You Are Not Alone(2)
Sean’s the first guy I really liked since I ended things with my college boyfriend. I began to fall for Sean months ago. I thought he felt the same.
When the barista sets my latte on the counter, I scoop it up and push my way through the door.
Even at a few minutes after nine A.M., the heat is thick and oppressive; it engulfs me as I head to the subway station on Thirty-third Street. When I feel my hair sticking to the back of my neck, I stop to dig an elastic band out of my bag so I can tie it up.
That simple act costs me twenty-two seconds.
As I descend the stained stairs into the tunnel, I see the train I just missed speeding away from the station. A few people who must’ve disembarked from it climb the steps opposite me. I reach the platform and feel the last of the train’s breeze in its wake. A fluorescent light above me flickers, and trash overflows from a garbage bin. Only one other person is waiting, about ten yards from me.
Why didn’t he catch the train that just left?
When someone conjures unease in you, there are usually good reasons behind it. A man with a goatee and backpack lingering on a deserted subway platform on a Sunday morning isn’t enough to make my pulse quicken.
But the way he’s looking at me is.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye, alert for any sudden movements, while my brain spins: The stairs are directly behind me. If he wants to harm me, I might be quick enough to run up them. But I could get stuck at the turnstile.
I can’t identify any other escape route.
The man takes a slow, deliberate step toward me.
I whip my head around, hoping someone else is coming.
That’s when I see we aren’t alone after all. A woman in a green dress with white polka dots stands farther down on the platform, in the opposite direction of the man. She’s partially camouflaged by the shadow of a large support beam.
I move closer to her, still keeping the guy in my peripheral vision. But all he does is continue walking toward the stairs, eventually disappearing up them. I chide myself for overreacting; he probably mistakenly entered the downtown platform instead of the uptown one, which I’ve done before. Odds are, he was looking at the exit the whole time, not at me.
I exhale slowly, then glance up at the green-hued LED display. The next train is due in a couple minutes. A few more people drift onto the platform.
I can hear the distant rumbling of the wheels of the inbound train—it’s a familiar soundtrack to my daily life. I feel safe.
The woman glances my way and I notice she’s about my height—five feet ten—and age, but her hair is shorter and lighter than mine. Her face is pleasant; she’s the kind of person I’d ask for directions if I were lost.
I break eye contact with her and look down. Something is glinting against the dull concrete of the platform. It’s a piece of jewelry. At first I think it’s a bracelet, but when I bend over and scoop it up, I realize it’s a gold necklace with a dangling charm that looks like a blazing sun.
I wonder if the woman dropped it. I’m about to ask her when the roar of the incoming train grows louder.
She steps close to the edge of the platform.
My mind screams a warning, Too close!
In that instant, I realize she isn’t there to ride the subway.
I stretch out my hand toward her and yell something—“No!” or “Don’t!”—but it’s too late.
We lock eyes. The train appears in the mouth of the tunnel. Then she leaps.
For a split second she seems frozen, suspended in the air, her arms thrown overhead like a dancer.
The train shoots past, its wheels grinding frantically against the tracks, the high-pitched shriek louder than I’ve ever heard it.
My stomach heaves and I bend over and throw up. My body begins to shake uncontrollably, reacting to the horror as my mind frantically tries to process it.
Someone is yelling over and over, “Call 911!”
The train stops. I force myself to look. There is no sign of the woman at all.
One second she existed, and the next, she’d been erased. I stagger over to a bench by the wall and collapse.
During everything that follows—while I give my statement to a police detective with an impassive face, am escorted past the crime-scene tape up to the street, and walk the seven blocks home—I can’t stop seeing the woman’s eyes right before she jumped. It wasn’t despair or fear or determination I saw in them.
They were empty.
CHAPTER TWO
CASSANDRA & JANE
AMANDA EVINGER WAS TWENTY-NINE. Single. Childless. She lived alone in a studio apartment in Murray Hill, not far from Grand Central Station. She worked as an emergency room nurse at City Hospital, an occupation so consuming and fast-paced it prevented her from forming close ties to her colleagues.
She seemed like the perfect candidate, until she threw herself under the wheels of a subway train.
Two nights after Amanda’s death, Cassandra and Jane Moore sit together on a couch in Cassandra’s Tribeca apartment, sharing a laptop computer.
The clean lines of the living room furniture are upholstered in dove gray and cream, and accented with a few bright pillows. Floor-to-ceiling windows invite plenty of light and afford sweeping views of the Hudson River.
The apartment is sleek and elegant, befitting its two occupants.
At thirty-two, Cassandra is two years older than Jane. It’s easily apparent the women—with their long, glossy black hair, gold-flecked brown eyes, and creamy skin—are sisters. But Cassandra is composed of sleek muscles, while Jane is softer and curvier, with a high, sweet voice.