You Are Not Alone(37)

I already mailed the necklace back to Amanda’s mother, Detective Williams had said.

I edge a little closer, my breathing turning shallow.

The first item on top is a Sears catalog in a plastic wrapper. I see the corners of envelopes beneath it, but it’s impossible to tell what they hold.

The detective could have sent it in the plain letter-size envelope I gave her, or maybe she put the necklace into a thick padded mailer.

I glance at Amanda’s mom. She hasn’t moved, and her breaths are slow and even. I gently set down the flowers on the coffee table, next to the wine.

Then I take another step closer to the table, which is just inches from her head.

My hand hovers above the catalog. If I pick it up, there’s going to be no plausible explanation for my actions.

I ease my fingers beneath it and slowly lift it. There’s nowhere to set it down, so I hold it in my left hand while I reach for the next piece. It’s a water bill.

Detective Williams’s envelope could be anywhere; there’s no organization to the stacks. I hope it’s near the top, with the more recent mail. But it might not even be here at all.

The fly buzzes past an inch away from my nose and I flinch, batting at it with my hand.

Amanda’s mother makes a soft noise. I hold my breath. All she has to do is open her eyes to see me looming above her. But she remains asleep.

I pick up the water bill and shift it into my left hand, on top of the catalog. Then I lift up the next few pieces of mail quickly. With each one, I’m aware I’m getting in deeper and deeper.

It’s like I’ve tumbled into the something called the snowball effect, which I researched a while ago. Basically it means that people who commit small acts of dishonesty find it easier to tell more lies. As your fabrications pile up, your anxiety and shame start to disappear.

The first time I met Cassandra, I lied to her. Then, when I had tea with her and Jane, I continued the lie about sharing a veterinarian with Amanda. After that, I concocted a story when I went to the hospital and saw Gina. Now this.

It’ll be the last time, I vow. It ends here.

When I try to pull away a magazine, the stack topples. A dozen letters and bills slide to the floor, making a shuffling noise.

I cringe as Amanda’s mother shifts over, onto her other side. One of her arms rises and for a moment I’m terrified she’s going to grab me. But it just flops above her head, so close her fingertips almost graze my leg.

After an agonizing moment, I scan the items that fell to the floor. Two are in pretty pastel envelopes, the kind that come with Hallmark cards. They must be sympathy notes.

Hot shame engulfs me. But I can’t stop, not when I’m so close. The necklace has to be in here. And Detective Williams is so busy she probably didn’t even call to explain she was sending it. If so, Amanda’s mother won’t ever know it’s missing.

I lift up another six or seven envelopes. Then I see a long white one with a preprinted return address in the upper left-hand corner: NYPD 17TH PRECINCT, NEW YORK, NY 10022.

I stretch out my hand and slowly lift it. It’s so light, but I can feel something hard inside through the thin paper.

If it was important to her, she would have opened it, I tell myself.

Slowly, I ease the stack of mail in my left hand back onto the table. It’s impossible to do so soundlessly and I wince. But Amanda’s mother doesn’t move.

I slip the envelope into my tote bag.

Opening up someone else’s mail, let alone stealing it, is a federal crime.

But I’m not really stealing, I tell myself. The necklace never belonged to Amanda at all.

I look down at the pieces of mail scattered on the floor. I can’t risk making any more noise by picking them up, so I just leave them. Maybe she’ll think a breeze blew them off the table.

I take small, quiet steps toward the door. When I reach it, I look back at Amanda’s mother in her shapeless housedress. Sadness overtakes me. This poor woman lost her husband, and now her daughter. And she seems to have lost herself, too.

She is utterly alone.

I wish I could spend a few hours here, cleaning her porch and bringing her a cold glass of water. It wouldn’t make up for what I’ve done, but it would be a way of apologizing.

I ease open the door, bracing myself as it creaks.

Then I step outside, into air that feels fresher than it did in the cluttered screen porch with the old sandwich.

I walk briskly toward the Zipcar, feeling with every step that I might hear Amanda’s mother call out. My hands are shaking when I pull the key out of my tote bag.

As I open the car door, I realize I left the flowers on the table. I’m about to risk going back to get them when I hear someone call out, “Hello!”

I spin around, my heart exploding. A woman in jeans and a flannel shirt, with short white hair, is kneeling in the garden edging the sidewalk. She’s obviously the neighbor who lives directly across the street.

She stands up and approaches me and I take an instinctive step back.

“Are you a friend of Amanda’s? We were so sorry to hear the terrible news.” She clearly wants to talk; maybe she even watched Amanda grow up in this neighborhood. But I can’t get into a conversation with her.

“I’m sorry, I’m in such a rush.” I slide into the car. “Nice to meet you.” I wave through the open window as I drive away.