You Are Not Alone(64)

It looks like dried blood.





CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE



AMANDA


Two months ago

“HI, JAMES,” AMANDA SAID. “Nice to meet you.”

The bartender delivered their whiskey and sodas and Amanda took a small sip. It burned her throat—she rarely drank, and when she did, it was usually just a single beer—and she suppressed a grimace.

“Haven’t seen you here before.” James’s hand closed around his glass. The image of his fingers clenching burned into her eyes; she had to pull away her gaze.

“Oh, I’ve come once or twice,” she lied. “But you must not have been here, because I would have noticed you.”

The sisters had told her James was a regular at the Twist bar on Thursday nights: He usually showed up around six, was feeling good by seven, and didn’t seem to have a type.

“You’ll have to wing it,” Cassandra had instructed her. “Play to his ego.”

James stood up. “Take my seat.”

She smiled as she slid onto the wooden stool, which still held the warmth of his body. He wore a white oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up; his blue blazer was slung across the back of his chair. He rested his forearm on his jacket, encircling her. The room was crowded, but he didn’t need to be so close. She suppressed a shudder.

So far so good.

Amanda’s eyes flitted across the room as she fiddled nervously with one of her earrings. A guy was leaning forward, waving his credit card as he tried to get the bartender’s attention.

Her heartbeat accelerated when she realized the guy was blocking her view of Beth.

James lifted his glass again and drained it, then reached for the one Amanda had ordered. “Mmm. You smell good.”

He was so close she could see the broken capillaries around his nose. Her mom had those, too, a legacy of heavy drinking.

The guy with the credit card leaned back. Beth’s chair was empty.

Amanda’s body stiffened. She hadn’t expected things to move this fast. She pulled her purse onto her lap and said, “So tell me what keeps you busy.” She stared up at James while her hand slid into her bag and felt for the tiny mouthwash bottle.

She already knew James’s background well enough to write his bio: divorced several years ago, one elementary-school-aged daughter, from a wealthy family in a smallish town in upstate New York, squandered most of his inheritance, spent Mondays through Fridays in the city trying to build a new business selling custom sporting equipment.

Some of this information came from watching him. Other pieces of it were gleaned after Stacey briefly got ahold of his cell phone and installed spyware on it.

“So, yeah, I try to keep active,” James was saying.

Amanda nodded to encourage him to keep talking as she groped around for the little plastic bottle.

Then she saw a flash of frizzy red hair.

It’s too soon! she wanted to cry out. I’m not ready!

But Beth was already putting a hand on James’s arm. “Doug!” He twisted around to look at her. “I thought that was you!”

Amanda finally touched the bottle. Working under the lip of the bar counter to shield her actions, she tried to pinch the sides of the cap and untwist it.

Her fingers were trembling and uncoordinated; the cap refused to yield to them.

“Sorry, my name’s not Doug. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

Beth laughed. “I’m sure it’s you! That convention in Dallas a couple years ago?”

Amanda finally removed the cap. She needed more time. But James was starting to turn away from Beth.

Amanda’s heart leaped into her throat. She had the open mouthwash bottle in her left hand. If James glanced down, he’d see it.

Panic roared through her.

“Maybe I got the name wrong. Hold on, I’ve got a picture of us at that dinner!” Beth held up her phone, drawing James’s gaze back to her.

This wasn’t part of her script; Beth was improvising.

Amanda grabbed her drink with her free hand, wincing as the ice cubes clinked, and pulled it under the lip of the bar.

Was the bartender looking over at them? Beth’s voice was loud, the only evidence of her nerves.

This was the critical part. Amanda couldn’t falter or make a mistake; she had to do it perfectly. She poured the sixty milligrams of liquid morphine from the mouthwash bottle directly into her whiskey and soda, avoiding splashing any of the precious medicine onto the floor.

Then she slipped the empty bottle back into her purse. But it wasn’t over yet.

“Wait, wait, I know it’s here,” Beth was saying.

James just repeated, “Wrong guy,” and turned around.

Beth looked at Amanda, her eyes widening.

Amanda was still holding the doctored beverage, but she hadn’t had time to swirl around the swizzle stick to mix up its contents, or to switch the drinks.

She needed ten more seconds.

Beth tapped James on the shoulder.

He ignored her and raised an eyebrow. “I promise I’m not using an alias. My name isn’t really Doug.”

Beth melted away, into the crowd. Back to her position at the bar.

Amanda was on her own.

James reached for his drink—the wrong drink.

She could jostle his arm and try to spill his whiskey and soda and offer him the other one, or—