You Are Not Alone(87)

I find everything I need within a block’s radius: a three-pack of underwear, a long-sleeved shirt, and a down vest on sale for twenty dollars. I then head to Duane Reade and pick up travel toiletries, a few Cup-a-Soups, some protein bars, and a burner flip phone with internet access and a prepaid SIM card.

I’m almost at the register when I remember something and whirl around and head toward the back of the store, where there are office supplies. I grab a cheap spiral notebook and a ballpoint pen before heading back to the register. I pay in cash, then return to the hotel.

I buzz again to gain entry, and the clerk gives me a vague nod as I pass him on my way to the staircase.

I trudge up, then unlock my door and look around. The room is tiny and utilitarian, with just a double bed, a straight chair, and two nightstands. I check under the bed and in the tiny bathroom before I even put down my shopping bags. I secure the flimsy-looking chain and blockade the door with the chair, wedging it under the knob.

I finally sink onto the edge of the faded bedspread. Breathing hard, I stare out the window that faces a brick building three feet away.

If I don’t keep my mind busy, it feels like the weight of my fears will crush me. So I get to work.

I start by pulling out my phone and begin plugging terms—“scalpel,” “New York City,” “Cassandra and Jane Moore”—into a search engine.

I scan dozens of articles and pictures. Most of them I’ve already seen from my previous searches about the Moore sisters.

I expand my search, trying to picture the pages of my Data Book containing all the information I recorded about the Moore sisters: the name of the yoga studio Cassandra frequents. Bella’s, the bar where we had Moscow Mules. Daphne’s boutique. Thirty-third Street subway station suicide. The Rosewood Club, where the sisters hosted Amanda’s memorial service.

I get tons of hits. I read until my eyes are gritty. But I can’t find the missing link that will help me make sense of all this.

When heavy footsteps tromp through the hallway, I flinch. But they pass by my door without pausing, and a moment later I hear someone enter the room next to mine and turn on the television. The canned laughter of a sitcom seeps through the thin walls.

I don’t want to turn on my television, which could mask the sound of someone trying to get through my door. I also don’t want to leave my room. I’m not hungry, but I am thirsty. I should have known there wouldn’t be a complimentary bottle of water on my nightstand.

The front-desk clerk had mentioned a vending machine in the lobby. Pop, he’d said, which is a regional term that a lot of people in the Midwest use. I think about walking down that dim hallway and descending four flights of stairs. Instead, I head to the bathroom and cup my hand under the sink tap and drink from it.

I should eat something, I realize, but my stomach feels too tightly clenched to handle even the soup I bought.

I lie down on the bed, listening to the distant wail of a siren. I’ve left on the bathroom light so I won’t be in darkness.

I felt alone before I met the Moore sisters, when my biggest problems were a dead-end temp job and hearing Jody’s giggle coming from Sean’s bedroom.

Now I know how much worse things can become.

I’m convinced the Moore sisters set me up for something. But what?

Fatigue starts to overtake my body, as if someone has laid a weighted blanket on me. I think back to Jane laying the throw over my body, saying, This will keep you cozy. I’ve been in such a frantic state, but now I’m shutting down. My body and brain can no longer sustain the intense stress. I feel completely numb. I just want to disappear.

As I stare into the darkness, I wonder, Is this how Amanda felt on the day she died?





CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT



AMANDA


Two months ago

IT HAD BEEN TEN DAYS since James died. No, since she had killed James. The hissing voice was right: It was her fault.

Gina had left several more messages, but Amanda didn’t respond. What could she say?

Then came a final call from City Hospital, this one from human resources, letting Amanda know she’d been fired.

Her life as she’d known it was over. But at least she could do one right thing.

Early on a Sunday morning she slipped on the first article of clothing her hand closed around in her closet, a green polka-dot dress. She found a manila envelope and filled it with the evidence she’d been hiding beneath her sink.

Then she stood by her door, listening intently. She heard nothing.

She unlatched the chain and peered down the hallway. It was empty.

She hurried to the stairs, taking them two at a time as she wound her way down to the lobby.

It was completely still—no other residents were picking up their Sunday papers or coming in with lattes in hand.

But that didn’t mean someone wasn’t waiting for her outside.

Amanda looked down at the bulging manila envelope in her hand. What might they do to her if they knew she was planning to deliver it to the police?

They would intercept her.

They would destroy the evidence.

They would destroy her.

Amanda thought hard and carefully, concentrating as deeply as her weary, jumbled mind would allow. Then she spun around and walked back to her mailbox, using her key to open it. She shoved the envelope to the very back.

She reached for her phone and dialed the nonemergency police number. She wasn’t going to tell the police everything. At least not yet. But she wanted them to know she was coming, just in case.