You Are Not Alone(68)

How could anyone at the hospital have known who I was? My mind feels so jumbled it’s hard to think straight. I have to tell Detective Williams the truth. Or at least a piece of it.

“It was me. I just wanted to write a condolence note to Amanda’s mother.”

Detective Williams sighs. I can picture her at her neat desk, in one of her plain suits, her forehead creasing into waves.

“You really think Amanda’s mother wants a letter from a woman who watched her daughter die?”

I swallow hard. If that’s all the detective knows, she can’t arrest me.

“I thought about it later. And, um, I decided not to send her a note.”

I hear Detective Williams exhale again. I have no idea if she believes me.

“You’re not still hanging around Amanda’s friends, are you?”

I can’t pile on another lie. “I’ve seen them around a few times. They’re really nice.”

“I’m telling you to let this go, Shay. Understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“I hope I don’t have to talk to you again.” Then she hangs up.

It feels like a near miss; Detective Williams doesn’t know that I actually went to Mrs. Evinger’s house. That I stole a package from her porch while she slept a few feet away.

Then I remember the flowers. If Detective Williams talks to Mrs. Evinger, will she mention a mysterious visitor who came while she was sleeping? Nausea roils my stomach and I cover my hand with my mouth, fighting it back.

Maybe I should call back Detective Williams right now and confess everything. She might take pity on me. And Jane could confirm that the necklace belongs to her.

I could even give Detective Williams the bloody scalpel and towel.

I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers, trying to sort through it all. I can’t just tell her all of this. She could arrest me on the spot.

I need help.



* * *



On Monday morning, I’m up and out the door by seven A.M. After I spoke to Detective Williams, I spent the rest of the weekend trying to find a lawyer who could give me advice. One of them actually responded to my call yesterday, and I scheduled a one-hour consult with him.

My new floral scarf is around my neck, and my new bag is slung over my shoulder with the envelope tucked inside. If the lawyer agrees it’s a good idea, I’m going to deliver it to the police.

I’m twisting my key in my door to lock it behind me when I hear, “Good morning.”

I turn around and see Mary, my neighbor across the hall with the little gray cat.

Before I can reply, she gasps and puts a hand to her chest. She looks like she’s seen a ghost.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She stares at me, her face draining of color.

“Shay,” she finally says. “I—It’s just that you look so much like…”

The name explodes into my brain as she says it: “Amanda.”

That night when I’d been house-sitting and I’d gazed into the mirror, wondering who I reminded myself of without my glasses and my hair up … it was she.

No one would ever mistake us for twins, but the resemblance is undeniable. At least it is now, with my lightened hair, shorter cut, and contacts.

I can’t believe I didn’t realize this before.

I don’t know what to say to Mary. It must be so eerie for her.

“I’m sorry,” I finally mumble. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She takes a step closer and reaches out, as if she wants to touch my hair. “The color … your scarf … when I saw you before, you looked different. Didn’t you have glasses?”

“I did—I do. I’d just gotten out of the shower so I had them on then.”

I flash back to how I’d looked that night, in a hoodie with my hair up in a ponytail and my tortoiseshell frames covering part of my face.

Mary gives herself a little shake. She bends down to pick up a newspaper and tucks it under her arm; she must have just opened her door to grab it. “You surprised me, that’s all,” she says, but she gives me a wary look as she goes back into her apartment. I hear the lock click.

I quickly reopen my own door and hurry inside. I rush into the bathroom and take out my contacts, placing them in the little plastic case the optometrist gave me. I find my glasses in the medicine cabinet, put them on, and grab an elastic band to gather my hair into a low ponytail. Then I unclasp my Fitbit and shove it under the sink.

I lean close to the mirror, breathing hard.

If you really want a makeover, you’ve got to let us help! Jane and I live for this stuff, Cassandra had told me.

I totally see you in this color, Jane had said, handing me a tear sheet of a model in a shampoo ad to give to the hairstylist—the one the Moore sisters brought me to. Cassandra had asked him to shape my eyebrows, too.

When I’d mentioned I’d been toying with the idea of contact lenses, they’d squealed, Do it!—and pushed me to book an appointment.

They knew Amanda so well.

Could it simply be a coincidence that all of their suggestions make me look more like their dead friend?

Even if it wasn’t their intention, they must see it.

Amanda’s style does suit me; I know I look better now. Just as her apartment is perfect for me.