You Are Not Alone

by Greer Hendricks

  I bundle up my old things and shove them into the duffel, then change into my clean clothes. I exit the stall and turn on the sink tap and rinse out my mouth. I splash some cold water onto my face and wash the lenses of my glasses.

  I glimpse myself in the mirror and quickly turn away. My hair is lank and a little greasy, and my skin is sallow.

  I exit the library and begin walking, grateful my puffer coat is now keeping me warm. My body feels heavy and a little clumsy; I see double before I blink and shake my head to clear it.

  I desperately need rest; my body and brain won’t be able to function much longer without it. My concentration is already slipping and I’m showing signs of deep sleep deprivation. After three nights with no sleep, people can begin to have hallucinations. I’m not too far from that point.

  When I reach Bryant Park, I find an empty bench and begin making calls on my cheap phone.

  The number for James’s new company has been disconnected. I track down a former colleague who was working with James on his custom-sporting-equipment business, but he says he has never heard James mention Cassandra or Jane Moore, or anyone named Valerie. The manager of the apartment building where James rented a one-bedroom tells me no women with those names live in the complex. When I call the Mossley real estate agency and ask for Chandler Ferguson, my most promising lead, I get sent to his voice mail. While I’m leaving him a message, an incoming call makes my phone buzz.

  It’s Detective Williams again.

  I don’t answer.

  Instead I turn off my phone for a few minutes while I leave the park and walk a few blocks away, to a bus stop. I sit on the bench inside the little shelter and turn on my phone again. I dial one of the numbers left on my shortening list, for James’s ex-wife, Tessa. She doesn’t answer so I hang up.

  Next I call James’s mother, Sissy Anders.

  She picks up on the second ring.

  I begin by telling her the lie I’ve created—that I went to Mossley Prep with James and that we alumni want to honor him with a small ceremony.

  Uttering those words makes me feel sick; my stomach clenches so tightly it hurts. It feels even worse than stealing back Jane’s necklace from Amanda’s mom.

  When Mrs. Anders finds out there’s no ceremony planned, it’ll be like salt in her wounds. But maybe she’ll forgive me if I can find out who murdered her son.

  I’m about to launch into the next bit I’ve practiced. I need to lob out the names of Cassandra, Jane, and Valerie to see how Mrs. Anders reacts. If she recognizes them—if James ever mentioned having a date with a gorgeous woman named Jane in the city, or if he told his mom he’d gone to a networking event and met a Cassandra who works at a fancy PR firm—I’ll have all the proof I need.

  But before I can say another word, Mrs. Anders spits one out at me: “Vulture.”

  “Ex-excuse me?”

  “What are you trying to get, money or something?” she snaps. “Mossley Prep already held a small service and planted a tree in my son’s honor last month.”

  She slams down the phone, leaving me breathless.

  A tear slides down my cheek and I wipe my nose with my sleeve. Everything I do seems to be wrong, and I’m sinking deeper and deeper into something I worry I’ll never be able to climb out of.

  Only one contact is left: Harris Dreyer, the former principal.

  He answers my call in a deep, rich voice, giving his full name, as if he’s at an office.

  I can’t tell him the truth, either.

  “Hi, I’m so sorry to bother you. I’m calling about James Anders. I was hoping you could tell me something nice about him for his college alumni magazine.”

  “Oh, James, what a tragedy.” Harris sighs. “You know, unfortunately, I can’t talk about a former student other than to tell you I have warm recollections of that wonderful young man.”

  “His best friends,” I blurt. “Could you just tell me who he was close to?”

  It’s hard to find statistics on how many people stay in touch with their high school friends, but given James’s strong ties to the area, it’s certainly possible that he kept in close contact with his closest buddies from Mossley Prep—maybe even the ones who moved away.

  “I wish I could help, but I can’t give out any information on any of my old students. I hope you understand.”

  I thank him and hang up. Then I wrap my arms around myself and rock back and forth on the hard wooden bench.

  All my work was fruitless.

  I have to keep trying to find the link. It feels like the only thing that can save me.

  I push off the bench and begin to walk in the direction of James’s East Ninety-first Street apartment building. Maybe I can find one of his neighbors, or perhaps I’ll see something that will finally click—similar to when I spotted Valerie coming out of the PR firm.

  While I walk, I phone the Syracuse University Office of Alumni Engagement because I have no idea where the Moore sisters or Valerie attended college. “I’m just trying to track down a few of your graduates,” I say. But the woman who answers the phone tells me none of them attended Syracuse.

  I finally reach the building where James stayed when he was in New York. I wait by the entrance, my duffel bag at my feet, hoping someone comes in or goes out.

  But it’s the middle of the workday, and although I’m there for three hours, the only people who enter the building are a dog walker and a UPS deliveryman, both of whom look at me quizzically when I ask if they knew a James Anders who lived here.

  Maybe this is the wrong approach, I think. James had only been in New York for less than a year. I can’t imagine he developed strong ties in that short time. The people who knew him best are all in Mossley.

  I pull out my Data Book and look down at my scrawled list of names—but they’re first names, and other than Belinda, they’re all fairly common ones: Kevin, Sam, Robin, Kathy, Matt. If any of them are former high school classmates, maybe there’s a way I can cross-reference them by finding a Mossley Prep yearbook.

  I’ve been sitting on the steps leading up to the door of James’s building. I pull myself up heavily and head down the street, stopping at the dry cleaner’s a few doors down and showing the picture of James on my tiny screen to the woman behind the desk. She doesn’t recognize him or his name, but I leave my number, and she promises she’ll have the manager call me later today. I also stop at the burger restaurant on the corner and the liquor store across the street. It’s a long shot that anyone at these places would know James, let alone have spotted him with one of the Moore sisters. But I have to try.

  I resume walking toward the Apple Store. On my way, I dial Tessa, James’s ex-wife again, but she doesn’t answer. For all I know, she’s out of town. Chandler doesn’t pick up either.

  The store is crowded—the new iPhone was just released—so I have to wait a few minutes to get an open computer. I keep my duffel bag clenched between my feet as I navigate to the Mossley Prep website and try to find a link to old yearbooks.

  There aren’t any. But I do discover the high school newspaper, the Tattler, is archived online—and the issues go back exactly twenty years. James would have been seventeen then, probably a senior.

  I begin to scan the pages, searching for names in bylines and photo captions that match those on my list. I scroll through dozens of pages before I get my first hit in the homecoming edition of the paper: A guy named Kevin O’Donnell was homecoming king. He might have been the same Kevin who wrote about epic parties at the river.

  I keep scanning through the old black-and-white pages, then I see a picture of a group of guys playing soccer under the headline THE LIONS PREPARE FOR ANOTHER VICTORY!

  I look at the picture of the players, but I can’t tell if James is in it. He could be the blond guy chasing the ball, but his face is in profile. And all I’ve seen is one grainy black-and-white picture of him as an adult.

  I rub my burning eyes, then continue to scan the pictures and articles. I find two Kathys�
�one who wrote a piece about the debate team, and another who won a cross-country meet. I write down both of their last names.

  “Miss? Do you need any help?” I look up to see a guy in a navy blue T-shirt with an Apple logo standing next to me. I’m suddenly aware of how I must appear: I spent the night on the subway and I didn’t brush my hair today, let alone shower. More than that, the agitation and fear roiling off me are probably palpable.

  “Just looking,” I say, and return my gaze to the screen.

  Five pages later, I scan a large photo of student actors rehearsing for the senior fall play. A dozen kids are onstage, but only two are named in the caption: “Lisa Scott, who plays Emily Webb, and Andy Chen, who plays George Gibbs, get ready to wow the audience on opening night!”

  I jot down those names, then I scan the faces of the other teenagers, looking for James.

  My tired eyes skip over a dark-haired girl sitting on the edge of the stage, her legs dangling. Then my gaze jerks back.

  Straight eyebrows. Features that are unremarkable yet somehow familiar. An intense stare at the camera.

  My peripheral vision turns black; I feel like I’m about to pass out. I take deep breaths, fighting off the sensation.

  It looks like Valerie Ricci.

  If she and James went to Mossley Prep together, I’ve found the hidden link.

  Valerie was an actress, I remember as my pulse accelerates. She lived in L.A. before moving to New York. It stands to reason she’d perform in the school play.

  I lean forward, my face close to the screen. This photo is twenty years old. It looks like it could be a young Valerie, but I couldn’t bet my life on it.

  More than three thousand counties are in the United States. What are the odds that Valerie would just happen to have been from the one James lived in?

  Essentially impossible. People also have a roughly one-in-three-thousand chance of getting struck by lightning in their lifetime, and I’ve never known anyone that has happened to.

  I begin to whip through the old newspaper archives again, a fresh surge of energy fueling me as I search for any other indication of Valerie’s presence at Mossley Prep. This is what I’ve been desperate to find—it could prove my innocence and get Detective Williams to investigate the true criminals.

  The final issue of the school year contains a double-page spread featuring the graduating class with the names of all the students listed.

  I begin to tremble as I read through each one.

  She wouldn’t have been Ricci back then, but there is no one named Valerie at all.

  I search through the faces. But the girl I saw on the theater stage is missing.

  Did I imagine seeing her?

  Hallucinations don’t begin until after three nights with no sleep. I’m not there yet.

  I go back to the first page of the paper, determined to find some trace of Valerie at the school.

  When my phone rings, I glance down reflexively. It’s Detective Williams again.

  I’m tempted to answer and blurt out what I think I’ve stumbled across, but it would be far better if I can phone her back with hard evidence. I let it go to voice mail.

  I consider calling Mossley Prep, but it’s dark out now; past closing time for any high school, and I doubt they’d give me information about a former student anyway.

  I’m so close to figuring all of this out.

  My phone rings a second later, but this time it’s a number with the Mossley area code. I snatch it up.

  It’s Chandler Ferguson, the real estate agent.

  “Thank you so much for calling me back!” I blurt. My voice sounds borderline hysterical. “You went to Mossley Prep, right?”

  “Yes?” he says, drawing out the word into a question.

  “I—I—I’m trying to get some information about one of your former classmates, Valerie Ricci. But she would’ve had a different last name back then. Did you know her?” My words are running into each other.

  He pauses.

  “I really need to find Valerie,” I whisper. “Please.”

  “Excuse me,” a woman says loudly. “I’m waiting for that computer if you’re not using it.”

  I step away, leaving my duffel bag on the floor.

  “Valerie?” he repeats. It sounds like I’m on a speakerphone in his car; I can hear a tinny echo. I hold my breath.

  “If that’s who I’m thinking of, yeah, she went to our school briefly.” He gives a little laugh. “Piece of work, that one.”

  My vision swims. The ground tilts beneath me.

  Cassandra and Jane didn’t know James. Chandler has just confirmed it was Valerie who had the connection to the murdered man. They probably grew up in the same town. They attended the same high school.

  “What do you mean ‘piece of work’?” I gasp.

  I feel someone tap me. “Is this yours?” The woman who claimed my computer points at my duffel bag. I scoop it up with my free hand and move away. It’s so noisy in the store that it’s hard to hear Chandler when he asks, “Sorry, who did you say this is?”

  “I’m just an old friend of hers.”

  I hear him honk and curse softly. “The highway is filled with idiots tonight. Didn’t mean to offend you. Sorry, I didn’t really know Val and I haven’t seen her in twenty years. Now, if you’re interested in buying a house…” He gives a little laugh. I hear the connection click, as if he has an incoming call. “Look, if you really want to find Valerie, I think her mom still works at Ribeye. I’m pretty sure she served me a steak last time I was there. You could ask her.”

  “What’s her mom’s name?” I ask urgently.

  “Belinda. Gotta run, good luck.”

  I stand in the middle of the store, my phone still to my ear, people swirling all around me.

  Belinda is Valerie’s mother.

  My brain is so jumbled now I almost can’t make the connection. I flip back in my Data Book, which is normally tidy but now has lines slashed through and arrows connecting bits of information. I search for Belinda’s name. You were like a son to me, she wrote on the tribute page.

  Were Valerie and James high school sweethearts?

  I have to get to Belinda. She’s holding the final puzzle piece.

  * * *

  “Who did you say you were again?” Belinda asks.

  I’ve been pacing the streets, holding my phone, waiting for her to call me back at the end of her shift, as her manager at the steak house promised she would.

  It’s almost nine P.M., and fatigue and adrenaline are wreaking havoc on my body. I’m so weak I’m nearly staggering. All I’ve eaten today is a few bites of scrambled eggs, and I’m severely dehydrated. But I can’t stop moving; I feel like I’ll collapse if I do.

  “Hi, I’m Lisa Scott, and I went to Mossley Prep with your daughter Valerie,” I say, using the name of the girl who appeared on the theater stage with Valerie. “I’m trying to track her down.…”

  “Oh, Valerie’s living in the Big Apple now.”

  I grip the phone more tightly. “It’s just that I’m organizing a special memorial for James Anders at our next reunion, and I understand they were friendly.”

  Take the bait, I think urgently.

  But she doesn’t immediately reply.

  “Uh, I was—I’m wondering about Valerie so I can send her an invitation.…”

  “Friendly?” Belinda finally responds, sounding surprised. “Valerie wasn’t just friendly with James. I was married to James’s father for a little while. So he was her stepbrother.”

  I’m stunned into speechlessness.

  “But Valerie probably wouldn’t go to James’s memorial,” Belinda continues.

  This is it. I have the piece of evidence I need to give the police. Detective Williams will surely investigate Valerie now.

  My body begins to tremble and I feel tears slide down my cheeks.

  “They weren’t close, you see. And Valerie was always out of the house at play rehearsal or with her friends. You know how
girls are at that age.”

  I’m barely listening as Belinda continues. All I want to do is hang up and phone Detective Williams.

  “If any of my daughters would want to attend, it would be the other two.”

  The hair on my arms stands up as an electric charge courses through my body.

  “Valerie has two sisters?” I whisper.

  “Yeah.” Belinda sounds surprised. “Cassandra and Jane.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, seeing those three sleek heads close together in the back of the cab.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Moore,” I finally manage to reply.

  “So where did you say this memorial for Trey will be? I mean James—Trey’s his old nickname, so it’s how I always think of him. Anyway, is it just for classmates, or…”

  Belinda’s voice is fading away.

  “Hello?” I hear her say, just before I hang up.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  VALERIE

  Nineteen years ago

  IT WAS THE BEST DAY Valerie had experienced since she’d transferred to Mossley Prep, the school for rich kids in her town.

  She didn’t know anyone well yet—it sucked to start at a new high school during senior year—but right before lunch, the drama teacher posted the cast list for the spring production of Grease.

  She’d won the part of Rizzo, with its showstopping solo.

  “Congrats,” said Lisa Scott, the spoiled little blonde who always got the leads. She’d be playing Sandy.

  “Thanks,” Valerie responded, thinking, I’m going to make everyone forgets you’re even onstage.

  Valerie was walking home, breathing the crystalline air and humming along to the music in her mind, when her stepbrother pulled up in his Audi convertible. “Wanna ride?”

  Trey was cute in a preppy kind of way, but he wasn’t her type. Plus, it was gross to think about him that way. They were related now, even though they barely saw each other at home. He was only around every other weekend, and she spent as little time as possible in that stuffy house with her weird stepfather. Whenever she had free time, she’d go visit her friends from her old high school, the ones she’d been torn away from when her mother remarried.