You Are Not Alone(92)

I keep watching as Willow disappears through the revolving door. When she comes back out, I can try to engage her in conversation—perhaps she’ll tell me something about the Moore sisters.

I know I’m clutching at air, but I’m desperate.

The sun begins to sink behind the city’s tallest buildings, casting giant shadows over the streets. I tuck my hands deeper into my pockets and stamp my numb feet against the concrete.

About twenty minutes later, I see that distinctive hair and a flash of red leather.

Willow is exiting the building.

I push away from the pillar I’ve been leaning against and take a step toward her.

Then I see the woman emerging from the revolving door directly behind her.

I recoil.

It’s Valerie Ricci.

She’s wearing gray slacks with a fitted wrap sweater, and her hair is up in a twist. She looks neat and efficient—as if she’s transposed a new persona over the warm, talkative, slightly bawdy woman I knew as Anne. I watch as she and Willow stand together on the sidewalk. Then Valerie hails a cab, raising her hand with a crisp flick of her wrist, and Willow climbs inside the vehicle.

Valerie spins on her heel and walks back into the building.

Cassandra and Jane described Valerie as a friend when they told me she’d help me overcome my subway phobia—and they used the same word when they described her as the tenant of the apartment they got me to “house-sit.” And when I first met her, she gave me the impression she was a stay-at-home mom.

Now I wonder if Valerie actually works for the Moore sisters, even though I never came across the mention of her name on their website.

It seems crazy that they would have paid her to take me on the subway and use a fake name and temporarily move out of her home so I could sleep in her guest room. But maybe it isn’t; the Moore sisters have done far more outrageous things to me.

While I’m digesting this, the three of them—Cassandra, Jane, and Valerie—exit the building. I shrink behind the pillar.

I don’t think they can see me; a busy street is between us. I watch them approach the curb, then lose sight of them briefly when a delivery truck rumbles by. When my line of vision is clear again, a taxi is pulling up for them.

I begin to jog, keeping my eyes fixed on their yellow cab as it merges back into traffic and starts to blend in with dozens of others. When it idles at a red light, I scan the street, holding my hand up. But all the taxis that approach are full. It takes me three more blocks of running until I can catch one.

“Can you follow that cab, please.” I point. “The one with the Chanel perfume ad on the roof.”

We pass Washington Square Park, then head north past Union Square Park, my cab jerking and weaving through traffic. I keep my eyes fixed on the perfume bottle atop the vehicle I’m chasing. On Park Avenue South we briefly lose them when we get stuck at a red light, but their cab stops at the next light, so we catch up.

Finally my driver manages to edge directly behind them. I can see three sleek heads in the backseat. For a moment it’s hard to tell who is who, then I realize Valerie is in the middle, with Cassandra to her right and Jane to her left.

We’re getting close to the apartment I used to share with Sean and Jody; we pass the Thirty-third Street subway station, and the Starbucks on my old corner.

A few blocks later, we turn east. My body grows rigid. I know this route well; I’ve traveled it many times.

It feels surreal, but I know exactly where they’re going.

Their cab pulls over and stops, and they climb out—first Cassandra, then Valerie, then Jane.

They walk to the front door of the building directly in front of them and use a key to gain entrance. I slump low in my seat so they won’t see me if they suddenly turn around.

“Lady?” My cabbie’s loud voice makes me flinch. “You getting out?”

The Moore sisters are in my new apartment building—the one that used to belong to Amanda. They have a key to the main entrance. Do they also have one to my alcove apartment?

Jane and Valerie disappear inside, but Cassandra remains by the entryway, like a guard.

“Can you pull up to the end of the block?” I fumble in my wallet for one of my precious twenties.

I give it to the driver and slip out of the cab. Enough people are on the sidewalk to provide camouflage, but I still move as close as I can to the pharmacy on the corner, glad it’s dark enough out that I blend in with the shadows.

What are they doing in my apartment? Could they be trying to catch me there?

Not five minutes later, I see all three of them approach the curb again and hail another cab. I duck into the pharmacy and try to look out the floor-to-ceiling window to see where they’re going, but I can’t tell which vehicle holds them.

I wait another few minutes, then I step back out onto the sidewalk, wishing I had thought to use my burner phone to snap a picture of them with my building in the background as proof.

When I’m a few feet away from the entrance where Cassandra stood only minutes ago, I pause. I’m afraid to go inside.

Then I see a young couple I vaguely recognize with a baby strapped to a carrier on the man’s chest approaching. I’m pretty sure they live one floor above me. That little slice of normality gives me the security I need to move forward. I follow them into the building.

When I reach my floor, the strong overhead bulb lights the hallway brightly, and I can hear laughter coming from Mary’s place across the hall.