You Are Not Alone(89)
Valerie began to close the distance between them, her pace almost leisurely, her gaze locked on Amanda.
Amanda stepped close to the edge of the platform.
“Don’t!”
Amanda turned to see the woman in the T-shirt and shorts staring at her, her hand outstretched.
But Valerie was closing the gap between them.
The roar of the incoming train filled Amanda’s ears. She had no real family, no job, and now no friends.
You’re going to lose everything, Cassandra had said.
I already have, Amanda thought.
She leaped up, her arms spreading out as she flew through the air.
For a brief moment, she felt free.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
SHAY
The murder rate in the United States dropped last year. New York City isn’t even one of the top 30 most dangerous cities in the country. And according to one study, if you murder someone in the United States, there’s a 60 percent chance you’ll get caught. Although in New York City the chance of getting caught is 85 percent.
—Data Book, page 70
I AWAKE FEELING DISORIENTED for the third morning in a row.
On Saturday, when everything started to go horribly wrong, I came to on my couch. Sunday I woke on the futon in my old bedroom at Sean and Jody’s. Now I’m in this strange hotel.
Last night was endless. Every time the radiator thrummed or the ice machine in the hallway clattered it jolted me. I finally managed to drift off for an hour or two, but I can still feel the ghost of the nightmare that gripped me.
I fumble around on the nightstand until I find my glasses.
My burner phone is plugged into its charger. When I check it, I see Tony Ricci still hasn’t returned my call.
I climb out of bed and go into the bathroom, taking a quick shower before dressing in my jeans and Sean’s hoodie again. Then I email Francine, my boss at Quartz, to let her know I’m sick and can’t work today. My contract calls for me to work forty hours per week. Is it all right if I make up the hours? I write. I know she won’t be at her desk yet, since it’s three hours earlier on the West Coast.
I climb back onto my bed—there’s nowhere else to sit in the room, since the hard chair is still wedged under my doorknob—and pull out my new notebook. I turn to the first fresh, blank page. I begin to fill it with everything I recall about Cassandra and Jane. I try to re-create our past conversations—beginning with the moment I encountered them at Amanda’s memorial service.
It’s lucky, in a way, that I was so taken by the sisters. They made such a vivid impression on me that my memories of them are almost three-dimensional.
Please don’t hesitate to reach out if you want to talk. Connecting with each other is one of the most essential things we can do…, Cassandra had said the first time we met.
The heat of her hand on my bare forearm. Those mesmerizing amber eyes. Jane’s dimple flashing as she smiled up at me.
My throat thickens as I picture Cassandra putting her raincoat around my shoulders. I see Jane with a bright smile standing up to wave me over to the table at Bella’s and, later, while we walked the High Line, making me laugh as she snapped the photo of me in the straw hat. As hard as Amanda’s death was for us, the only silver lining was it led you to us, Cassandra had said on the last night we spent together.
Hot tears prick my eyes. They broke my heart.
My foot shoots out and kicks over the trash can.
I thought you were my friends, I want to cry out. I trusted you, and you betrayed me.
What the sisters did feels worse than getting fired from my last job, Barry’s insults, or even watching the man I lived with and secretly loved fall for another woman.
I inhale a jagged breath and force myself to concentrate. I’ve filled pages of my new Data Book with my memories of Cassandra and Jane, but it’s mostly superficial details—such as the fact that Cassandra drinks jasmine tea, and Jane favors a floral perfume.
I don’t possess a lot of hard data about the sisters, not the way they do about me. They visited my last two apartments—three if you include the one where I house-sat. They’ve met Sean and Jody. They know about my subway phobia, my new freelance gig at Quartz, and even what I make for breakfast. They’re aware that I want a serious relationship, and they have pictures of me on their phones.
What do I know about them? I’ve never seen the inside of their apartments, or their workplace. I don’t know what keeps them up at night. And I have no idea why they acted like my friends, and then my enemies.
I don’t even know if they really like cinnamon Altoids or yoga or Moscow Mules.
Maybe it was all for show.
Once I’ve recorded all my memories, I google the Moore sisters, reading through their company’s website and jotting down the names of their clients. There’s surprisingly little about them on the internet, and most of it I’ve already seen. Still, I write down whatever information I find.
I have no idea what to do next.
I pace up and down the channel next to my bed in my tiny hotel room, feeling like a caged animal. I try to make sense of the facts I’ve documented, but it’s a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces. The Moore sisters must have a reason for their bizarre actions. Yet it completely eludes me.
By early afternoon, my head is throbbing, probably from the lack of coffee. It’s hard to ignore the sound of a man and a woman loudly arguing in a room down the hall. I check my messages but I haven’t heard back from Francine. Ted hasn’t replied to me either, so I text him again.