You Are Not Alone(91)
Maybe it will look worse for Shay if the police can’t find her either, Valerie thinks.
Valerie starts when the phone on her desk rings. It’s only a magazine columnist, hoping for a tidbit about a celebrity.
“I’ll have Cassandra or Jane call you back,” Valerie says, keeping her voice light and calm.
The sisters still have clients who need them, and an office to run, but they’re canceling unnecessary appointments to open their schedules. They’re keeping a few important ones—including with Willow Tanaka, the artist, who is coming into their office toward the end of the day to sign contracts for a lucrative branding partnership.
The Moore sisters plan to get Willow in and out as quickly as possible. Then, under the guise of heading out for a late meeting, Cassandra, Jane, and Valerie will once more return to Shay’s apartment.
They have something else to plant there. They need to find a good hiding place, one the police will surely find if they obtain a search warrant to tear apart the residence of a suspected murderess.
Not if the police obtain the search warrant, Valerie tells herself. When.
It should be simple enough to find the perfect spot. They know the apartment well. And the final piece of evidence is featherlight and smaller than an index card.
When her personal phone rings again, Valerie thinks about letting it go to voice mail—she’s surprised by how much Shay’s absence is getting under her skin—but after the third ring, she picks it up and greets her caller warmly. “Tony! What in the world are you up to?”
Valerie has kept in sporadic touch with Tony in the fifteen years since he got his green card and she moved out of his apartment, but they haven’t spoken since she came to Manhattan.
He cuts right to it: “I got a strange message from a 917 area code. There’s a woman asking about you.”
Valerie grows still. “Did she leave a name?”
“No.” Tony’s voice is high with anxiety.
“You don’t have anything to worry about. As far as Immigration is concerned, your case closed long ago.” It’s a wonder he passed the grueling immigration interviews, given his nervous nature. “Can you give me her number?”
She doesn’t recognize the combination of digits Tony recites, so she jots them down.
“If she calls again, just let it go to voice mail.” Valerie hangs up and stands up, her eyes narrowing.
It has to be Shay.
She’s circling ever closer. If she had caught Tony unaware, he could have revealed information Valerie has successfully kept hidden for her entire adult life.
Valerie takes a sip of coffee, then sets her mug on her glass-topped desk so roughly it nearly shatters.
Why haven’t the police arrested Shay yet? Where has Shay gone?
Maybe they shouldn’t wait for the police to act, Valerie thinks. Perhaps Shay should disappear permanently.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
SHAY
An estimated 1,800 people go missing in the United States every day—though most of those reports are later canceled. There are roughly 90,000 active missing person’s cases in the U.S.
—Data Book, page 72
I DUCK MY HEAD against the wind as I walk through Times Square, passing a person in a Cookie Monster costume posing for a photo with a young boy, a tour-bus operator who tries to sell me a spot on a day trip to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, and the flashing neon lights that never cease.
My footsteps are instinctively leading me toward the Moore sisters’ office on Sullivan Street. I need to see something solid about the sisters, even if it’s just their names on the company display in the lobby.
My job was fake, so perhaps theirs is, too.
I walk all the way to the Moore sisters’ building, trying to burn off my edgy feelings and clear my mind. After the first half mile, my face and hands begin to feel numb, but at least I’m doing something.
I arrive at the address on the PR firm’s website and stare up at the six-story structure with a plain but elegant fa?ade. A little flag outside says MOORE PUBLIC RELATIONS. So at least one part of their story seems real.
It appears to be an ordinary Monday in Manhattan: Men and women are hurrying down sidewalks, talking into cell phones, many carrying to-go cups of coffee or bags with take-out lunches. It’s hard to believe that only a week ago I was one of the 1.6 million people in the city doing the same thing.
Maybe I’ll see Cassandra or Jane exiting the building. I could try to follow them and find out more.
I imagine them striding around their offices in their stylish clothes, their phone lines constantly ringing with people vying for their attention.
I wait and watch—just as I suspect they’ve been watching me.
Before long, I start to shiver. The cold rises up through the sidewalk and seeps through my body. I wish I could buy a cup of coffee to warm me, but I don’t want to leave my post, even for a few minutes. I shift my weight from leg to leg, trying to get my circulation flowing.
At a little before 4:30 P.M., I see a woman approach the building. She’s wearing red leather pants, a black wool cape, and high platform boots. Her white-blond hair is choppily cut to her chin, and her bangs look like broom straw across her forehead.
But it’s not her striking appearance that draws my attention. I recognize her immediately from the photo on the Moore Public Relations website: Willow Tanaka.