You Are Not Alone(17)
Cassandra and Jane don’t look at each other, but a cord of energy pulses between them. Cassandra murmurs an excuse to Willow while Jane turns and pulls her phone out of her purse as a second text sounds.
Shay just left her apartment with the necklace.
Then: She’s heading uptown. I’m 20 minutes away from her. Getting a cab.
As Cassandra stares over Jane’s shoulder at the phone, a new text lands: She’s past the Starbucks now, going toward the subway.
It’s the exact route Amanda took on the last day of her life.
The sisters weave toward the door—waving at an acquaintance, sliding their champagne glasses onto an empty table, dodging a man who steps in front of them with a smile, never stopping but never giving the impression they’re rushing out of the gallery.
Why now, so many days after Amanda’s death, is Shay moving the necklace? And, far more important, where is Shay taking it?
They’re almost at the exit when a hand lands on Jane’s arm.
“Darlings! You’re not leaving so soon? The evening’s just getting started!”
It’s Oliver, the owner of the gallery and the one other person here besides Willow that Cassandra and Jane can’t rebuff. When the sisters first started out, they splurged on an abstract painting for the entryway of their new offices. Oliver sold it to them—and became enamored of them, announcing, “I’m going to be your fairy godfather!”
Oliver, a slim Brit, throws lavish but intimate dinner parties, pulling in a mix of some of the most relevant people in the city. In addition to Willow, he has connected the sisters with two other good clients.
“Come with me,” he commands, gesturing toward the thick of the crowd. “There’s someone you must meet!”
Again, the identical sound erupts on their phones. It’s barely discernible amid the noise of a dozen conversations in the gallery. But it’s all the sisters can hear.
Jane sucks in a breath. Cassandra’s grip tightens around the handle of her purse.
Another chime. The sisters can feel tension rising not just in themselves, but in each other.
“I’m so sorry, but we have to rush off,” Jane tells Oliver.
“I’m afraid I’m coming down with something.” Cassandra puts a hand to her stomach. All the color has drained from her face, supporting her fib.
“Poor girl, go get some rest.” Oliver blows them kisses.
This time, they manage to depart without any interruptions.
They pull out their phones and read the new texts from Valerie:
At 49th Street. Just saw Shay crossing street.
Where are you two??
Then: Out of cab. I’m right behind her now.
Jane phones their driver and instructs him to pick them up as quickly as possible.
Cassandra types to Valerie: We’re in Chelsea, coming as fast as we can.
“Come on!” Jane says, pacing the sidewalk and craning her head to see if the driver is approaching. But traffic is clogged—it’s still the tail end of rush hour—and the Town Car isn’t in view.
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.