You Are Not Alone(71)
“But my chance was gone,” Valerie told Cassandra and Jane as sobs racked her body.
Later that afternoon, Valerie continued, her roommate Ashley arrived home. And a few hours after that, Valerie finally found her phone wedged between her mattress and box spring, with the ringer turned off.
“I was so na?ve,” Valerie had said, her voice raw. “I thought Ashley was a good person. But she fooled me. She’s an actress, after all.”
“She stole your phone?” Jane had said. “And could she have put something in your wine, like a sleeping pill?”
Valerie had shrugged. “I just wish someone could make her pay for what she did.”
“I wish someone could, too,” Cassandra had said, meeting Jane’s eyes.
The sisters’ plan was hatched that very evening. Cassandra and Jane had spent their careers cultivating media contacts, and they knew more than a couple of celebrities.
The stealth campaign they launched against Ashley was one of the most relentless and effective the Moore sisters ever conducted: whispers into the ears of some of their clients, off-the-record calls to entertainment reporters, the dissemination of horribly unflattering pictures they hired a photographer to surreptitiously take, including a series of Ashley appearing to be sneaking into the married director’s trailer. Ashley’s career crashed before her movie ever had a chance to launch it.
The immense satisfaction of seeing the effects of their vigilante justice opened the sisters’ eyes to the sweet power of revenge.
Soon they began to notice atrocities everywhere. There were so many horrible misdeeds in the world. Why should innocent people suffer while perpetrators roamed free, continuing to amass victims?
Their way is more effective than the unpredictable and often disappointing legal system.
It’s a lot faster—not to mention cheaper—than therapy.
It’s more intoxicating than a runner’s high.
They don’t want to stop. But more than that, they aren’t sure they can.
Their successes are completely addictive.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
SHAY
Blackouts represent episodes of amnesia and can be the result of excessive consumption of alcohol. The two main types of blackouts are en bloc and fragmentary. Some subjects who experience fragmentary blackouts—which are the most common form—can become aware they are missing pieces of events if they are later reminded about those events.
—Data Book, page 64
AT A LITTLE PAST 5:30 P.M., I begin preparing for my guests. The Moore sisters should be arriving soon.
They have a work event later this evening, but they suggested we have a quick drink in my apartment first when they swing by to get the books they forgot the last time they were here.
“We’ll bring the wine,” Cassandra had said. “A glass before your date will help relax you.”
Your date.
I find myself singing along with Pink as I set out the food. Ted is coming by at seven-thirty to pick me up and take me out to dinner.
Nothing will keep me away this time, he’d promised in his last text, after I’d agreed to reschedule.
After so many nights alone, my Friday evening promises to be full of excitement.
By now, I’ve completely reframed my silly anxiety about the makeover that highlighted my resemblance to Amanda. The Moore sisters have done nothing but try to help me ever since we met. Maybe it’s a little strange that they didn’t bring up my resemblance to Amanda when I first walked out of the optometrist’s office. They were probably a bit thrown, but perhaps they didn’t want me to feel uncomfortable.
They couldn’t have been trying to make me look like Amanda, unless it was subconscious. It’s more likely that they were simply helping me become the best version of me.
And I’m the one who found Amanda’s apartment up for rent; they had nothing to do with that. Maybe they even felt a little discomfort about me moving in here, but they hid it because they knew how badly I needed to find a new place.
How could there be anything sinister about all the kind things they’ve done for me? I’ve felt so much less alone since I met them.
I’ve picked up a bouquet of flowers to brighten my kitchen counter. I went to the same corner deli where I purchased flowers the last two times—the single yellow zinnia that I laid on Amanda’s doorstep, and the bigger bunch I left with her sleeping mother.
This time, I chose orange alstroemeria.
I light the new chunky candle the sisters gave me and dim the overhead light, then survey the room. Everything looks perfect in my cozy new place, and the vanilla-and-bourbon-spiked-caramel candle smells like I’ve just baked something delicious.
Happiness bubbles within me, making my body feel light and tingly.
I’m not planning to let Ted up when he calls from the lobby later tonight—I’ll just go straight downstairs to meet him. Even if the evening goes as well as I hope it does, I won’t invite him up after dinner, either—so my efforts are just for the Moore sisters.
When the buzzer sounds, I press the button to allow them in and open my door. As I watch them walk down the hallway, side by side, I’m struck anew by how stunning they look. Cassandra is in a fitted burgundy dress with ankle boots, and Jane wears a black jumpsuit belted at the waist with a gold chain.