You Are Not Alone(93)
My door is shut. Nothing on the outside of my apartment looks out of the ordinary. And surely the police took away the bloody scalpel and other strange items.
Still, I’d be even more reluctant to go inside if I didn’t hear Mary’s cheerful voice resonating from across the hall. I unlock my door and slip in, immediately flicking on the light switch.
I scan my apartment quickly, then close the door and draw the chain across it. I don’t want to spend long here. But nearly every time I’ve been with the Moore sisters, they’ve either left me with something or taken something from me: Cassandra’s business card. Her raincoat. The necklace they retrieved. The tear sheet from the magazine. The photographs on the High Line. The bag of books Jane forgot at my new place on the first night I welcomed them here. The fancy purse and other gifts.
And, of course, the man’s watch and wallet and the tan sundress that I’m now convinced they planted in my apartment.
If they took or left something again, I need to know what it is.
I start in my kitchen, methodically going through every drawer, cupboard, and cabinet. I even check my freezer and the oven racks. Luckily I’m neat by nature, and since I moved in only weeks ago, my place is uncluttered. I work my way from the front to the back of the apartment. Within an hour, I’m in the alcove, peering under my bed and shaking out my sheets.
I yank open the drawer of my nightstand, where I keep an extra set of headphones, a scrunchie, and an old iPad that I use to watch movies.
Those items are all intact.
But something new is beneath my iPad: a small piece of paper. When I pick it up, I see that it’s a receipt from a bar I’ve never heard of, called Twist.
The bar’s phone number and address are printed at the top by the logo of a lemon twist, above the tally for two Seagram’s and sodas.
I shudder, imagining Valerie or Jane sliding open my nightstand drawer, their hands lifting up my iPad.
I don’t have time to figure out why they planted this now. I fold the receipt carefully and tuck it in my wallet. I finish searching my bedroom, moving as quickly as possible, but I don’t see anything else amiss.
I grab a fresh sweatshirt, jeans, and socks, shoving the items into a duffel bag. I’m halfway to my door before I remember how cold I’ve been, and I hurry back to my closet to get my black puffer jacket, which I trade for my thin down vest.
I peer out my peephole. The hallway appears to be clear. I unlatch my chain and race out, hearing my door slam shut behind me as I tear to the stairs, taking them two at a time, and burst through the entranceway door onto the street. I keep running, all the way to the next block, then I finally slow to a walk.
I spin around to look behind me every minute or so. I cross the street and switch back over half a dozen times. I pop into a little bodega and stare at the passersby, searching for a familiar face. But I don’t see anyone who appears to be following me.
I feel as if I’m in a pinball machine as I weave through Times Square, dodging the woman scalping theater tickets to Hamilton, the guy pushing fake Ray?Bans toward me, muttering, “Ten dollars,” and a man pressing flyers into the hands of tourists.
I finally reach my hotel. Before I unlock my door, I look for the edge of the white toilet paper.
It’s gone.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
SHAY
When it comes to violent crime, especially murder, Americans are at much greater risk of falling victim to someone they know, perhaps someone they know intimately. According to a landmark study by the Bureau of Justice Statistics, between 73 and 79 percent of homicides during a fifteen-year period were committed by offenders known to the victim.
—Data Book, page 73
I’M HUDDLED IN A BOOTH in a diner about a mile from my hotel. I ran all the way here, my heart pounding and my duffel bag banging against my hip.
It could just have been a maid ignoring my DO NOT DISTURB sign. But I can’t erase my fear that Cassandra, Jane, and Valerie were waiting for me in my room.
“Freshen up your coffee?” a waitress with electric-blue eye shadow asks, startling me.
She fills my mug before I can reply.
I’ve already had two cups, and I forced myself to eat half of a grilled-cheese sandwich to justify taking up this table for so long.
I’m facing the door of the restaurant, and I’ve positioned my body sideways, so my back is to the wall, even though the only people near me are the elderly couple sharing the booth behind me.
I have no idea what to do or where to go. Not a single place in this city feels safe.
My body begins to shudder with the sobs I’ve been holding back. I feel as if a noose is slowly tightening around my neck.
I take off my glasses and wipe my tears with my sleeve, then put them back on. I don’t have the luxury of indulging my feelings.
I pull my Data Book out of my duffel bag, then remove the receipt from my wallet. I start recording new data: Twist bar, two Seagram’s & sodas, Aug. 15…
The voices around me seem to fade. I feel like I’ve been plunged underwater.
When I sat in the sterile room at the police precinct, Detective Williams asked me, Where were you on the night of Thursday, August fifteenth, Shay?
My fingers tremble as I reach for my burner phone.
“August 15,” I type into a search engine.
It yields countless hits.