You Are Not Alone(82)

I leave the apartment at around eight-thirty on Sunday morning—the same day of the week and time as I did when this all started, only a few months ago.

Back then it was hot and muggy. Now it’s bright and chilly. But I’m so churned up inside I don’t even feel the bite of the wind against my face or my lack of a coat.

New puzzle pieces keep spinning around in my head. Jody was in the apartment on East Twelfth Street less than a week before Cassandra and Jane asked me to stay there. Yesterday, I peppered Jody with questions about Deena, the client who needed her closet reorganized. But Jody didn’t know a lot; they’d only spent a couple of hours together. She did say the woman looked to be in her late thirties, was recently divorced, and had wanted to chat over a glass of wine.

“I never drink on the job, but I didn’t want to offend a client,” Jody had explained.

I finally got out of her that Deena had asked a lot of personal questions—some about Jody’s relationship with Sean, and even about Sean’s roommate. Me.

Jody had shied away when I’d pressed her to explain specifically what they’d discussed.

“I can’t really remember.” Jody avoided my eyes. “She might have asked what you were like … um, that was about it.”

“What did you say?” I’d asked urgently. I didn’t care about Jody’s opinion of me, but I needed to know what information she’d put out there.

“I said you were nice!” Jody replied somewhat indignantly.

No matter how hard I tried, she wouldn’t reveal more.

I round a corner, approaching my destination. I’m so agitated I’m walking at a much faster rate than usual. The city is awakening now. A bike messenger yells at a cabbie for cutting him off, and a mom urges along her lagging son, warning he’ll be late for soccer practice. A bus pulls up at a stop next to me, exhaling loudly, and a weary-looking woman climbs aboard.

I know this neighborhood pretty well: I’ve bought bananas and strawberries from the fruit vendor on the corner I just passed. Cassandra and Jane’s friend Anne met me on that same corner, too, before Anne helped me work through my subway phobia.

I realize the data points don’t look good for me, even though no one arrested me and Detective Williams said I was free to go at any time. I need one more piece of information, and it might also help convince Detective Williams that I’ve unwittingly gotten wrapped up in something ominous.

I finally reach my destination, the flower shop.

I wait outside, shivering, until the shopkeeper unlocks the door.

What I’m about to do feels risky. Maybe I should be staying put at Sean’s.

But playing it safe feels like the most dangerous thing I could do. I can’t just wait for the next awful thing to happen.

“Are you searching for anything special?” the florist asks.

“Just a simple bouquet. It’s a gift.”

“We’ve got several arrangements on display around the store, or I could put something together for you.”

I try to figure out what would be the cheapest option.

“Could I have a half dozen chrysanthemums?” I point to the yellow blooms in a bucket in a refrigerated case.

“Sure.” She opens the door and selects the stems. Then she wraps them in cellophane and ties it all up with a ribbon. “That’ll be twenty-four dollars.”

I reach into my pocket and pull out my thin, folding wallet. I pay in cash.

Then I walk to the East Twelfth Street apartment, yet another nexus between me and the Moore sisters.

When I’m almost there, I stop and pull my hood over my hair and put on my sunglasses. Then I stride into the building.

“Hey there,” I say to the doorman. “Delivery for…” I lay the flowers on the lobby counter and squint at my phone. “I can’t see her name, but it’s apartment 6C.”

“Valerie Ricci. You can take it up in the service elevator.”

But I’m already halfway to the door. “Sorry, gotta run.” I hurry out.

I move at an angle behind a telephone pole and wait. I can’t believe my ploy worked and I got her name. I was hoping for that, but I would’ve settled for just getting a glimpse of her face.

Who knows if the woman who lives in the apartment with the distinctive hand-shaped vase is even home? She could be traveling again. But the doorman told me to bring them up, so I’m optimistic.

Her real name may not even be Valerie Ricci. But that seems unlikely. She’d have to show identification to sign a lease, and she’d need a bank account to pay her rent.

I’m eager to confirm her name. But even more urgently I want to see her.

I don’t have to wait long.

A few minutes later, I see a woman walk from the back of the lobby toward the doorman’s desk. I can’t see her face, but she has brown hair down to her shoulders.

He hands her the flowers and she looks at them, running her fingers through the stems. Probably looking for a card, but she won’t find one.

She raises her head and I can see her mouth moving as she speaks to the doorman.

Then she turns, and for the first time I glimpse her features.

This time, the shock I should feel doesn’t even register. I’ve become inured to the unbelievable twists that seem to infiltrate everything the Moore sisters touch.