You Are Not Alone(97)
But they didn’t have to take off their shoes and carefully place them in the closet every time they entered the run-down small house with the chain-link fence surrounding it. They no longer had to become invisible at seven P.M. And Cassandra and Jane got to share a bedroom once more, where they could whisper late into the night and be reassured by the other’s steady breathing if a nightmare came.
Sometimes—especially after dinner, when she was smoking Virginia Slims and elevating her tired feet—their mother would speculate about the author of the anonymous letter.
“Who would have sent that note?” she’d ask, stubbing another butt stained by her frosted pink lipstick into the ashtray. “It’s like someone wanted to punish me.”
A silent gaze would pass between Cassandra and Jane.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
SHAY
Even newborns show heightened interest in faces and develop the capacity to recognize them quickly. Many areas of the brain are involved with facial recognition, with the frontal lobe playing a large role.
—Data Book, page 75
WHEN THE DOORS TO THE New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street are unlocked at ten A.M. sharp, I’m the first person to step inside. I’ve been waiting between the two marble lions that flank the entrance. Long ago, they were nicknamed Patience and Fortitude because the New York City mayor Fiorello La Guardia felt citizens needed to possess those qualities to survive the Depression.
I take a deep breath as I walk through the stately Rose Main Reading Room, which is illuminated by chandeliers and small table lamps. Gracefully arched windows line the walls, and the ceiling is like a work of art, with murals inlaid between gilded curls and twists. Amid all this old-school grandeur are computers available to anyone with a library card.
Earlier this morning, after I left the subway and found an electronics store that opened at seven A.M., I bought a new charger for my burner phone. Then I went to a diner and asked to be seated by an outlet before ordering coffee and eggs. While I waited for my phone screen to come alive, I dozed off, awakening with a jerk after my head dropped down. I haven’t slept since I caught a couple of hours of fitful rest in the hotel room two nights ago.
My fatigue is numbing; when a waitress dropped a plate that shattered on the floor, I barely flinched. My body feels heavy and sluggish, and I have to keep blinking to clear my vision.
I drank a cup of black coffee straight down before I played the single message that was left on my phone sometime during the night.
Detective Williams’s voice was even more brusque than usual. “Shay, where are you? We need you to come in. Call me back the moment you get this.”
I have two missed calls from her, too. She’s intent on reaching me. When she told me to come in, it sounded like an order.
I don’t know what the Moore sisters and Valerie have done since they left my apartment, but they may have engineered something to make me look even guiltier. They may have somehow swayed Detective Williams. Just as they apparently swayed Jody and Sean.
A wave of nausea grips me as I realize I have to acknowledge the real possibility that I could be arrested.
I’m worried the police can track me by my burner phone, now that Detective Williams has the number. So I want to keep it off as much as possible. But I have more research to do, which is why I came here, to the public library.
I slide into a seat before a waiting laptop and position my fingers above the keyboard. It’s a relief to no longer have to squint at a tiny screen. The first name I plug into the search engine belongs to James’s mother, Sissy Anders. I have to explore several channels to get a phone number for her, but I finally locate it through her Facebook page. His ex-wife, Tessa, has a listed number that I write down, even though I doubt she knew much about James’s life in New York. It’s also easy to find the phone numbers for James’s new business in New York, his home address in Mossley, and the management company for his apartment building on East Ninety-first Street.
An older woman with a pair of reading glasses on a chain around her neck and a pile of textbooks slips into the chair next to mine. I reflexively check her face, then move on to the names I found on the funeral home’s tribute page. I input “Harris,” along with the terms “Mossley” and “principal.” It yields an instant hit: Mossley Prep Academy. I navigate to the school’s website and see Harris Dreyer listed as a former principal. He’s probably retired by now, I think.
I continue researching the names from the funeral home’s page. I can’t find a Belinda Anders, which seems to reduce the possibility that she was related to James. But I do locate Chandler Ferguson, who’s now a real estate agent in Mossley. Maybe like James he never really left his hometown. I put a star next to Chandler’s name in my Data Book; they could have been close friends.
When I check the timer on my computer screen, I see I’ve only got four minutes left before the computer kicks me off to free up the system for other users. I forgot about the forty-five-minute limit. But maybe I have enough.
At least I can begin making phone calls now.
I pack up my things and head to the restroom. I’ve been in these clothes for days, and the filth of the subway seems to be clinging to me. I duck into a stall and lock the door and pull my sweatshirt over my head. I’m just unbuttoning my jeans when I hear the click of high heels against the floor.