You Are Not Alone(85)

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN



SHAY


Some people contend there are two primal fears. The first and most basic is the end of our existence. The second is isolation; we all have a deep need to belong to something greater than ourselves.

—Data Book, page 68



RIGHT AFTER I SEE HER FACE, I google “Valerie Ricci” on my phone, trying every possible variation of the spelling that I can think of. I don’t feel safe lingering outside her building, so I head a few blocks away, to a diner I noticed when I house-sat, while I wait for the search engine to pull up results.

I slide into a booth toward the back, choosing the side that lets me keep an eye on the door, and order wheat toast. I’m still not hungry, but I know I need something to absorb the acid in my nervous stomach.

My search has thousands of results: One is a lifestyle blogger in North Carolina, another an attorney in Palo Alto, and there are schoolteachers, insurance agents, real estate brokers, and a self-published author. I can’t chase every one of them down.

I click on the images link and begin to look through the pictures: blond, blue-eyed Valeries, and lots of brunettes, and at least two redheads. Old Valeries and young ones, all shapes and sizes. As I scan through them, I realize I am unconsciously looking for the woman who just accepted the flowers from her doorman. But Valerie could have metamorphosed into the woman she is now. I slow down, giving each picture a careful look.

Then I see a familiar oval face with straight eyebrows and chestnut hair.

I’ve found her.

By the time the waitress slides a plate of toast triangles in front of me, I’m scrutinizing an old image of Valerie on the set of a now-canceled soap opera. From there, I locate a few of her past addresses in L.A. She was an actress, which seems fitting: She certainly made me believe she was someone else—and she convinced Jody, too.

I also discover she has an ex-husband named Tony Ricci, who still lives in L.A. His number is listed. I make a note of it so I can call him once I come up with a cover story—or a role of my own, like the ones Valerie plays.

Maybe he can tell me Valerie’s maiden name and hometown. If I have that information, I can try to trace her back in time.

My search turns up nothing about her in recent years, other than the address I just visited on East Twelfth Street. I can’t even find out where she works. Not a single current photograph of her exists online. It’s almost as if the person she used to be vanished when she came to New York.

I manage to finish a piece of toast and a half glass of water, then I slide out of the booth and walk back to Sean and Jody’s, hunching my shoulders against the cold. I check behind me every block or so and even cross the street twice. But all in the city seem engrossed in their own lives; no one appears to be watching me now.

Sean and Jody were asleep when I left this morning, and I’m hoping Sean will be home alone now. But after I climb the stairs to the second floor and use the spare key he gave me last night, I realize the apartment is empty.

I stand there, looking around, wondering what to do next. I’m so cold I can’t feel my toes.

Three flowered china teacups and saucers are on a little tray in the kitchen, along with a tiny china creamer and a box of chamomile. Jody must be expecting company, I think, since Sean only drinks his beloved dark-roast coffee. Maybe she ran out to get cookies or scones.

A cup of hot tea sounds perfect, I think. I reach into the cupboard for a chunky mug and drop in a teabag. As I reach for the teakettle, my fingertips brush its metal handle and I jerk back. It’s so hot I’ve burned myself.

I run the sink tap and put my fingers under the cold water.

Then I look again at the little tray Jody has set out. Why would she boil water for guests who haven’t yet arrived?

I turn off the sink. “Jody?” I call out.

All three doors are open—the one to the bathroom, the one to Jody and Sean’s bedroom, and mine. There’s no way she wouldn’t hear me if she were still here.

My head whips around to check my bedroom door again as something registers in my brain. The door to Jody’s office—the room I’m using—is wide open now.

But I’m certain I left it shut.

I stand there, a wet paper towel wrapped around my throbbing fingers, staring at the open door.

Déjà vu: When I stayed in Valerie Ricci’s apartment, I cut my finger slicing a red pepper and thought about opening her bedroom door to look for a Band-Aid. But I didn’t; the door was tightly shut and I left it that way.

The next day, however, I noticed it was cracked open.

I’d texted the Moore sisters, wondering if the super had been in the apartment, and Cassandra immediately responded that he had been by to check on a leak.

I accepted that at the time. But now, it seems a little too convenient that she’d known the super had been in the apartment of one of her friends.

If it wasn’t the super, then who came into Valerie’s apartment while I was supposedly house-sitting?

It could have been Valerie. Cassandra and Jane also had a key—they used it when they first showed me the apartment. Or Valerie could have given another key to someone else entirely. While I was feeling grateful to have the beautiful apartment as a refuge, someone could have come in and rifled through my things or even watched me sleep.

I shudder and drop the paper towel onto the counter. Then I lift my head and slowly sniff the air.