood for steak.”

  Cassandra squeezed Jane’s hand.

  “Sweetie, what are you talking about?” Their mother’s tone was shrill now. “We don’t eat red meat in this house … remember what your doctor told you?”

  “Yes, but I wondered if you wanted a little variety today.”

  Jane turned to Cassandra and scrunched up her face. Their stepfather was speaking in code.

  But their mother seemed to understand it. “My love—”

  He cut her off. “I had a bit of a surprise this morning. I received a letter. Someone slipped it under the front door of my office building.”

  “Who was it from?”

  “There’s no signature.”

  “What—what did it say?” their mother stammered.

  “Here, I’ll read it to you.” The girls heard a rustling sound, then he cleared his throat. “‘Check out where your wife really goes on Wednesdays when she pretends she’s taking a step aerobics class.’”

  There was dead silence.

  Then their voices grew louder, with his squashing hers down. He used a few bad words the girls knew—and one they’d never before heard. Their mother began to cry.

  The last thing their stepfather said was “I want you all out of here by the morning.”

  * * *

  Nothing was ordinary after that Wednesday night. Their family broke apart; now it was just three of them—Cassandra, Jane, and their mother—living in a small rental house. They returned to their old public school, and their mother began working full-time again. There was no more Dover sole or fresh seashell-colored paint.

  But they didn’t have to take off their shoes and carefully place them in the closet every time they entered the run-down small house with the chain-link fence surrounding it. They no longer had to become invisible at seven P.M. And Cassandra and Jane got to share a bedroom once more, where they could whisper late into the night and be reassured by the other’s steady breathing if a nightmare came.

  Sometimes—especially after dinner, when she was smoking Virginia Slims and elevating her tired feet—their mother would speculate about the author of the anonymous letter.

  “Who would have sent that note?” she’d ask, stubbing another butt stained by her frosted pink lipstick into the ashtray. “It’s like someone wanted to punish me.”

  A silent gaze would pass between Cassandra and Jane.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  SHAY

  Even newborns show heightened interest in faces and develop the capacity to recognize them quickly. Many areas of the brain are involved with facial recognition, with the frontal lobe playing a large role.

  —Data Book, page 75

  WHEN THE DOORS TO THE New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street are unlocked at ten A.M. sharp, I’m the first person to step inside. I’ve been waiting between the two marble lions that flank the entrance. Long ago, they were nicknamed Patience and Fortitude because the New York City mayor Fiorello La Guardia felt citizens needed to possess those qualities to survive the Depression.

  I take a deep breath as I walk through the stately Rose Main Reading Room, which is illuminated by chandeliers and small table lamps. Gracefully arched windows line the walls, and the ceiling is like a work of art, with murals inlaid between gilded curls and twists. Amid all this old-school grandeur are computers available to anyone with a library card.

  Earlier this morning, after I left the subway and found an electronics store that opened at seven A.M., I bought a new charger for my burner phone. Then I went to a diner and asked to be seated by an outlet before ordering coffee and eggs. While I waited for my phone screen to come alive, I dozed off, awakening with a jerk after my head dropped down. I haven’t slept since I caught a couple of hours of fitful rest in the hotel room two nights ago.

  My fatigue is numbing; when a waitress dropped a plate that shattered on the floor, I barely flinched. My body feels heavy and sluggish, and I have to keep blinking to clear my vision.

  I drank a cup of black coffee straight down before I played the single message that was left on my phone sometime during the night.

  Detective Williams’s voice was even more brusque than usual. “Shay, where are you? We need you to come in. Call me back the moment you get this.”

  I have two missed calls from her, too. She’s intent on reaching me. When she told me to come in, it sounded like an order.

  I don’t know what the Moore sisters and Valerie have done since they left my apartment, but they may have engineered something to make me look even guiltier. They may have somehow swayed Detective Williams. Just as they apparently swayed Jody and Sean.

  A wave of nausea grips me as I realize I have to acknowledge the real possibility that I could be arrested.

  I’m worried the police can track me by my burner phone, now that Detective Williams has the number. So I want to keep it off as much as possible. But I have more research to do, which is why I came here, to the public library.

  I slide into a seat before a waiting laptop and position my fingers above the keyboard. It’s a relief to no longer have to squint at a tiny screen. The first name I plug into the search engine belongs to James’s mother, Sissy Anders. I have to explore several channels to get a phone number for her, but I finally locate it through her Facebook page. His ex-wife, Tessa, has a listed number that I write down, even though I doubt she knew much about James’s life in New York. It’s also easy to find the phone numbers for James’s new business in New York, his home address in Mossley, and the management company for his apartment building on East Ninety-first Street.

  An older woman with a pair of reading glasses on a chain around her neck and a pile of textbooks slips into the chair next to mine. I reflexively check her face, then move on to the names I found on the funeral home’s tribute page. I input “Harris,” along with the terms “Mos
sley” and “principal.” It yields an instant hit: Mossley Prep Academy. I navigate to the school’s website and see Harris Dreyer listed as a former principal. He’s probably retired by now, I think.

  I continue researching the names from the funeral home’s page. I can’t find a Belinda Anders, which seems to reduce the possibility that she was related to James. But I do locate Chandler Ferguson, who’s now a real estate agent in Mossley. Maybe like James he never really left his hometown. I put a star next to Chandler’s name in my Data Book; they could have been close friends.

  When I check the timer on my computer screen, I see I’ve only got four minutes left before the computer kicks me off to free up the system for other users. I forgot about the forty-five-minute limit. But maybe I have enough.

  At least I can begin making phone calls now.

  I pack up my things and head to the restroom. I’ve been in these clothes for days, and the filth of the subway seems to be clinging to me. I duck into a stall and lock the door and pull my sweatshirt over my head. I’m just unbuttoning my jeans when I hear the click of high heels against the floor.

  Someone is standing a few steps in front of my stall, her toes pointed away from me. I see alligator pumps, gracefully arched feet, slim ankles.…

  My heart jackhammers.

  The sink water turns on.

  I lean forward as quietly as possible, peering through the sliver at the side of the door. A fitted coat, blond hair cut in a bob … I glimpse the woman’s face as she turns off the water and dries her hands while checking her reflection in the mirror.

  She’s a stranger.

  I exhale as her heels click back across the floor and she exits the bathroom.

  My legs are so weak and trembly that when I stand on one foot to take off my jeans, I have to grab at the stall’s side wall to keep from falling over.