You Are Not Alone(77)

The silence feels oppressive.

“Sorry it’s not more exciting,” I say, trying to ease the tension.

She doesn’t smile. It’s almost like she’s waiting for me to tell her more.

“What’s going on?”

“That’s all for now,” Detective Williams finally says. She stands up, and I do the same.

She leads me back to the front door. “I’ll be in touch,” she says as I step out.

I stand on the busy street, feeling disoriented. The last thing I want is to be by myself.

So I phone Sean. The moment I hear his warm, familiar voice—“Hey, Shay!”—I burst into ragged sobs.



* * *



I’m so grateful that for once Jody isn’t around. She has an organizing job that’s supposed to last all afternoon.

It’s just me and Sean on his new couch—the one he got to replace the sofa I took away—with big glasses of water in front of us. I’m still feeling dehydrated, as I often do after taking Ambien. So maybe I did swallow a pill at some point last night.

We’ve been talking for a long time. Sean was so stunned by what had happened that I had to tell him the whole story twice.

It still doesn’t feel real to me, either.

“So how did you leave things with the detective?”

I’m hunched over, with my legs pulled up and my arms wrapped around my knees. “She asked if I had any plans to travel out of the city, and I said no. She obviously knows where I live. I’m not sure I can go back to my apartment. I mean, what if the person who left all that stuff comes back?”

I can’t suppress a shudder.

“So you’ll stay here. Like old times.” Then Sean smiles, and I can tell he’s trying to get me to do the same: “Except you should know that Jody has turned your room into an office.”

Of course she has, I think. When I look up again, Sean is staring at me with concern in his eyes. “Hey, have you eaten today?”

I shake my head. When I went into the bathroom at the police station, I’d recoiled at my reflection: Mascara was smeared under my eyes, and my hair was disheveled. I’d dampened a paper towel and run it under my eyes and splashed cold water on my face before trying to tame my hair. I’d taken out my contacts and put on glasses, thankful I’d been carrying them in my purse and that I’d thought to grab it before Detective Williams had driven me to the station.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Come on.” He gives me a little tap on the knee. “You’ve gotta stay nourished. How about I make you one of your favorite banana smoothies?”

I follow him the few steps into the kitchen.

“Do you want to try your friends again?”

I look down at my phone. Ted still hasn’t replied to my text. And neither Cassandra nor Jane has returned my calls. So I text the Moore sisters again: Please call me as soon as you can. Something awful has happened.

I wait a moment, staring at my screen, but I don’t see the three dots that would indicate one of them is typing a reply. “They’re probably with a client or something.”

Sean pulls a banana out of the fruit basket and begins slicing it up. “They’re in PR, right?”

“Yeah.” I can tell he’s trying to get my mind off the past few hours, to give me an oasis of calm, but I can’t make small talk.

He reaches for the almond butter in the cabinet and continues to chat, telling me about the new student he’s tutoring. “So this helicopter mom called me the other day and said her son got a 1580 on the SAT. She wants me to help him get to a perfect 1600.” Sean pulls vanilla extract from the spice drawer. I notice the drawers are now lined with brightly striped contact paper.

“Oh, wow,” I say listlessly.

He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Should I stop talking?”

I shake my head rapidly. My thoughts are too unnerving in the silence.

“More talk coming up right after this intermission.” The loud grinding noise of the blender startles me and I flinch. Sean notices and turns it off. “Sorry.”

He pours the smoothies into two glasses and adds reusable metal straws. “Jody got us these. They’re much better for the environment.”

I flash to Cassandra handing me my glass of champagne last night, and the feel of a soft hand on my forehead. I suppress a shudder.

“Come on, have a sip,” Sean urges me.

He takes a long drink and I do the same. The cool liquid feels good against my throat, but I don’t know if I can manage to drink any more.

“What did I forget? They don’t taste exactly like the one you always make.”

“The cinnamon.”

My phone buzzes in my jeans pocket. It’s a text from my mom: Sweetie! Mashed or sweet potatoes for Thanksgiving? Or both?

I can’t believe the world is still spinning on its usual axis—that people are thinking about holiday meals and reading the Saturday paper and jogging in Central Park.

“Was that from your friends?”

I shake my head.

“I remember they liked your smoothies, too.” He takes another sip.

I frown. “Why do you say that?”

“That night when we met for a beer and you called them about the apartment, they mentioned it.” He walks over to the couch and pats the cushion. “C’mon, you look a little pale.”