“I agree. If you saw someone commit suicide, why would you ever want to look like them and be around their friends?” Daphne says. “Nothing about this makes sense.”
The women continue discussing Shay and her possible motivations.
Then Stacey abruptly rises from her seat and points toward the bar. “Is that her?” Stacey cranes her neck and starts to push her way out of the booth, but Cassandra blocks her.
“Oh my God, it is her!” Daphne hisses.
“Stacey, calm down. We’ve got to think this through.” Cassandra puts a hand on Stacey’s arm. “If Shay truly is crazy, and that is her, we need to be careful.”
Jane reaches for her phone and quickly types a text beneath the cover of the table: They’ve seen Shay. She sends the message to Valerie, who is on the same block, but out of view. Although Cassandra and Jane created the fake profile for TedTalk and have been communicating with Shay on Cupid, tonight it will be Valerie who takes over Ted’s role.
Stacey is still on her feet, breathing hard. “She must have followed one of us here. She’s tracking us!”
“She isn’t even looking at us,” Daphne says. “It’s like she’s pretending she’s here for another reason.”
Just then Shay puts away her phone, slides off her stool, and grabs her coat and purse. She quickly exits the restaurant, never looking back. But as she turns to go out the door, everyone in the booth catches a quick glimpse of her face. She’s a few dozen yards away, and the lighting isn’t great, but it’s unmistakably Shay.
“We should follow her,” Stacey says. But she sinks back into her seat.
There’s silence for a moment.
“This is beyond strange,” Beth says. “I didn’t see it as clearly at the gym, but you’re right. She’s trying to look just like Amanda.”
Daphne shudders. “How worried should we be?”
“I don’t get the sense she’s violent,” Jane says. “Just … disturbed.”
“If she follows me again…” Stacey’s chin juts out.
Beth speaks up. “It seems like Shay keeps trying to step into Amanda’s life. Does she want to replace her somehow?”
Exactly, Cassandra thinks as her eyes meet Jane’s.
Shay will soon serve as a kind of replacement. Just not in the way the other women suspect.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
SHAY
More than half of Americans believe in love at first sight, with younger people being more likely to hold this belief. Four in ten Americans say they have fallen in love at first sight. One survey found that almost three-quarters of Americans believe in “one true love.
—Data Book, page 54
I WALK IN THE DOOR of Atlas at a few minutes after seven.
Ted had suggested we meet at the bar, so I scan the customers already in the tall, high-backed chairs. But no tall, slender guys are sitting alone.
I take a seat by the far end, so I can keep an eye on the front door. I put my coat and purse on top of the chair next to mine.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks, wiping down the space in front of me.
“Just water for now. I’m meeting someone.”
He fills up a glass from the spigot and adds a wedge of lime to the rim, then puts it on a coaster in front of me. I smile and thank him and take a small sip.
I’m nervous. More than I expected. The last date I went on, a few months ago, was a setup. Mel’s husband wanted me to meet one of his old college buddies. I didn’t feel any chemistry, and it’s safe to say he didn’t either. We had a nice talk, but once we ran out of stories about Mel and her husband, our conversation ran dry. Neither of us reached out to the other after our date.
I realize I’m slumping a little and I sit up straight. I spent the day doing more research for Quartz—this time on the variety of “clean” beauty products currently for sale and the market share each claims—but at five sharp, I started getting ready. I changed into my new blue top and my favorite jeans. I spritzed on one of the perfume samples I got when I bought the lip gloss at the Sephora counter. I even added a little eyeliner and mascara. I worried I’d overdone it with the mascara—it kept smudging off just below my brows—so I swiped a little off with a tissue.
I glance at my watch: 7:07 P.M.
Ted and I have been messaging sporadically all week. After he asked me out, he told me he’d find a good place. We also exchanged phone numbers.
I pull my phone out now and check, but there’s no new text from him. The last one came in yesterday: Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow night.
I scroll back through our previous texts to make sure I’m at the right place. But the name and address he gave me are on the menus I see stacked on the counter at the end of the bar. And he definitely said seven P.M.
I take another sip of water, then reply to a text my mom sent earlier today, asking how my new job is going.
Really good so far! I type—which is true. I’m working on a few campaigns already, and I’ve chatted on the phone with Francine, my boss, a few times. She seems smart and capable. I think I can learn a lot from her. She’s coming to New York next month, and she suggested we meet for lunch.
The bartender swings by again. “Ready for something else?”
I smile brightly. “No, I’m good.”
I scroll through my other recent texts so I appear occupied. Beneath my exchanges with my mom and Mel and Sean, who all asked about my new freelance job, there’s my last conversation with Cassandra and Jane. I’d sent the Moore sisters a group text after I visited Daphne’s boutique: I found a really cool top! Can’t wait to show it to you!
Only Jane had written back: Great!
I haven’t heard anything from either sister since.
I’m sure they’ve had a busy week. It’s nothing personal.
I consider sending them a quick message, something breezy or funny, but something holds me back.
It’s 7:17 P.M.
New York traffic is so unpredictable, and subways are always delayed. Ted could also have gotten stuck at work. He’s probably rushing here right now.
But why couldn’t he have sent a text to say he was running late?
There’s a pit in my stomach. He’d seemed so friendly and polite in our messages. More than that, he always wrote me back quickly. He acted sincerely interested in me.
Is it possible he met someone between yesterday and today? He seems like such a catch. I can’t be the only woman he reached out to.
As I’m staring down at my phone, a text pings in. It’s from Ted.
I’m so sorry! Work emergency—I’m going to be here for hours. I wanted to text you earlier but my boss grabbed me as I was walking out the door.
It’s 7:25 P.M.
I blink against the prickly feeling in my eyes. I understand why he couldn’t make it. I’m just so disappointed. I guess I wish he could have let me know right when his boss first approached him. But maybe he didn’t have his phone, and his boss could be a nightmare.
No problem, I write back. Rain check!
I slide five dollars onto the counter beneath my coaster and grab my coat, not even taking the time to put it on.
I hurry out the front door.
It’s Friday night, and all around me on the sidewalk people are in pairs and groups—couples walking hand in hand, a cluster of twenty-somethings laughing on a corner as they wait for a light to change, two guys in business clothes giving each a high five.
At least I have my own place to go home to.
But I don’t want to be alone tonight, so I take the subway to Athena’s.
It’s crowded when I walk in, but Steve waves me over and squeezes me into a tiny table in the back. “Haven’t seen you lately, pretty girl. Where are you going all fancied up with that new hairdo?”
“Oh, I was supposed to meet a friend for a drink but he had to reschedule,” I say brightly.
Steve looks at me a little more closely and puts his hand with its slightly gnarled knuckles on
my shoulder. “Save room for dessert. I’ve got some fresh baklava for you.”
I’m not that hungry when my food arrives, after all, but I force myself to eat a little more than half. I leave a big tip for my waitress—Steve’s granddaughter, who just started working here a few weeks ago—and ask her to pack up my leftovers.
I let myself into my apartment around nine, carrying a little white bag with not just the rest of my falafel, but a big square of baklava that Steve insisted on giving me.
A plain white envelope is on my floor, just inside the door, like someone slid it underneath.
It looks just like the envelope I gave to Detective Williams, the one containing the necklace.
My name is on the outside, written in such a messy scrawl I barely recognize the letters.
I pick it up. It’s light, but something small and hard is inside. It feels like metal.
I tear it open and see the mail key. I guess the landlord finally got around to dropping it off, after I left him another message yesterday to nudge him.
I reach for my key ring and attach it. I doubt anything important is waiting for me in the mailbox downstairs. Still, I should probably check.
But first I change, carefully hanging up my blue top. I pull on a hoodie and sweatpants and slip on flip-flops, since I’m only walking up and down the stairs.
The mailboxes are in double rows, one on top of the other, twenty in total. I find mine—3D—and slide in the key. I have to wiggle it a little to get it to turn. I pull the little bronze door open, and a few envelopes fall to the floor. It’s crammed full of mail.
I remove the catalog that’s on top and see it’s addressed to Amanda.
Her mail is still coming here. I should have expected that. How could companies and marketers know what happened to her?
I reach into the small, rectangular space again and again, piling bills and letters and more catalogs into my arms. Wedged in the very back is a fat manila envelope that has been forced into a curve against the walls and floor of the mailbox. I use my fingernails to pry it free.
I take the stack of mail upstairs and lay it all out on my little wooden table. I start to sort it into two piles: Amanda’s and mine.
Almost all of it belongs to her. I could send it to her mother, since I have the address—although it might be jarring for her to open that package. I decide to ask Cassandra and Jane what they think I should do.
When I finish with the last piece, I don’t have two piles. I have three.
The fat manila envelope that was wedged in the very back of the box doesn’t have a name on it. There’s no address or stamp or postal mark. It’s completely blank.
It was so far back that it must have been in the box for a while, because when the mailman delivered the newer pieces, he would have pushed the envelope farther and farther away from the opening.
How could this unaddressed package end up in a mailbox, though? The only three keys to it, according to what the landlord said, were Amanda’s, the mailman’s, and the master key, which the landlord finally got copied for me.
So one of them must have put the package there. I can rule out the mailman, since there’s no postage or delivery information.
Possibly the landlord left it for me and didn’t put my name on it. He’s not the most responsible guy; it took him a week to get me a copy of the key.
But it seems more likely Amanda left it there.
Why would Amanda store something in her own mailbox?
I reach for the envelope and turn it over in my hands. It feels soft and bulky. It isn’t sealed. Just the little metal butterfly clip is engaged through the hole in the flap.
It would be easy to quickly check and close it right back up. Maybe one of the other neighbors, like Mary from across the hall, gave it to the postman while he was filling up my box. Maybe it is for me.
There’s only one way to find out. I pinch together the ends of the metal clip and open the flap.
Inside is a big Ziploc bag, with something else sealed within. It looks like a plain blue towel, folded up into a messy square.
Nothing about this makes sense. Maybe something is wrapped inside the towel.
I pull apart the seal on the Ziploc and use my fingertips to slide out the towel. As I take an edge to pull it open, a shot explodes outside my window.
I recoil, cringing.
I listen for another sound—a yell or another shot. Then I hear a motor revving and realize it was only a car backfiring.
I take a deep breath and straighten up. I should be used to the city’s noises by now, I chide myself.
I pull open an edge, but the towel is still folded in half. Now it’s a rectangle instead of a square. A tiny drop, what looks like a rust-colored stain, is by the bottom edge.
The hairs on my arms are standing up. Some instinct is telling me to shove the towel back in the Ziploc and throw it away. I don’t want to see what’s inside.
But I can’t stop my fingers from reaching out again, grasping the very tip of the towel.
I pull it open and flinch.
I can’t stop staring at the rust-colored stain in the middle of the towel, and the small scalpel—the kind doctors use during surgeries—lying in its center. The scalpel also has brick-color stains on it.
It looks like dried blood.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
AMANDA
Nine weeks ago
“HI, JAMES,” AMANDA SAID. “Nice to meet you.”
The bartender delivered their whiskey and sodas and Amanda took a small sip. It burned her throat—she rarely drank, and when she did, it was usually just a single beer—and she suppressed a grimace.
“Haven’t seen you here before.” James’s hand closed around his glass. The image of his fingers clenching burned into her eyes; she had to pull away her gaze.
“Oh, I’ve come once or twice,” she lied. “But you must not have been here, because I would have noticed you.”
The sisters had told her James was a regular at the Twist bar on Thursday nights: he usually showed up around six, was feeling good by seven, and didn’t seem to have a type.
“You’ll have to wing it,” Cassandra had instructed her. “Play to his ego.”
James stood up. “Take my seat.”
She smiled as she slid onto the wooden stool, which still held the warmth of his body. He wore a while oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up; his blue blazer was slung across the back of his chair. He rested his forearm on his jacket, encircling her. The room was crowded, but he didn’t need to be so close. She suppressed a shudder.
So far so good.
Amanda’s eyes flitted across the room as she fiddled nervously with one of her earrings. A guy was leaning forward, waving his credit card as he tried to get the bartender’s attention.
Her heartbeat accelerated when she realized the guy was blocking her view of Beth.
James lifted his glass again and drained it, then reached for the one Amanda had ordered. “Mmm. You smell good.”
He was so close she could see the broken capillaries around his nose. Her mom had those, too, a legacy of heavy drinking.
The guy with the credit card leaned back. Beth’s chair was empty.
Amanda’s body stiffened. She hadn’t expected things to move this fast. She pulled her purse onto her lap and said, “So tell me what keeps you busy.” She stared up at James while her hand slid into her bag and felt for the tiny mouthwash bottle.
She already knew James’s background well enough to write his bio: divorced several years ago, one elementary-school-aged daughter, from a wealthy family in a smallish town in upstate New York, squandered most of his inheritance, spent Mondays through Fridays in the city trying to build a new business selling custom sporting equipment.
Some of this information came from watching him. Other pieces of it were gleaned after Stacey briefly got ahold of his cell phone and installed spyware on it.
“So, yeah, I try to keep active,” James was saying.
Then she saw a flash of frizzy red hair.
It’s too soon! she wanted to cry out. I’m not ready!
But Beth was already putting a hand on James’s arm. “Doug!” He twisted around to look at her. “I thought that was you!”
Amanda finally touched the bottle. Working under the lip of the bar counter to shield her actions, she tried to pinch the sides of the cap and untwist it.
Her fingers were trembling and uncoordinated; the cap refused to yield to them.
“Sorry, my name’s not Doug. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
Beth laughed. “I’m sure it’s you! That convention in Dallas a couple years ago?”
Amanda finally removed the cap. She needed more time. But James was starting to turn away from Beth.
Amanda’s heart leaped into her throat. She had the open mouthwash bottle in her left hand. If James glanced down, he’d see it.
Panic roared through her.
“Maybe I got the name wrong. Hold on, I’ve got a picture of us at that dinner!” Beth held up her phone, drawing James’s gaze back to her.
This wasn’t part of her script; Beth was improvising.
Amanda grabbed her drink with her free hand, wincing as the ice cubes clinked, and pulled it under the lip of the bar.
Was the bartender looking over at them? Beth’s voice was loud, the only evidence of her nerves.
This was the critical part. Amanda couldn’t falter or make a mistake; she had to do it perfectly. She poured the sixty milligrams of liquid morphine from the mouthwash bottle directly into her whiskey and soda, avoiding splashing any of the precious medicine onto the floor.
Then she slipped the empty bottle back into her purse. But it wasn’t over yet.
“Wait, wait, I know it’s here,” Beth was saying.
James just repeated, “Wrong guy,” and turned around.
Beth looked at Amanda, her eyes widening.
Amanda was still holding the doctored beverage, but she hadn’t had time to swirl around the swizzle stick to mix up its contents, or to switch the drinks.
You Are Not Alone (ARC) Page 19
