You Are Not Alone(75)

“I guess that’s okay.” I pull the thin black blanket tighter around me.

Detective Williams must have been stunned to see me in Amanda’s old apartment—looking a lot like Amanda. I’m still not entirely clear why the police showed up, but from what I can gather, a neighbor who noticed my open door and saw the bloody towel near the threshold dialed 911.

My phone is tucked in my bag, and this room has no clock. I feel completely disoriented.

“Is it Saturday?” I blurt.

Detective Williams nods. “Yes.”

At least I haven’t lost a bigger chunk of time.

She is staring at me with that impassive expression, the one that makes me think she can handle hearing anything. So I finally confess to her, even revealing how I went to Amanda’s mother’s house and retrieved Jane’s necklace.

Detective Williams takes notes while I talk. When I mention my makeover, her pen pauses on the page and her gaze rises to roam over my face. She seems to be scrutinizing everything from where I part my hair to the cleft in my chin.

I have no idea what she’s thinking.

I take another sip of coffee. It’s lukewarm by now, but at least the caffeine is clearing away the fuzziness from my brain. The sensation reminds me of how I felt when I took Ambien—I was so sluggish the morning after.

Is it possible that I took Ambien last night?

Hallucinations. Lack of memory. Altered consciousness. And women are more susceptible to the effects. All of this is in my Data Book.

I’ve read cases of rare instances of people sleep-driving, cooking meals, and even having sex with no memory of these activities.

Did I let Ted in without knowing it? Or did I open my door to someone else?

I recoil from the thought. It seems impossible.

More flashes from the evening come to me, like shards of a dream: Cassandra topping off my glass. Jane tucking the blanket around me. The soft sound of a door shutting.

“Do you want to talk to my friends?”

Detective Williams tucks her pen into the spiral at the top of her pad. She regards me steadily for a long moment. “You mean Amanda Evinger’s friends?”

My voice is shaking. “They might know more about what happened.”

Instead of responding, she stands up. “I’m going to grab another coffee. Need anything?”

I shake my head.

She leaves, closing the door behind her.

Maybe she doesn’t intend to call Cassandra and Jane, but that doesn’t mean I can’t. I grab my phone from my purse. I dial Cassandra first, then Jane. Neither answers so I leave them both messages: “Please call me back as soon as possible. It’s an emergency.”

Then I text Ted with the same message.

But none of them immediately replies.

I try to think about what to do next. I’m tempted to phone my mom, but then I imagine Barry answering, and I decide against it.

I look around the spare, hard-edged room. Nothing is in here other than the table, metal chairs, the camera in the corner, and a frosted pane of glass on one wall. I wonder if it’s one of those mirrors that the police use when a suspect is being questioned.

I press my fingers to my temples, trying to piece together fragments of memories: Cassandra in her burgundy dress … Jane hugging me … the smell of her sweet perfume … delicious, foamy champagne …

My head spins.

Detective Williams has been gone a long time. The waiting is torture.

I finally walk to the door, the blanket still wrapped around my shoulders, and reach for the knob. I’ll just stick out my head and see if I can spot her.

I pull but the door refuses to budge. I’m locked in.

I turn around, staring at the four walls. Are other police officers watching me right now?

My vision swims. My breath feels stuck in my throat.

I can’t succumb to a panic attack.

Am I locked in this room because Detective Williams wanted to give me privacy?

Or am I a suspect for a crime I don’t even know about?





CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO



AMANDA


Two months ago

AMANDA HAD PLANNED TO hurry to a restaurant right after leaving James on the bench in Central Park. She’d intended to sit as close to the center of the room as possible and ask the waiter about the night’s specials and pay with a credit card. She’d wanted to be memorable.

Instead, she burst through her apartment door, stripped off her tan dress and left it crumpled on the floor of her bathroom next to her purse, and turned on the shower.

She stood under the hot spray, compulsively washing herself, attempting to dig the dried blood out from under her fingernails.

And struggling to push the images out of her mind: James’s body, convulsing on the bench. Blood trickling down his face from the letter R that had been carved above his right eye. His lips swelling. His pale skin gleaming with sweat. And Stacey staring as Valerie stood over him, holding the bloody scalpel in her gloved hand.

Amanda shivered despite the hot water beating down on her. She couldn’t get warm.

Call 911! Amanda had cried. He’s having a reaction to the medication!

Valerie had merely bent over him again, wiping away the blood on his face with a small blue towel. She was clearing her canvas so she could finish carving the word into his forehead, the one that would tell the world what James had done to Daphne.