You Are Not Alone(90)

I’m down to less than six hundred dollars in cash. There’s more in my bank account, so I can afford to stay in this hotel for a while longer. Then what?

I call Francine’s work number to make sure she received my email. I get her voice mail and think about leaving a message. But I hang up before the beep. I’d rather talk to her personally so I can gauge her reaction.

I wonder if Francine is annoyed that I’m taking a sick day so soon after being hired. I’m a freelancer; it would be easy for her to replace me.

Anxiety gnaws at me.

I flip through my Data Book to try to distract myself, but it only makes things worse: Images of Cassandra and Jane—tossing back their shining hair, folding their shapely legs into a taxi, flashing their perfect teeth as they laugh—seem to rise off every page.

I need to get out of this room.

But if Francine phones back and I answer, the ambient noises of the city will be clear in the background. She might wonder how sick I really am if I’m outside.

I run my hand over my forehead. I could be stuck here all day waiting for her call.

I finally look up the main number for Quartz so I can relay a message to one of Francine’s colleagues. I dial it and ask the receptionist if I can speak to someone in human resources.

“Transferring,” she says, and a moment later a man answers, “Allen Peters.”

“Hi, Mr. Peters.” I haven’t spoken since I checked in last night, so my voice sounds a little scratchy. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Shay Miller, the freelancer from New York City.”

“Who?”

“Shay Miller. I was recently hired.… I report to Francine DeMarco.”

“Who? You must have the wrong number. There’s no one here by that name.”

I drop the phone onto the bed and edge away from it, like it’s dangerous.

I never had a job at Quartz.

My mind spins back to the first message I received from Francine. Quartz was part of her email address, and her phone number had a 310 exchange, which corresponds to the West Coast.

I researched Quartz, the company, after I thought I’d landed an interview. But not the woman who contacted me on LinkedIn, or Francine DeMarco.

I begin to tremble. The Moore sisters have to be behind this.

They’re everywhere, I think.

And now they know so much more about me. I filled out a half dozen forms and sent them to “Francine.” They’ve got my Social Security number, my birth date, my middle name, my mother’s cell phone number, since she’s my emergency contact.… What are they going to do to me next?

The room starts to swim; I’m hyperventilating.

I collapse onto the bed, fighting to even out my breathing. How many other areas of my life did the Moore sisters infiltrate that I don’t know about?

The walls are pressing in on me.

I abruptly jump up and put on my down vest and stick my wallet, burner phone, and a power bar into its pockets. I scoop up my new Data Book and press my ear against the door before I open it. I hold my breath as I listen. The man and the woman in a room down the hall are still fighting, but their voices are quieter now. I yank open the door.

The corridor is empty.

I exhale slowly. I think about having to walk back down this dingy, creepy hallway when I return, and I remember a trick I once saw in a movie. I dash back in my bathroom and grab a square of toilet paper. I tear off a small piece.

I draw the door closed, but just before it latches, I slip the scrap of tissue between the jamb and the hinges, at exactly my eye height. The DO NOT DISTURB sign is hanging on the outer doorknob. The paper is almost completely hidden; just the tiniest sliver of white shows in the crack. No one would ever see it if not looking for it.

If it’s still in place when I return, I’ll know no one has breached my room. But if anyone opens the door, it’ll fall to the floor. Even if it’s seen falling, the person won’t know exactly where I placed it.

It’s all I can think to do to protect myself.

I descend the stairs to the lobby, ducking low and peering around every corner before I make the turns.

When I arrive in the lobby, a different clerk is on call. I hand him eighty dollars. “Another night. Room 508, please.”

“Last name?”

I hesitate for a fraction of a beat. “Smith. Thanks.”

Then I step outside, into a bracing wind.





CHAPTER SIXTY



VALERIE


SHAY HAS DISAPPEARED.

Despite the fact that Jody called the police to inform them about the unsettling photo of Amanda, Shay hasn’t been arrested. Beth, whose job as a public defense attorney gives her access to law-enforcement databases, has checked.

Jody told Jane that Shay is no longer staying in the guest room. Jody reported that Shay texted Sean last night to say she was spending the night with another friend, and that she’d collect her things soon. Stacey has confirmed Shay is not staying at Mel’s place in Brooklyn, or her mother’s home in New Jersey. Cassandra and Jane stopped by the apartment that once housed Amanda but is now being rented by Shay, slipping in with the spare key they’d had made before Shay rented it, but Shay wasn’t there, either.

It’s as if Shay has been swallowed up by the city.

Valerie, who arrived at the Sullivan Street office of Moore Public Relations at dawn, reaches up to massage her temples. Her head is throbbing, and the bright lights in the office pierce her eyes. She has been running on only a few hours of sleep for the past few nights.