You Are Not Alone(67)
She puts the envelope back, making sure the tip of one edge is visible. Then she stands up and opens the door.
“I was actually stood up last night,” Shay is saying. “Well, the guy claimed he had a work emergency, but I was already at the bar.…”
Jane catches Cassandra’s eye. Something in Cassandra’s expression tightens; Jane knows her sister well enough to sense that something is very wrong.
Cassandra touches her sun-charm necklace; it’s time to go.
“Oh, no,” Jane says. “Did that disastrous Rolling Stone review come out?”
Cassandra nods, hoping Shay doesn’t notice that Cassandra isn’t holding her phone.
Shay merely passes her a glass of iced tea. “What review?”
Cassandra turns to Shay, elaborating on Jane’s spontaneous fib. “I’m so sorry we have to run. It’s the nature of our job. There’s this musician we rep and he just got panned. But let’s have a quick toast!”
Both sisters look at Shay, who lifts up her glass. It covers a bit of her face, distorting her left eye slightly, making her features appear mismatched.
“Yes, a quick toast,” Jane says. “To your new life!”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
SHAY
Some uses for a scalpel: surgery, anatomical dissection, and crafts projects. As many as 1,000 people per day are injured while providing medical care, with scalpel blade injuries making up 7 to 8 percent of accidental cuts and puncture wounds.
—Data Book, page 61
TO MY NEW LIFE.
Those words seem to echo through my apartment even after Cassandra and Jane rush out to deal with their work crisis.
“A temperamental musician and a bad review are a dangerous combination,” Jane explained as she gave me a quick goodbye hug.
Only after they’re gone do I notice they left a plain brown shopping bag by my couch. I peek inside and see a stack of books by an author named Sienna Grant. The sisters had mentioned working on her memoir, and lately I’m seeing it everywhere—including yesterday, in a big window display at Barnes & Noble.
I quickly text Jane to let her know she’s forgotten the books. Her reply comes almost immediately: Shoot, can you hold on to them? I don’t need them right away.
Of course, I text back.
I begin switching out the contents of my tote bag into my new purse. I’m going to take their advice and use it every day. I run my fingers over the soft leather and inhale the rich aroma, then I place it on my little dining table. It’s so bright and elegant, it’s almost like the sisters left a piece of themselves behind.
I’m pretty sure I saw a bag just like this one in Daphne’s boutique. It makes sense that she’d sell it, given her connection to the Moore sisters. I frown, wondering if Daphne ever brought up my visit to them. I don’t plan to go into her boutique again, but it’s possible I might see her if Cassandra and Jane invite me out with their group sometime.
I pick up Jane’s shopping bag and tuck it onto a shelf in my bookcase, alongside the books and knickknacks I’ve collected through the years, such as the perfect conch shell I found on a beach with my ex-boyfriend, and the old world globe I bought at a yard sale when I was in grade school.
Then I putter around, putting our glasses in the dishwasher—Cassandra only had a single sip of tea after we toasted—and hand-washing the pitcher. I dry my hands on the dish towel slung through the handle of my stove.
I’d thought about showing the envelope containing the stained blue towel and scalpel to the Moore sisters this morning. But they rushed out so quickly there wasn’t a chance. Maybe that was for the best. I’ve brought too many strange associations with Amanda into their lives already.
I could just toss the envelope in the trash and be done with it. I don’t need this tainted, unsettling package in my apartment.
I walk toward the bathroom to get the envelope, then pause. I turn around.
Amanda must have saved it for a reason. Something is telling me to hold on to it, too.
* * *
I’m on my couch that night, binge-watching Game of Thrones again, when my cell rings.
The number looks familiar—it’s the local 212 area code—but I don’t immediately recognize it.
“Shay?”
My pulse accelerates. I know this voice.
“It’s Detective Williams from the Seventeenth Precinct.”
“Hi.” My voice sounds strangled so I clear my throat. A fear leaps into my mind: Could she be calling because she knows I stole the necklace?
Mail theft is a felony punishable by up to five years in prison, and up to a $250,000 fine.
“I was just thinking about you. I wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“Oh, I’m good,” I blurt.
“Glad to hear it. You were pretty shaken up the last time we talked.”
This can’t simply be a friendly call, can it?
She lets the silence hang between us. My palms are sweating now; I jump up and start to pace. “Everything’s much better now,” I babble.
Another pause.
“I got a call from someone at City Hospital.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“A woman who looks a lot like you went by the other day asking about Amanda’s mother.” Detective Williams’s voice is as calm and steady as if she were giving me a weather report. “Know anything about that?”