You Are Not Alone(23)

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 ordered, 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.