You Are Not Alone(20)

“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.

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.