You Are Not Alone(96)

I lean my head back, trying to imagine what the police meant by butchered. I can’t see Cassandra or Jane killing anyone—let alone so brutally.

We’re approaching the end of the line; I recognize the twisted tree trunk on a street corner from seeing it earlier tonight. I stand up, hearing my joints pop.

The young man in the slightly frayed clothes is still sleeping. I reach into my duffel bag for my last power bar, then walk quietly down the middle of the train and lay it on the empty seat next to him.

The train stops. I check the platform to make sure it appears safe. Then I step off, cross to the other side, and wait for the one heading back to Manhattan.





CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE



CASSANDRA & JANE


Nineteen years ago

AT FIRST, NOTHING SEEMED out of the ordinary on that Wednesday night.

Cassandra and Jane ate roast chicken and green beans at the kitchen table, while their mother sipped a white wine spritzer and prepared a plate of what she called “crudités” for their stepfather’s arrival. Their homework was finished; their backpacks waited in the front closet for a new school day.

They’d lived in their stepfather’s house for more than a year by now, and the unspoken routine was firmly established: When he arrived home, they became invisible.

Usually, that occurred around seven P.M. on weeknights.

But Cassandra had barely swallowed her last forkful of beans when the front door swung open and the sound of footsteps approached the kitchen.

Their mother grabbed her purse off the counter and swiped on a fresh coat of frosted pink lipstick, using the shiny refrigerator door as a mirror.

“You’re home early!” she cried when their stepfather appeared, wearing one of his three-piece suits. It was her fake happy voice; Cassandra and Jane had heard it a million times before—like when Jane had given her a multicolored macaroni necklace she’d made at school, or when Cassandra had told her she’d signed up her mom to bake homemade cookies for the class Christmas party, or when their retired next-door neighbor struck up a conversation about his tomato garden.

“I was eager to see you,” their stepfather replied, but his voice didn’t sound normal either. When their mother walked over to kiss him, the girls noticed he turned his head to one side.

“All done?” She pulled away the girls’ plates. Jane wasn’t—she’d been saving the crispy skin of her chicken for last—but she didn’t protest.

Something strange was in the air.

Cassandra felt it, too. “C’mon, let’s go upstairs,” she said, taking Jane’s hand.

Their stepfather’s nasally voice carried clearly after them: “So, how was your day?”

“Good, good,” their mother replied. “Let’s get you a drink.”

As the girls climbed the stairs, they heard the sharp crack of ice cubes coming free from the tray.

“And did you enjoy step aerobics?” their stepfather asked.

Silence. Then the cubes clattered into a glass.

“Wait,” Cassandra whispered, pressing Jane’s hand. They crouched on the top step, huddled together. The girls could smell the lemon Pledge the housekeeper had used on the banister earlier that day; their socks pressed into the soft, plush wall-to-wall carpet, the one their mother had forbidden them to walk on wearing shoes.

“Yes, it was fine,” their mother answered. There was a pause. “Is something wrong with your drink?”

Another pause. A strange current ran through the house. It made the sisters feel like they’d stepped into a scary movie.

Something was looming; about to pounce.

“Is he angry?” Jane whispered.

Cassandra shrugged, then put her index finger to her lips.

“So, chicken for dinner?” their stepfather asked. “I thought you’d be more in the mood for steak.”

Cassandra squeezed Jane’s hand.

“Sweetie, what are you talking about?” Their mother’s tone was shrill now. “We don’t eat red meat in this house … remember what your doctor told you?”

“Yes, but I wondered if you wanted a little variety today.”

Jane turned to Cassandra and scrunched up her face. Their stepfather was speaking in code.

But their mother seemed to understand it. “My love—”

He cut her off. “I had a bit of a surprise this morning. I received a letter. Someone slipped it under the front door of my office building.”

“Who was it from?”

“There’s no signature.”

“What—what did it say?” their mother stammered.

“Here, I’ll read it to you.” The girls heard a rustling sound, then he cleared his throat. “‘Check out where your wife really goes on Wednesdays when she pretends she’s taking a step aerobics class.’”

There was dead silence.

Then their voices grew louder, with his squashing hers down. He used a few bad words the girls knew—and one they’d never before heard. Their mother began to cry.

The last thing their stepfather said was “I want you all out of here by the morning.”



* * *



Nothing was ordinary after that Wednesday night. Their family broke apart; now it was just three of them—Cassandra, Jane, and their mother—living in a small rental house. They returned to their old public school, and their mother began working full-time again. There was no more Dover sole or fresh seashell-colored paint.