You Are Not Alone(44)
I already tried counseling—I flash to Paula’s rubber band—and it didn’t help. I’m not sure that meeting with their friend would be any more effective.
But when I open my mouth, I find myself saying, “That would be amazing.”
Cassandra and Jane have already made a huge difference in my life in such a short time, I think, looking around the serene, lovely apartment. Maybe they can find a way to fix my fear of the subway for me, too.
“Are you free tomorrow morning? I bet she could make that work.”
The Moore women don’t waste time. I mentioned a tough living situation, and they found me a temporary apartment. Now they’re tackling my phobia.
And tomorrow isn’t one of my temp days; I’m completely free.
I’d planned to spend the day searching for rental apartments because being here—spreading out on the sofa, singing in the shower—makes me realize how chipped away I feel with Jody and Sean around all the time. But being with one of Cassandra and Jane’s friends seems almost as good as being with them.
“Sure, I could make that work. I’d love to meet her. What’s her name?”
“Hmm? Oh, it’s Anne. Anyway, how’s the apartment? Are you finding everything you need?”
By now my finger has stopped bleeding. It doesn’t even hurt.
Some antibacterial soap is by the sink. I can just wash my hands with that and keep a clean paper towel around it tonight. I’ll pick up a box of Band-Aids tomorrow.
“The apartment’s perfect. I don’t need a thing. I was just making some pasta and I’m going to flop on the couch and watch a movie in a few minutes.”
“I’m going to do the same.” Jane laughs.
We chat awhile longer, then Jane promises to give her friend Anne my phone number so we can make plans to meet tomorrow.
A little later, after I rinse my pasta bowl and put it in the dishwasher, I walk past the master bedroom on the way to my room to grab my phone charger, since my battery is low.
I abruptly stop a foot away from the closed door.
A tiny splotch of my blood is on the glossy wooden floor by the bottom of the door frame.
I rush back to the kitchen, dampen a paper towel to clean the blood up, then I drop to my knees by the door and start scrubbing. It comes right off.
I lean back on my heels. If I’d gone in that bedroom, I could’ve dripped blood onto the floor—or worse, an expensive carpet—and I might not even have noticed.
But surely the owner of this apartment would have.
I search the area around the door again, double-checking the handle. But everything is clean.
Then I head into the kitchen to toss out the paper towel, thinking, Thank goodness Jane called at the precise moment she did.
CHAPTER THIRTY
CASSANDRA & JANE
STACEY WAITS UNTIL VALERIE texts to say the apartment is empty before she strides into the lobby of Valerie’s building, a toolbox in one hand and a baseball cap tipped low on her forehead.
“I’m the contractor for Valerie Ricci,” she tells the doorman, who has been instructed to anticipate her arrival. He hands over the spare key, and Stacey is heading up in the service elevator within moments.
She’ll have roughly an hour to work, while Valerie, who is posing as a woman named Anne today, distracts her houseguest.
Stacey’s instructions are clear: Install an extra camera behind the couch where Valerie’s guest likes to sit typing on her laptop, and a key logger program on her laptop, which will automatically send everything she types to the sisters. Get the Bloomingdale’s bag from beneath the bed in the master bedroom. Find the houseguest’s leather notebook and photograph every page, making sure the words are clearly visible.
Stacey didn’t question why Valerie would invite someone into her home and then invade the person’s privacy. Nor did she ask why Valerie was using the alias Anne.
Her formidable streak of loyalty runs wider for the sisters than for anyone else, except maybe Beth, who was Stacey’s court-appointed defense attorney when Stacey was charged with aggravated assault and drug possession.
By the time Valerie and Shay conclude their outing to the Thirty-third Street subway station ninety minutes later, Stacey is already on a different subway, heading to Moore Public Relations.
The moment she arrives, Jane ushers her into Cassandra’s office.
“No interruptions, please, unless it’s an emergency,” Cassandra instructs her assistant, who can’t resist sneaking glances at Stacey, clearly curious about this small, swaggering woman with an emerald-green streak in her hair and a metal toolbox.
As soon as the door is closed, Stacey pulls a laptop out of her toolbox and opens it to reveal the first page of Shay’s Data Book. Without being asked, she steps aside to give the sisters privacy to review the contents.
They scan the entries rapidly:
Roughly 40 percent of Americans report feeling isolated …
In a study of people who witnessed a suicide …
If you’re going to tell a premeditated lie, here’s how to do it …
Nurses have access to fentanyl, OxyContin, Valium, Percocet, Vicodin …
Some police departments use “bait” packages with a hidden GPS locator …
Cassandra’s eyes widen as they rise to meet Jane’s.