You Are Not Alone(76)

Stop! He could die! Amanda had cried.

Now she wrapped her arms around herself, shaking. She remembered the Nightingale Pledge she’d recited at her graduation from nursing school: I solemnly pledge … to practice my profession faithfully.… I … will not take or knowingly administer any harmful drug.…

They were supposed to punish James, not kill him.

She could hear a ringing over the noise of the shower. The burner phone the Moore sisters had given her was still in her purse, next to the bloody towel. Wrapped in the towel was the scalpel.

Amanda stared straight ahead, the water blurring her vision.

“Did he show Daphne any mercy?” Valerie had asked, finishing the R.

“Val, he’s foaming at the mouth,” Stacey had said.

James’s movements had begun to slow down as his body gave up the fight.

From the pledge Amanda had recited as she’d stood onstage at her graduation, her posture straight and proud, and the sun brightly shining overhead: I will dedicate myself to devoted service to human welfare.

Amanda had tried to push Valerie aside. If James’s airway was closing, it would be too late to save him by the time an ambulance arrived. But there was one chance: She’d spotted the pen in James’s breast pocket, the one he’d used to sign the check at the restaurant. She’d seen doctors perform emergency tracheostomies before. She could cut a hole into his trachea with the scalpel, then use the tube of the pen to keep air flowing through his swollen throat.

“Give me the scalpel,” she ordered.

Valerie ignored her and started on the downward slash of the second letter, A.

Cassandra and Jane, who had been serving as lookouts, came running over.

“Someone’s coming. We’ve got to get out of here.” Cassandra grabbed Valerie’s arm, causing Valerie to drop the scalpel.

Amanda picked it up. “I have to help him!”

James’s body gave a final shudder, then stopped moving.

“I think he’s dead,” Stacey said.

Cassandra didn’t hesitate. “It needs to look like a robbery.”

“With that letter on his face?” Still, Valerie reached into James’s back pocket and slid out his wallet. Cassandra unclasped his watch.

Then Jane lifted a finger to her lips.

On the other side of the sprawling oak tree, a dog barked.

“We need to go, now,” Cassandra whispered.

Amanda touched two fingers to James’s neck. His pulse had vanished.

“No,” she whispered.

She’d seen death many times in the hospital before; she’d fought it with her hands and instruments and skills. It was never easy to lose. But this was different.

She’d never before been death’s accomplice.

She reached for the towel Valerie had left on his chest and wrapped the scalpel in it, then stuck it in her bag as Stacey grabbed her elbow, roughly pulling her away. “C’mon, Amanda. Move!”

The five women hurried toward the edge of the park. Ahead were the bright lights of headlights and restaurants and buildings. “Separate now,” Cassandra directed them. Her expression was impassive under the glow of the streetlight. Her voice was steady and even. “Meet at my place.”

Amanda watched as the others split in different directions—Cassandra and Jane hailing a cab, Valerie melting into the shadows along the edge of the park, and Stacey jamming her hands into the pockets of her jeans and heading toward the subway.

Amanda stood there, alone.

Then she began to run. But not toward Cassandra’s apartment.

She ran home.





CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE



SHAY


About 50 percent of Americans say they rely on their instincts to help them determine what feels truthful and what doesn’t. One in seven say they strongly trust their gut to make decisions, while one in ten rarely do.

—Data Book, page 66



WHEN DETECTIVE WILLIAMS FINALLY comes back into the room, she apologizes for the door being locked. “It automatically bolts when it shuts. You’re free to go anytime you like.”

“Oh, okay.” I feel my sense of claustrophobia recede. “Do you have any update on what happened last night? Whose stuff is in my apartment?”

“We don’t have any information about that right now.”

But the wallet must have had something in it to indicate who it belonged to—a driver’s license or credit card. Before I ask about that, though, Detective Williams sits down and leans forward, her forearms resting on the table.

Her tone doesn’t change when she asks me her next question. But I feel a shift in the air, as if some sort of switch has been flipped.

“Where were you on the night of Thursday, August fifteenth, Shay?”

I blink and shake my head slightly. That was months ago.

“I don’t know offhand,” I whisper. I look down at my phone, which is on the table now. “Can I check my calendar?”

“That would be great, if you don’t mind.”

I pull it up. Temp, dentist, 6-mile run.

“I temped all day, then I had my teeth cleaned. I went for a long run that night. See?”

I tilt my phone in her direction and Detective Williams nods. But she’s not glancing at my screen. She’s staring at me.