You Are Not Alone(45)
Ever since the sisters first scrutinized the photograph of Shay on Amanda’s doorstep holding a yellow zinnia, Shay has seemed cloaked in different personas, morphing from threatening to innocuous and back again. She is an optical illusion, like the famous black-and-white picture that flips between two different illustrations—the old crone and the beautiful young woman—depending on how the artist’s lines are interpreted.
This new evidence does nothing to solidify the contrasting images.
Shay’s masquerade as a former patient at City Hospital was not recorded in her notebook.
Nor was her bizarre trip to Amanda’s mother’s house to drop off a bouquet of flowers. Why that long journey for a simple errand that could have been handled by a florist? Shay is obsessed with Amanda and suicides; perhaps she went to Delaware to dig more deeply into Amanda’s background.
Shay is highly inquisitive and overly analytical. Her curiosity and determination to make sense out of seemingly disparate facts are dangerous.
The sisters have a lot to discuss, but they don’t want to talk in front of even Stacey.
“Can you send us the full file for our records?” Jane asks.
Stacey nods and steps forward. She clicks a few keys. “Done. And here’s your Bloomie’s bag.”
Cassandra reaches for the bag and tucks it under her desk. “You’re amazing, Stacey. Thank you.”
Stacey, uncomfortable with praise, shrugs. “Oh, I put the additional camera in an air-conditioning vent. If anyone uses a laptop on the couch, you should be able to see their screen.”
As Stacey heads toward the door—she has a busy day ahead of her, with three clients stacked back-to-back—Jane calls out, “Let us know how the appointment goes for your mom next week.”
The sisters secured Stacey’s mother a consultation with a top Alzheimer’s specialist in her hometown of Philadelphia. At just fifty-six, Stacey’s mother no longer recognizes her daughter.
“Thank you.” Stacey’s voice is uncharacteristically soft. “I hope he can help her.”
Stacey hides her pain well. Few people know she always carries it with her.
Stacey leaves the door open behind her, so Jane hurries to close it.
They need to scrutinize every word in Shay’s notebook. But they’ve barely begun when they receive a phone call from Oliver, the gallery owner.
“Lovelies! Strangest thing. A police officer just came into my gallery. At first I thought she could be a stripper, but it isn’t my birthday. Plus you two would know she wasn’t my type.”
Oliver’s laughter dies away when the sisters don’t join in. Jane reaches over and grabs Cassandra’s hand, squeezing it tightly. Cassandra stares straight ahead, her expression resolute.
“Anyway,” Oliver continues, sounding subdued, “she had some questions about that exquisite friend of yours, Daphne, you sent in a couple months ago. She wanted to know what time she came in and how long she stayed. Luckily I had a copy of the receipt from the little watercolor she bought, and I even had the selfie of us on my phone that she suggested I text to you. Darlings, is she in some sort of trouble?”
For once, the sisters have no answer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
SHAY
The term déjà vu means “already seen,” and as much as 70 percent of the population reports having experienced it. The rates seem to be highest among people aged 15 to 25, and déjà vu experiences decrease with age. When it comes to what déjà vu really is and what causes it, there are more than 40 theories—ranging from reincarnation to glitches in our memory processes.
—Data Book, page 36
I’M A DIFFERENT PERSON here in this apartment.
At night, I stretch out in the blissful quiet of the guest room, with its soft blue walls and blackout shades.
I brought along my bottle of Ambien just in case, but it remains untouched on my nightstand. I don’t need the drug to fall asleep.
And—I can hardly believe it—I’m riding the subway again.
This morning, I made my favorite banana-and-almond-butter smoothie, using the Vitamix on the kitchen counter, the one that rests near a weird vase in the shape of an upside-down hand. Then I met Cassandra and Jane’s friend, Anne, on the corner. I thought Anne might be one of the women I’d seen at the memorial service, but I didn’t recognize her. She didn’t have any distinguishing features: Her hair was medium brown, and neither long nor short. It was midway between wavy and straight. Her eyes were brown, the most common color, and she wore simple black pants and a black top—like half the women in New York.
She strode toward me with a big smile, and I instantly liked her.
“So good to meet you!” she’d said. I detected a slight Southern accent as we chatted for a bit. Anne had an exuberant personality; she gestured expansively and spoke quickly. She was married with two kids in elementary school, she told me, and she’d left her job at a law firm after her second one was born. That explained why she had free time in the middle of a workday to help me.
“How long have you known Cassandra and Jane?” I asked.
“Those two?” She threw back her head and laughed. “Feels like I’ve known them forever!”
We began walking toward the green pole marking the Thirty-third Street station and continued down the concrete stairs. “Let’s do this!” she said, and took my hand.