You Are Not Alone Read online

  Beside Cassandra is her sister Jane, looking at me with the same worried expression.

  “Shay,” Cassandra says in her low, husky voice. “Are you okay?”

  It feels like a miracle: The only two people I’m acquainted with who also knew Amanda are standing right beside me.

  Cassandra puts her hand on my elbow, steadying me. Her eyes—brown and gold flecked, like a tiger’s—are filled with concern and kindness.

  “Amanda,” I gasp. “I—I just saw her. She went into the subway.”

  I point but both sisters keep their gazes fixed on me.

  “Who?” Cassandra asks.

  “Amanda? It couldn’t have been…” Jane says.

  “Please,” I beg. “Can—can someone go check?”

  “Shay—” Jane begins, but my sobs cut her off.

  “We have to help her,” I whisper.

  Cassandra stares at me with her unblinking eyes. Then she does something extraordinary. “Wait here.” She hands me her umbrella. “I’ll go look.”

  I watch her descend in quick steps, her bare legs flashing beneath her poppy-colored, belted raincoat.

  In the distance I hear the approaching rumble of the train.

  Hurry, I think, even as I acknowledge the impossibility of what I’ve just seen.

  “Could it have been someone who just looked like Amanda?” Jane asks.

  I shake my head. My teeth are chattering. “She was the same—I swear I saw her—I’m sure of it.… But how could it be her?”

  I stand under Cassandra’s umbrella, my stomach clenching as the train’s brakes scream. But then, a moment later, I hear the train pull away from the station, the thunder of its wheels growing fainter and fainter.

  Nothing happened. It was an ordinary stop for the subway train.

  I’m almost beginning to wonder if any of it happened, if my mind betrayed me. But Jane is still standing beside me, and my skirt and top are soaking wet, and I’m clutching the smooth wooden handle of Cassandra’s oversize umbrella.

  Cassandra reappears, climbing the stairs—first just the top of her glossy black hair, then her strong, symmetrical features, then her slender frame.

  “Everything’s okay, Shay.” She puts a hand on my arm, just like she did at the memorial service. Her touch is the only source of warmth on my body. “I didn’t see anyone who looks like Amanda down there.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask desperately. But my heartbeat is slowing. The sisters are helping the world to stop spinning.

  I see Cassandra give Jane a quick look before shaking her head. “I don’t think so, but maybe I missed her. She might’ve caught the subway before I got down there?”

  That’s impossible; only one train came in between the time the woman descended the stairs and now.

  I start to try to explain again what I saw. But just before I get to the part about the polka-dot dress, I cut myself off. It might make sense that I spotted a woman who resembled Amanda. But one in the exact same outfit? I’d seem crazy—especially given how I must look in my drenched outfit with my bedraggled hair sticking to my face. So I just nod.

  “You’re probably right.” I swallow hard. “I’m really sorry.… I don’t know what happened.…”

  Cassandra links her arm through mine. “Our morning meeting was canceled. Are you in a rush?”

  “We were just going to grab tea,” Jane adds. “There’s a little café around the corner. Why don’t you join us?”

  I look at them, stunned. After all this, they want to be with me?

  It’s more than an act of kindness. It feels like a gift.

  What are the odds that I’d run into the Moore sisters at this exact juncture; that they and Amanda would somehow intersect in my life again? It seems impossible. Yet here they are.

  I’m going to be late for work, but I find myself nodding. I’ll call my temp job and claim an emergency, and I’ll make up my hours tonight.

  I’m not going to turn down an invitation from these women again.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CASSANDRA & JANE

  SHAY—TREMBLING, SHATTERED, and unsteady—grips Cassandra’s arm as the sisters lead her through the misty, rain-dampened air toward a café.

  The hostess tries to seat them by the window.

  “Actually, could we have that booth?” Cassandra points. “It looks cozier and our friend is soaking wet.”

  It’s also more private; a few other customers are in the upscale diner.

  The hostess matches Cassandra’s smile with one of her own. “Of course.”

  After Shay is seated, Cassandra takes off her raincoat and drapes it over Shay’s shoulders. “You’ve got to be freezing in this air-conditioning. Do you want anything to eat?”

  Shay shakes her head as Cassandra slides onto the opposite bench, so both sisters are facing Shay.

  In another few moments, with the dry jacket wrapped around her and her hands cupping a steaming mug of chamomile tea, Shay’s shivering ceases.

  But she still appears fragile and dazed—exactly how the sisters wanted her. When people feel vulnerable, they’re more likely to spill their secrets.

  “You must really miss Amanda,” Jane begins gently. “I know we do. We talk about her all the time.”

  Shay looks down at her mug of tea. Despite her obvious chill, her cheeks flush. “Um, the truth is…”

  Tension floods Cassandra’s body. Jane perches on the edge of the bench, her fingernails clutching its wooden rim. But the sisters’ faces remain placid. Shay has to feel safe and unhurried.

  “I don’t know why her death is affecting me so much.” Shay starts to say something else, then she lifts her mug and takes a sip.

  Cassandra exhales, so slowly and softly she doesn’t make a sound. Jane doesn’t move a fingertip. Shay is on the brink of something pivotal; they don’t want to sway her in the wrong direction.

  Shay keeps her eyes on her cup. The sisters wait, not daring to even sneak a look at each other.

  “Amanda and I weren’t friends,” Shay whispers. “I actually didn’t know her at all.”

  Neither sister reacts outwardly—a tremendous effort, given that both feel as if the wind has been knocked out of them. If this is true, how would Shay have known where Amanda lived? Why would she have felt compelled to put a flower on Amanda’s doorstep? And why would she appear so haunted by Amanda’s death?

  Clearly Shay feels guilty; she’s almost cringing. Is this because she’s telling another lie?

  The stakes feel higher than ever. The sisters may only have this chance to obtain answers. One false move and Shay could shut down, or flee.

  “Oh?” Cassandra’s word is so gentle it could almost be a breath. “But you said you shared a vet?”

  Shay’s tortured eyes rise to meet Cassandra’s. Then Jane’s.

  Shay nods. “Yeah, um, I saw her there once or twice, but that’s not exactly why I came to the memorial.… The thing is, I was actually standing next to Amanda on the subway platform when she—when she died. I can’t get her out of my head.… I think about her all the time. I can’t stop wondering what would cause her to do something like that.…”

  Shay leans back, slumping, looking as if she expects to be reprimanded.

  Some of the tension drains out of Cassandra’s body. Jane releases her grip on the bench.

  Shay was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. The sisters’ minds begin to fire, assembling the pieces.

  “Oh, Amanda suffered from depression off and on her whole life,” Jane says gently.

  Shay nods.

  “So how did you find out about the memorial service?” Cassandra reaches over and freshens up Shay’s mug of tea from the pot. Cassandra’s hand is trembling slightly from accumulated tension, so she quickly tucks it in her lap.

  Shay doesn’t appear to have noticed; she’s still blinking back tears. “I went by her apartment to leave a flower, just as a tribute, and I saw the notice.…”

  “But how did you kn
ow where she lived?” Jane interrupts.

  Cassandra gently pats her sister’s hand: Slow down.

  “There’s this detective who questioned me at the subway after … well, after everything. Anyway, the last time I spoke with her she told me Amanda’s name and I figured out her address from there.…”

  At the mention of the detective, Jane sucks in a quick breath. Shay’s word choice indicates she has had multiple conversations with the police, plus there was her recent visit to the Seventeenth Precinct.

  Before, there was one pressing question: How did Shay know Amanda?

  Now, there is an even more urgent one: What did Shay tell the police?

  They already knew Shay had left the necklace at the Seventeenth Precinct, since the gray dot on Valerie’s phone remained at that location even after Shay exited the building. But her subsequent movements that evening were so ordinary they were curious: If Shay had dropped a bombshell at the police station—if she’d described the events that had led to Amanda’s suicide—then surely she would have been more skittish. She wouldn’t have leisurely strolled home, alone. She wouldn’t have cut through a quiet, shadowy walkway between buildings without once checking behind her.

  Shay misreads their silence. “Are you angry? I’m so sorry I misled you. I just didn’t know what to say when I showed up at the service.”

  Jane shakes her head. “We’re not mad. And no way would we ever judge you for that.”

  “It was really nice of you to come pay your respects,” Cassandra adds.

  Shay’s expression turns wistful. “I remember thinking Amanda looked like someone I’d want to be friends with.”

  More pieces fall into place: On the days Shay temps, she walks to a bench at lunchtime and pulls a foil-wrapped sandwich out of her bag, eating by herself. When she rides the bus to work or walks to the gym, she doesn’t chat on a headset—instead, she usually appears lost in thought. She stays in her apartment most nights.

  Shay is desperately lonely.

  Cassandra files away that key observation to discuss with Jane later, though she suspects Jane has already come to the same conclusion; the sisters’ thoughts are often in sync.

  “Amanda was a really good person,” Cassandra says. “Did you two ever talk at the vet’s?”

  Shay shakes her head rapidly. “No, not really—and my cat died last year, so…”

  “Ah,” Cassandra says. “Well, you would have liked Amanda, and she you.”

  Jane takes a sip of tea before steering the conversation in a new direction. “No wonder you panicked when you saw that woman walking into the subway station a little while ago.”

  “I haven’t been able to ride the subway since that day. It’s hard to even get near the stairs.… And that woman looked so much like Amanda.” Shay’s face creases. “But … I guess I imagined it all.”

  Cassandra’s gaze meets Jane’s. The sisters had noticed Shay’s eyes well up as she’d stared at Amanda’s photograph at the memorial service, and later they’d seen her repeatedly cross the street seemingly to avoid subway grates. She’d also been observed leaving an office that was later identified as belonging to a therapist.

  The illusion the sisters had created was as effective as they’d hoped. By now, Valerie is on her way back to her apartment to take off her wig and the heels that added several inches to her five-foot-six frame, remove the expertly applied makeup that made her nose appear narrower and her eyes wider, and change out of the polka-dot dress she’d purchased from an online retailer. In a few moments, Valerie will have transformed from an Amanda look-alike into a different thirty-something woman—pretty, but forgettably so—who blends into a crowd. Her performance is over. The dress will be stored in the back of Valerie’s closet, in case it’s needed again.

  If Shay had answered all of the sisters’ unspoken questions, they would have given her the parting gift of peace. Cassandra would have pretended she, too, had thought she’d seen Amanda the other day and had felt a little unhinged afterward. Jane would have said, I suppose it must be common for people to imagine things like that after a death.

  But they don’t. Instead, Jane presses her hand against Cassandra’s under the booth. Cassandra understands the signal: This engineered meeting with Shay has not tied up the final loose ends surrounding Amanda’s death, as the sisters hoped. They can’t simply finish their tea and walk away, never looking back.

  Shay still claims she first encountered Amanda at the veterinarian’s, which the Moore sisters know is a lie.

  She says she barely knew Amanda. Yet somehow she had Amanda’s necklace.

  What else is Shay lying about?

  Cassandra gazes at Shay’s cell phone, which is facedown on the table. She wonders what information it holds.

  Stacey would be able to hack it quickly; she’s an expert at installing spyware on cell phones, as she has already proven to the group.

  It was no coincidence that Cassandra and Jane wandered into Daphne’s boutique shortly after she sent a one-line text—I hope you rot in hell—to a man named James Anders.

  The sisters had been watching James for a long time. Tracking him. Creating a log of his schedule and habits—such as his routine of going to a bar called Twist most Thursday nights. Eventually, thanks to the spyware Stacey had installed on his phone one night when he’d left it unattended, they’d had the capability to read his texts.

  While they’d been contemplating different ways to punish James, that searing text from a number with a 917 area code had landed simultaneously on his cell phone and on their computers.

  Valerie had intuitively felt it was from a woman James had harmed; the sisters already knew of at least one other instance in which he’d tried to commit rape.

  Stacey had tracked the number of the text’s sender and found it listed with a boutique called Daphne’s, owned by a single woman in her thirties. Shortly thereafter, Cassandra and Jane had visited the shop and struck up a friendship with its owner.

  It didn’t take long for Daphne to let down her guard. When she did, the sisters’ suspicions about what James had done to Daphne were confirmed. They then folded Daphne into their group.

  Now Cassandra tears her eyes away from Shay’s cell phone. It’s too bad Stacey isn’t with them; it’s a missed opportunity to dig into Shay’s secrets, Cassandra thinks. They’ll have to create other opportunities.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  STACEY

  Fourteen months ago

  THE BUTTER HIT THE frying pan with a sizzle.

  Stacey lay three slices of American cheese on whole wheat bread, glancing at the cell phone vibrating on the chipped linoleum counter next to her. The text read, Need dog food now.

  She placed the sandwich in the frying pan and licked her fingers before she picked up the phone to reply, In fifteen.

  The junkie jonesing for his crack fix would have to wait. She hadn’t eaten all day.

  Through the thin apartment wall came the sound of her neighbor’s young daughter singing along to Pitch Perfect in her high voice as she rhythmically clanked something: “‘When I’m gone, when I’m gone … You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.…’”

  “Stop banging those spoons,” the girl’s mother snapped.

  Stacey flipped her sandwich. The underside was golden brown and cheese had started to ooze out. Her stomach rumbled. She pulled a plastic cup out of the cabinet with the Philadelphia Eagles logo emblazoned on the front. Her boyfriend, Adam, remained fiercely loyal to their hometown team, even though they’d been living in the Bronx for years. She filled it to the brim with Pepsi.

  Tomorrow was Saturday, visiting day at the prison. It meant a two-hour bus ride each way, with the same weary-faced wives and kids and girlfriends she saw every month. She got an hour with Adam, their hands entwined across a tabletop, under the watchful eyes of guards.

  “‘I got my ticket for the long way ’round…’” the little girl sang.

  “I told you to shut your trap,” the mother orde
red, but without a lot of heat in her voice—at least compared to other times Stacey had heard her. Stacey had seen bruises on the girl, who looked to be about eight, from time to time. Once a cast was even on the girl’s arm. Stacey had tried to ask her about it, but the child skittered away like a timid mouse.

  “You only told me to stop banging. You didn’t tell me I couldn’t sing,” the little girl said.

  Stacey pressed the spatula down on the sandwich.

  The junkie texted her again on Adam’s phone: How long? My dog’s hungry.

  She’d taken over Adam’s clients while he was gone, not expanding his business but making enough to pay the rent until she could find a real job, one that paid at least minimum wage. She’d filled out dozens of applications. But a woman like her—a high school dropout, an outcast from her solidly middle-class family, not much to look at—didn’t get a lot of opportunities.

  She took a long sip of Pepsi and glanced over at the wall. It was quiet next door. Even the music had stopped.

  She was sliding her sandwich onto a plate when she heard the scream.

  Stacey closed her eyes and gritted her teeth.

  “I’ll stop! Don’t!” the little girl shrieked.

  Stacey’s grip on the handle of the frying pan tightened as the little girl cried out again.

  Then the high, piercing scream ceased.

  Its absence felt even more alarming.

  Stacey’s skin prickled. She didn’t hesitate. She picked up the frying pan and ran out the door, bursting into the neighboring apartment. She had a clear view into the kitchen. The wild-eyed mother was holding her daughter’s head down in a sink full of dirty water and dishes.

  “Get off her!” Stacey bellowed, swinging the pan like a baseball bat. It connected with the mother’s head and she collapsed to the kitchen floor.

  The little girl’s head popped up and she drew in raggedy breaths, then began to cough, water streaming down her face and onto her Princess Elsa nightgown.

  Stacey lifted the pan to swing it again, but the little girl begged her to stop. So she lowered it.

  When she looked around again, the little girl had run away through the open apartment door, disappearing as she’d probably done numerous times as a survival mechanism during her short, violence-filled life.