You Are Not Alone(98)
Someone is standing a few steps in front of my stall, her toes pointed away from me. I see alligator pumps, gracefully arched feet, slim ankles.…
My heart jackhammers.
The sink water turns on.
I lean forward as quietly as possible, peering through the sliver at the side of the door. A fitted coat, blond hair cut in a bob … I glimpse the woman’s face as she turns off the water and dries her hands while checking her reflection in the mirror.
She’s a stranger.
I exhale as her heels click back across the floor and she exits the bathroom.
My legs are so weak and trembly that when I stand on one foot to take off my jeans, I have to grab at the stall’s side wall to keep from falling over.
I bundle up my old things and shove them into the duffel, then change into my clean clothes. I exit the stall and turn on the sink tap and rinse out my mouth. I splash some cold water onto my face and wash the lenses of my glasses.
I glimpse myself in the mirror and quickly turn away. My hair is lank and a little greasy, and my skin is sallow.
I exit the library and begin walking, grateful my puffer coat is now keeping me warm. My body feels heavy and a little clumsy; I see double before I blink and shake my head to clear it.
I desperately need rest; my body and brain won’t be able to function much longer without it. My concentration is already slipping and I’m showing signs of deep sleep deprivation. After three nights with no sleep, people can begin to have hallucinations. I’m not too far from that point.
When I reach Bryant Park, I find an empty bench and begin making calls on my cheap phone.
The number for James’s new company has been disconnected. I track down a former colleague who was working with James on his custom-sporting-equipment business, but he says he has never heard James mention Cassandra or Jane Moore, or anyone named Valerie. The manager of the apartment building where James rented a one-bedroom tells me no women with those names live in the complex. When I call the Mossley real estate agency and ask for Chandler Ferguson, my most promising lead, I get sent to his voice mail. While I’m leaving him a message, an incoming call makes my phone buzz.
It’s Detective Williams again.
I don’t answer.
Instead I turn off my phone for a few minutes while I leave the park and walk a few blocks away, to a bus stop. I sit on the bench inside the little shelter and turn on my phone again. I dial one of the numbers left on my shortening list, for James’s ex-wife, Tessa. She doesn’t answer so I hang up.
Next I call James’s mother, Sissy Anders.
She picks up on the second ring.
I begin by telling her the lie I’ve created—that I went to Mossley Prep with James and that we alumni want to honor him with a small ceremony.
Uttering those words makes me feel sick; my stomach clenches so tightly it hurts. It feels even worse than stealing back Jane’s necklace from Amanda’s mom.
When Mrs. Anders finds out there’s no ceremony planned, it’ll be like salt in her wounds. But maybe she’ll forgive me if I can find out who murdered her son.
I’m about to launch into the next bit I’ve practiced. I need to lob out the names of Cassandra, Jane, and Valerie to see how Mrs. Anders reacts. If she recognizes them—if James ever mentioned having a date with a gorgeous woman named Jane in the city, or if he told his mom he’d gone to a networking event and met a Cassandra who works at a fancy PR firm—I’ll have all the proof I need.
But before I can say another word, Mrs. Anders spits one out at me: “Vulture.”
“Ex-excuse me?”
“What are you trying to get, money or something?” she snaps. “Mossley Prep already held a small service and planted a tree in my son’s honor last month.”
She slams down the phone, leaving me breathless.
A tear slides down my cheek and I wipe my nose with my sleeve. Everything I do seems to be wrong, and I’m sinking deeper and deeper into something I worry I’ll never be able to climb out of.
Only one contact is left: Harris Dreyer, the former principal.
He answers my call in a deep, rich voice, giving his full name, as if he’s at an office.
I can’t tell him the truth, either.
“Hi, I’m so sorry to bother you. I’m calling about James Anders. I was hoping you could tell me something nice about him for his college alumni magazine.”
“Oh, James, what a tragedy.” Harris sighs. “You know, unfortunately, I can’t talk about a former student other than to tell you I have warm recollections of that wonderful young man.”
“His best friends,” I blurt. “Could you just tell me who he was close to?”
It’s hard to find statistics on how many people stay in touch with their high school friends, but given James’s strong ties to the area, it’s certainly possible that he kept in close contact with his closest buddies from Mossley Prep—maybe even the ones who moved away.
“I wish I could help, but I can’t give out any information on any of my old students. I hope you understand.”
I thank him and hang up. Then I wrap my arms around myself and rock back and forth on the hard wooden bench.
All my work was fruitless.
I have to keep trying to find the link. It feels like the only thing that can save me.
I push off the bench and begin to walk in the direction of James’s East Ninety-first Street apartment building. Maybe I can find one of his neighbors, or perhaps I’ll see something that will finally click—similar to when I spotted Valerie coming out of the PR firm.