You Are Not Alone Read online

  Has Shay been playing them, with her shy manner and quiet life?

  She could destroy everything the sisters have built.

  The final text lands.

  Jane grips her sister’s arm as Cassandra whispers, “No.”

  Shay just walked into a police station.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SHAY

  Loneliness is spreading to more and more people, almost like a virus. These days, roughly 40 percent of Americans report feeling isolated on a regular basis—double the approximately 20 percent in the 1980s. One survey found Gen Zers (those born 2001–now) to be the most lonely, followed by millennials (those born 1980–2000—my generation).

  —Data Book, page 15

  I’VE NEVER BEEN INSIDE a police station before, but television prepared me for the Seventeenth Precinct: Two rough-looking benches line the hallway walls, the floor is composed of scuffed linoleum squares, and a uniformed officer eyes me from behind a glass partition.

  He continues to regard me steadily as I approach, but waits for me to speak first. “I’m Shay Miller. I spoke to Detective Williams earlier today and she asked me to drop this off.”

  I reach into my purse for the letter-size white envelope that contains Amanda’s necklace. I wrote Detective Williams on the outside so it won’t get lost a second time.

  I’m about to slide it through the opening at the bottom of the glass when the officer says, “Hold on,” and reaches for the phone. He turns slightly, and I can’t hear any of the conversation.

  He hangs up and swivels to face me again. “Detective Williams will be out soon.”

  “Oh.” From my conversation with her earlier, I assumed I’d just be dropping it off so she could return it to Amanda’s family. But maybe she wants to collect it in person.

  I look behind me, at the long, scarred wooden benches. They’re bolted to the floor.

  I stand there for another second, then walk over and sit on the edge of the closest bench, still holding the envelope. I can feel the metal chain and the intricate charm through the thin paper.

  Before I called Detective Williams, I stared at the necklace for a long time. It still looked to me like a blazing sun, with rays firing out in all directions. The gold is strong but delicate. It seems expensive, and I thought Amanda’s family might want it back as a memento.

  I’d noticed one other thing: The chain was broken.

  Maybe that’s why it had fallen off Amanda’s neck in the subway. But other possibilities had occurred to me on the walk to the police station: Someone could have ripped it off her neck. Or she could have yanked it away herself.

  “Shay?” I look up and see Detective Williams striding through the security door. She’s got unlined dark skin and a close-cropped Afro. She’s wearing a crisp blue pantsuit—similar to the gray one she had on when I first met her—and the same impassive expression she wore when she questioned me on the subway platform after Amanda’s suicide.

  “Come with me, please,” she says in her soft voice.

  My brow furrows. What else can she need from me?

  I follow her down a hallway lined with a few small, spare rooms—probably places where suspects are questioned—and into an open area filled with desks and chairs. It smells like french fries, and I spot a McDonald’s bag on the desk of an officer who’s simultaneously eating dinner and filling out paperwork.

  “Have a seat.” She gestures to a chair. Her words could make it an invitation, but her tone straddles the edge of an order.

  She walks around to the other side of the desk and sits down. She pulls her chair in closer, her movements slow and deliberate.

  When she reaches for a notebook and pen in her top drawer, then fixes me with her inscrutable dark brown eyes, my mouth turns dry.

  I can’t shake the sense that I’m in trouble.

  The detective can’t suspect I had something to do with Amanda’s death. Can she?

  She turns to the first blank page of the notebook. “Tell me again how you came to realize the necklace belonged to Amanda Evinger.”

  “I saw this picture at her memorial ser—” The realization hits me: Detective Williams must be wondering why I went to a memorial for a woman I never met.

  I haven’t done anything illegal, I think frantically. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  But I’m holding a broken necklace that was on Amanda, and I was beside her when she leaped to her death. When I reached out to try to grab her, could someone have thought I was pushing her?

  My breathing is so ragged I worry it’ll seem like evidence of my guilt. Detective Williams is waiting. Not saying a word.

  “I know it sounds strange,” I blurt. “I just felt this—this connection to her because I was there right before she…” I can barely choke out the words. “That’s all it was. I went to pay my respects.”

  The detective writes something down in her notebook. I’m desperate to see it, but I can’t read her tiny, squiggly letters—especially upside down. It seems to take her forever.

  She lifts her head again. I can’t tell if she believes a word I’ve said. “How did you know about the memorial service?”

  Inwardly I cringe. I’m digging myself into a deeper hole. My upper lip and brow are sweaty. My heart is pounding so hard I feel as if Detective Williams must be able to see it pulsing through my shirt—as if it’s another piece of evidence in the case she might be compiling. I doubt innocent people panic like this.

  “Do I need a lawyer?” My voice is shaking.

  She frowns. “Why would you think that?”

  I push my glasses up higher on my nose and swallow hard. “Look, I just—I found her address after you gave me her name. I was wondering about her, and she lived near me. So I took a flower and left it on her doorstep. That’s where I saw the notice about the memorial service.”

  I wonder if the detective already knows about the yellow zinnia I left, and the way I lied at the service about how I knew Amanda.

  Detective Williams looks at me for a long, steady moment. “Anything else you want to tell me? Are you still hanging around her apartment?”

  I shake my head. “No, just that one time.” I’m near tears. “That’s the whole story, I swear.”

  She closes her notebook and stretches out her hand. For a moment I think she’s reaching for mine, but she just wants the envelope. I give it to her, noticing it’s now crumpled and damp from my sweaty palms.

  “That’s all I need for now.” She stands up.

  I do the same, my legs weak with relief.

  As we retrace our steps down the hallway, Detective Williams asks me one final question: “You still seem really shaken up by all this. Is there someone you can talk to?”

  No, there isn’t anyone, I think an hour later, as I sit across from an empty chair at a table for two at my favorite Greek restaurant a few blocks from my apartment.

  After I’d left the police station, I’d stopped at a deli to pick up a six-pack of Blue Moon—Sean’s favorite beer, and one I like, too. I thought I’d remembered him saying something about Jody being away, and I’d hoped to catch him alone.

  My fingertips had skipped past Cassandra Moore’s card as I’d reached for my Visa tucked in the slot behind it.

  “Oh, I forgot an orange,” I’d said to the cashier, running back to scoop one up. We always drank Blue Moon with a slice of the fruit down the neck of the bottle for extra flavor, ever since a bartender served it to us that way.

  I was curious about the origin of that garnish, so I looked it up a while back: The cofounder of the company came up with the idea after he observed some bartenders serving beer with lemon wedges. Although Americans don’t drink as much beer as they used to, in recent years consumption of Blue Moon has nearly doubled. By changing up the fruit, the cofounder added a distinctive association to Blue Moon.

  As I accepted my bag from the cashier, I’d imagined Sean and me sitting on the couch and talking, the way we used to. Sean is as kind as h
e is analytical. He wouldn’t judge me. He’d try to help.

  But when I unlocked the door to our apartment, I heard laughter. Jody’s silver sandals were under the bench—along with two pairs of shoes I didn’t recognize.

  “Want some sangria?” Sean said after he’d introduced me to the other couple in our living room. “Jody made it. We’re just having a quick drink before we head out to dinner.”

  “There’s plenty,” Jody had added. But her tone didn’t quite match her welcoming words. I’d glanced at the pretty glass pitcher and the pink cocktail napkins with WHY LIMIT HAPPY TO AN HOUR? written in gold lettering.

  “Thanks,” I’d said brightly. “Wish I could, but I’ve got plans, too.”

  Then I’d shoved the six-pack, bag and all, into the refrigerator and got out as fast as possible.

  * * *

  Three weeks ago, I dined at the same Greek restaurant where I’m now sitting.

  Then, the room felt warm and welcoming. It’s a family-owned place and Steve, the patriarch, had brought me a complimentary second glass of wine, as he sometimes does for regular customers. He’d asked me about the Malcolm Gladwell book I was reading on my phone, and I’d explained Gladwell’s ten-thousand-hour rule: An individual needs to work at something for ten thousand hours before developing an expertise in it. Steve had joked that since the recipes he used were handed down from his grandmother, they met the “century rule.” As I dug into my hot, savory falafel, I’d told him I agreed.

  I’d lingered, the conversations from nearby tables wrapping themselves cozily around me.

  Tonight I’m eating the same dish, sipping the same inexpensive white wine, and sitting only a few tables away.

  Another stat from my Data Book: The percentage of adults who routinely eat on their own is estimated at 46 to 60 percent. Some studies show that eating alone is more strongly associated with unhappiness than any other factor, except mental illness.

  This has never bothered me before.

  As I pick at the falafel and a side of sautéed spinach I usually devour, I wonder if Sean and Jody and the other couple have left yet. All I want to do is take an Ambien and slip under my covers.

  I’m about to ask the waitress to box up my food and bring me the check when a woman swoops past me, calling out, “Sorry! Sorry!”

  I turn to look as she joins a table of four other women, making her way around to hug each in turn. They’re all around forty or so, and they seem to have the easy familiarity of old friends.

  “Don’t worry, I already ordered you a vodka tonic, extra lime,” one says.

  “You’ve always been my favorite,” the woman shoots back.

  They continue the merry banter, their heads close together, their voices overlapping, warm laughter ringing out.

  The waiter delivers my check, and this time when I reach for my Visa, I pull out Cassandra’s card, too.

  Snippets from the memorial flash through my mind—the three women studying Amanda’s photo, their arms wrapped around each other; Pahked ya cah in Hahvad Yahd; Jane’s dimple flashing as she smiled at me; the warmth of Cassandra’s hand on my bare forearm as she told me to call her anytime.

  Cassandra’s words echo through my mind: Connecting with each other is one of the most essential things we can do.

  I took for granted what I used to have: the college boyfriend who wanted to marry me; Mel flopping onto my bed while we talked; even the coworkers from my last job, who gathered on Thursday nights for happy hour.

  One by one, they’ve all slipped away.

  I run my fingertips over the embossed letters of Cassandra’s name.

  Jane had invited me to join them for a drink that night.

  I’d give anything to go back and change my answer to yes.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SHAY

  In a study of people who witnessed a suicide, 60 percent said they thought about the event without meaning to. 30 percent had physical reactions when they were reminded of the event, including sweating, nausea, and difficulty breathing. Almost 100 percent said the experience had a significant impact on their lives.

  —Data Book, page 17

  I MAKE MY USUAL banana-and-almond-butter smoothie for breakfast and leave my apartment by eight A.M., my routine on the days that I temp. My tote bag holds my lunch—a turkey sandwich, apple, and pretzels. I’ve stopped seeing Paula because even with insurance she’s expensive, but I’m trying to do some of the things she suggested. Last week I even made it halfway down the stairs of the subway—the one near my temp job.

  I’ve also got the phone number of a new headhunter Jody said her brother had used.

  I’d thanked her when she’d offered the lead, but I suspect Jody’s motives aren’t completely altruistic. I’m sure she’d like me out of the apartment more so she and Sean could have it all to themselves.

  Plus, there’s this: A few days ago Jody was drying dishes in our kitchen—she’s a professional organizer, and our place is a lot neater since she started coming around—and she grabbed a little towel out of a drawer. It had a TOUGH MUDDER 10K logo on it.

  “Which one of you maniacs ran this?” she asked, waving it in the air.

  A small, internal twinge made me pause.

  But Sean blurted out, “We did it together. Last August, right, Shay? Man, were we sore.”

  “Yet I somehow managed to heroically stumble to the beer tent,” I joked.

  Jody gave one of her tinkling little laughs. But her face pinched. She’d continued cleaning the kitchen, throwing away the unused chopsticks from a take-out meal and the almond milk that Sean and I both drank—Jody preferred half-and-half—even though I’d just used it and knew a good splash was left.

  I’d found an excuse to leave, which I’ve gotten pretty good at doing. But as I closed my bedroom door, erasing the view of Jody sponging down the now-bare countertops, I couldn’t help feeling like another piece of clutter Jody wanted to get rid of.

  Jody gave me the headhunter’s contact information shortly after that.

  I plan to call him on my lunch break.

  As I set off toward my bus stop, I notice the shift in the city: It’s early September, and Manhattan, which empties out in August, is bustling again. Commuters with to-go cups of coffee wear earbuds as they stride down sidewalks, and little kids with new-looking backpacks hold the hands of their parents or nannies as they head to school.

  The air is thick and warm, and the sky is gray, swollen with another late-summer storm. I feel a drop hit the top of my head and decide to duck back inside and grab my umbrella.

  Then I see her.

  Her golden brown hair hangs loose around her shoulders, and her green polka-dot dress sways gently as she walks.

  Amanda.

  I’m unable to breathe, to think, to move. Then, as if a cord is connecting us, I begin to walk, following in her footsteps.

  It isn’t really her, I tell myself, battling the icy fear engulfing my body. But I’ve seen that dress so many times in my nightmares. The shade of grapey-green; the simple shift that nips in at the waist. It looks identical.

  Two women in New York might own the same dress. But what are the odds that they have the same hair color, the same hairstyle, and the same physical build? The data doesn’t compute.

  My chest constricts, but I push on. I can’t let her out of my sight. That polka-dot dress is like a beacon, weaving through the crowd of dark suits and raincoats, leading me around a corner.

  Toward the Thirty-third Street subway station.

  Could this be a dream? I wonder frantically. One of those nightmares that feel so true to life even after you wake up?

  I snap the rubber band on my wrist, hard. The pain registers. A few light raindrops hit me, and I smell the aroma of the crêpes from a food cart on the corner. It’s all real.

  So she must be, too.

  The world pitches and whirls around me, but I press forward, almost staggering, my eyes fixed on her like she’s the only person in this
entire city.

  She keeps advancing, never turning her head. Not rushing but never pausing; her steps as steady as a metronome. I’m a quarter of a block behind her, and although I could catch up to her if I ran, I’m terrified at the thought of seeing her face.

  The rain comes down harder, drops coating my glasses and blurring my vision. I push my hand over my eyes, wiping away the dampness.

  She is close to the entrance of the subway station now.

  I can see the forest-green pole ahead, and stairs descending into that dark hole. I quicken my pace and slip on the wet pavement, my ankle wrenching beneath me. I scrape my palm as I catch my fall and leap up again. Umbrellas pop open all around me and I lose sight of her.

  Where did she go? I twist my head left and right, frantically searching. Then I see her.

  She’s taking the first step down the subway stairs.

  “Stop!” I try to cry, but my voice is stuck in my throat. It comes out as a hoarse whisper.

  I grab on to the subway pole, so dizzy my vision swims again. I want to run after her, to pull her away. But my body betrays me by shutting down. I’m encased in cement again. Completely immobilized.

  Tears stream down my cheeks, mixing with the rain. My clothes are plastered to my skin. People keep pushing past me, in a rush to get cover in the subway station.

  By now she has almost completely disappeared. I crane my neck to get a last look at her before the hole swallows her.

  She’s gone.

  I begin to hyperventilate, my breaths loud and raspy. I huddle into myself, my hands over my ears, unable to do anything but wait for the screech of the subway car.

  Then the rain abruptly disappears.

  Someone is standing next to me, holding a large umbrella over us.

  I turn my head and blink and my vision clears. The woman next to me comes into view.

  Cassandra Moore.

  “I … I…” I stutter.