Six seconds. That’s how long the delay cost her.
She raced onto the platform, her legs churning, her hand stretching out to try to block the car’s doors from closing. But their edges swept just past her fingertips and closed.
The train pulled away, its breeze blowing against her face.
Amanda looked around, her mind roaring with panic. The LED display showed another train would be coming in just a few minutes.
She began to edge down toward the mouth of the tunnel, where she’d be closer to it.
They’d known she was on a street corner. But how?
Stacey had installed spyware on James’s phone long before his death; maybe she was being tracked that way, too. Amanda hurled her phone onto the tracks, where the incoming train would destroy it.
Nothing else was in her possession that the Moore sisters could possibly use to locate her. She wasn’t carrying a purse. She didn’t—
She caught her breath.
Her hand rose to her neck, where a gold charm rested between her collarbones. Since the sisters had given the necklace to her months ago, she’d never taken it off; she’d forgotten she’d been wearing it. She ripped it off and let the delicate chain slide through her fingers to the concrete floor. Then she hurried toward a support beam that would help shield her from view.
A woman wearing khaki shorts and a red T-shirt came down the stairs, and for a moment Amanda’s heart jackhammered—then she realized the woman was a stranger.
Amanda glanced at the LED display again. Time was behaving strangely; it seemed to be standing still.
The woman began to walk toward Amanda.
A bulb in one of the overhead fluorescent lights flickered. Trash overflowed from a can.
Amanda could feel the rumble of the approaching train; it swelled up into her body from the concrete beneath her feet.
The woman in the red T-shirt was close to her now. She was tall and strong looking, with a pleasant face. Her presence felt comforting to Amanda, somehow.
Then Amanda looked beyond her.
Valerie was standing at the bottom of the staircase, her dark hair gleaming under the lights, just as it had when she’d been waiting for Amanda outside City Hospital.
If it had been Jane coming for her, or even Cassandra, things might have been different. Jane would have wrapped soft arms around Amanda and asked her to come talk to the others. Cassandra’s husky voice would have been sterner, but Cassandra would still have tried to reason with her.
But they had sent Valerie. They were cutting Amanda loose.
Valerie began to close the distance between them, her pace almost leisurely, her gaze locked on Amanda.
Amanda stepped close to the edge of the platform.
“Don’t!”
Amanda turned to see the woman in the T-shirt and shorts staring at her, her hand outstretched.
But Valerie was closing the gap between them.
The roar of the incoming train filled Amanda’s ears. She had no real family, no job, and now no friends.
You’re going to lose everything, Cassandra had said.
I already have, Amanda thought.
She leaped up, her arms spreading out as she flew through the air.
For a brief moment, she felt free.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
SHAY
The murder rate in the United States dropped last year. New York City isn’t even one of the top 30 most dangerous cities in the country. And according to one study, if you murder someone in the United States, there’s a 60 percent chance you’ll get caught. Although in New York City the chance of getting caught is 85 percent.
—Data Book, page 70
I AWAKE FEELING DISORIENTED for the third morning in a row.
On Saturday, when everything started to go horribly wrong, I came to on my couch. Sunday I woke on the futon in my old bedroom at Sean and Jody’s. Now I’m in this strange hotel.
Last night was endless. Every time the radiator thrummed or the ice machine in the hallway clattered it jolted me. I finally managed to drift off for an hour or two, but I can still feel the ghost of the nightmare that gripped me.
I fumble around on the nightstand until I find my glasses.
My burner phone is plugged into its charger. When I check it, I see Tony Ricci still hasn’t returned my call.
I climb out of bed and go into the bathroom, taking a quick shower before dressing in my jeans and Sean’s hoodie again. Then I email Francine, my boss at Quartz, to let her know I’m sick and can’t work today. My contract calls for me to work forty hours per week. Is it all right if I make up the hours? I write. I know she won’t be at her desk yet since it’s three hours earlier on the West Coast.
I climb back onto my bed—there’s nowhere else to sit in the room since the hard chair is still wedged under my doorknob—and pull out my new notebook. I turn to the first fresh, blank page. I begin to fill it with everything I recall about Cassandra and Jane. I try to re-create our past conversations—beginning with the moment I encountered them at Amanda’s memorial service.
It’s lucky, in a way, that I was so taken by the sisters. They made such a vivid impression on me that my memories of them are almost three-dimensional.
Please don’t hesitate to reach out if you want to talk. Connecting with each other is one of the most essential things we can do…, Cassandra had said the first time we met.
The heat of her hand on my bare forearm. Those mesmerizing amber eyes. Jane’s dimple flashing as she smiled up at me.
My throat thickens as I picture Cassandra putting her raincoat around my shoulders. I see Jane with a bright smile standing up to wave me over to the table at Bella’s and, later, while we walked the High Line, making me laugh as she snapped the photo of me in the straw hat. As hard as Amanda’s death was for us, the only silver lining was it led you to us, Cassandra had said on the last night we spent together.
Hot tears prick my eyes. They broke my heart.
My foot shoots out and kicks over the trash can.
I thought you were my friends, I want to cry out. I trusted you, and you betrayed me.
What the sisters did feels worse than getting fired from my last job, Barry’s insults, or even watching the man I lived with and secretly loved fall for another woman.
I inhale a jagged breath and force myself to concentrate. I’ve filled pages of my new Data Book with my memories of Cassandra and Jane, but it’s mostly superficial details—such as the fact that Cassandra drinks jasmine tea, and Jane favors a floral perfume.
I don’t possess a lot of hard data about the sisters, not the way they do about me. They visited my last two apartments—three if you include the one where I house-sat. They’ve met Sean and Jody. They know about my subway phobia, my new freelance gig at Quartz, and even what I make for breakfast. They’re aware that I want a serious relationship, and they have pictures of me on their phones.
What do I know about them? I’ve never seen the inside of their apartments, or their workplace. I don’t know what keeps them up at night. And I have no idea why they acted like my friends, and then my enemies.
I don’t even know if they really like cinnamon Altoids or yoga or Moscow Mules.
Maybe it was all for show.
Once I’ve recorded all my memories, I google the Moore sisters, reading through their company’s website and jotting down the names of their clients. There’s surprisingly little about them on the internet, and most of it I’ve already seen. Still, I write down whatever information I find.
I have no idea what to do next.
I pace up and down the channel next to my bed in my tiny hotel room, feeling like a caged animal. I try to make sense of the facts I’ve documented, but it’s a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces. The Moore sisters must have a reason for their bizarre actions. Yet it completely eludes me.
By early afternoon, my head is throbbing, probably from the lack of coffee. It’s hard to ignore the sound of a man and a woman loudly arg
uing in a room down the hall. I check my messages but I haven’t heard back from Francine. Ted hasn’t replied to me either, so I text him again.
I’m down to less than six hundred dollars in cash. There’s more in my bank account, so I can afford to stay in this hotel for a while longer. Then what?
I call Francine’s work number to make sure she received my email. I get her voice mail and think about leaving a message. But I hang up before the beep. I’d rather talk to her personally so I can gauge her reaction.
I wonder if Francine is annoyed that I’m taking a sick day so soon after being hired. I’m a freelancer; it would be easy for her to replace me.
Anxiety gnaws at me.
I flip through my Data Book to try to distract myself, but it only makes things worse: images of Cassandra and Jane—tossing back their shining hair, folding their shapely legs into a taxi, flashing their perfect teeth as they laugh—seem to rise off every page.
I need to get out of this room.
But if Francine phones back and I answer, the ambient noises of the city will be clear in the background. She might wonder how sick I really am if I’m outside.
I run my hand over my forehead. I could be stuck here all day waiting for her call.
I finally look up the main number for Quartz so I can relay a message to one of Francine’s collagues. I dial it and ask the receptionist if I can speak to someone in human resources.
“Transferring,” she says, and a moment later a man answers, “Allen Peters.”
“Hi, Mr. Peters.” I haven’t spoken since I checked in last night, so my voice sounds a little scratchy. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Shay Miller, the freelancer from New York City.”
“Who?”
“Shay Miller. I was recently hired.… I report to Francine DeMarco.”
“Who? You must have the wrong number. There’s no one here by that name.”
I drop the phone onto the bed and edge away from it, like it’s dangerous.
I never had a job at Quartz.
My mind spins back to the first message I received from Francine. Quartz was part of her email address, and her phone number had a 310 exchange, which corresponds to the West Coast.
I researched Quartz, the company, after I thought I’d landed an interview. But not the woman who contacted me on LinkedIn, or Francine DeMarco.
I begin to tremble. The Moore sisters have to be behind this.
They’re everywhere, I think.
And now they know so much more about me. I filled out a half dozen forms and sent them to “Francine.” They’ve got my Social Security number, my birth date, my middle name, my mother’s cell phone number since she’s my emergency contact … What are they going to do to me next?
The room starts to swim; I’m hyperventilating.
I collapse onto the bed, fighting to even out my breathing. How many other areas of my life did the Moore sisters infiltrate that I don’t know about?
The walls are pressing in on me.
I abruptly jump up and put on my down vest and stick my wallet, burner phone, and a power bar into its pockets. I scoop up my new Data Book and press my ear against the door before I open it. I hold my breath as I listen. The man and the woman in a room down the hall are still fighting, but their voices are quieter now. I yank open the door.
The corridor is empty.
I exhale slowly. I think about having to walk back down this dingy, creepy hallway when I return, and I remember a trick I once saw in a movie. I dash back in my bathroom and grab a square of toilet paper. I tear off a small piece.
I draw the door closed, but just before it latches, I slip the scrap of tissue between the jamb and the hinges, at exactly my eye height. The DO NOT DISTURB sign is hanging on the outer doorknob. The paper is almost completely hidden; just the tiniest sliver of white shows in the crack. No one would ever see it if not looking for it.
If it’s still in place when I return, I’ll know no one has breached my room. But if anyone opens the door, it’ll fall to the floor. Even if it’s seen falling, the person won’t know exactly where I placed it.
It’s all I can think to do to protect myself.
I descend the stairs to the lobby, ducking low and peering around every corner before I make the turns.
When I arrive in the lobby, a different clerk is on call. I hand him eighty dollars. “Another night. Room 508, please.”
“Last name?”
I hesitate for a fraction of a beat. “Smith. Thanks.”
Then I step outside, into a bracing wind.
CHAPTER SIXTY
VALERIE
SHAY HAS DISAPPEARED.
Despite the fact that Jody called the police to inform them about the unsettling photo of Amanda, Shay hasn’t been arrested. Beth, whose job as a public defense attorney gives her access to law-enforcement databases, has checked.
Jody told Jane that Shay is no longer staying in the guest room. Jody reported that Shay texted Sean last night to say she was spending the night with another friend, and that she’d collect her things soon. Stacey has confirmed Shay is not staying at Mel’s place in Brooklyn, or her mother’s home in New Jersey. Cassandra and Jane stopped by the apartment that once housed Amanda but is now being rented by Shay, slipping in with the spare key they’d had made before Shay rented it, but Shay wasn’t there, either.
It’s as if Shay has been swallowed up by the city.
Valerie, who arrived at the Sullivan Street office of Moore Public Relations at dawn, reaches up to massage her temples. Her head is throbbing, and the bright lights in the office pierce her eyes. She has been running on only a few hours of sleep for the past few nights.
Maybe it will look worse for Shay if the police can’t find her either, Valerie thinks.
Valerie starts when the phone on her desk rings. It’s only a magazine columnist, hoping for a tidbit about a celebrity.
“I’ll have Cassandra or Jane call you back,” Valerie says, keeping her voice light and calm.
The sisters still have clients who need them, and an office to run, but they’re canceling unnecessary appointments to open their schedules. They’re keeping a few important ones—including with Willow Tanaka, the artist, who is coming into their office toward the end of the day to sign contracts for a lucrative branding partnership.
The Moore sisters plan to get Willow in and out as quickly as possible. Then, under the guise of heading out for a late meeting, Cassandra, Jane, and Valerie will once more return to Shay’s apartment.
They have something else to plant there. They need to find a good hiding place, one the police will surely find if they obtain a search warrant to tear apart the residence of a suspected murderess.
Not if the police obtain the search warrant, Valerie tells herself. When.
It should be simple enough to find the perfect spot. They know the apartment well. And the final piece of evidence is featherlight and smaller than an index card.
When her personal phone rings again, Valerie thinks about letting it go to voice mail—she’s surprised by how much Shay’s absence is getting under her skin—but after the third ring, she picks it up and greets her caller warmly. “Tony! What in the world are you up to?”
Valerie has kept in sporadic touch with Tony in the fifteen years since he got his green card and she moved out of his apartment, but they haven’t spoken since she came to Manhattan.
He cuts right to it: “I got a strange messages from a 917 area code. There’s a woman asking about you.”
Valerie grows still. “Did she leave a name?”
“No.” Tony’s voice is high with anxiety.
“You don’t have anything to worry about. As far as immigration is concerned, your case closed long ago.” It’s a wonder he passed the grueling immigration interviews, given his nervous nature. “Can you give me her number?”
She doesn’t recognize the combination of digits Tony recites, so she jots them down.
“If she calls again, just let it
go to voice mail.” Valerie hangs up and stands up, her eyes narrowing.
It has to be Shay.
She’s circling ever closer. If she had caught Tony unaware, he could have revealed information Valerie has successfully kept hidden for her entire adult life.
Valerie takes a sip of coffee, then sets her mug on her glass-topped desk so roughly it nearly shatters.
Why haven’t the police arrested Shay yet? Where has Shay gone?
Maybe they shouldn’t wait for the police to act, Valerie thinks. Perhaps Shay should disappear permanently.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
SHAY
An estimated 1,800 people go missing in the United States every day—though most of those reports are later canceled. There are roughly 90,000 active missing person’s cases in the US.
—Data Book, page 72
I DUCK MY HEAD against the wind as I walk through Times Square, passing a person in a Cookie Monster costume posing for a photo with a young boy, a tour-bus operator who tries to sell me a spot on a day trip to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, and the flashing neon lights that never cease.
My footsteps are instinctively leading me toward the Moore sisters’ office on Sullivan Street. I need to see something solid about the sisters, even if it’s just their names on the company display in the lobby.
My job was fake, so perhaps theirs is, too.
I walk all the way to the Moore sisters’ building, trying to burn off my edgy feelings and clear my mind. After the first half mile, my face and hands begin to feel numb, but at least I’m doing something.
I arrive at the address on the PR firm’s website and stare up at the six-story structure with a plain but elegant façade. A little flag outside says MOORE PUBLIC RELATIONS. So at least one part of their story seems real.
It appears to be an ordinary Monday in Manhattan: men and women are hurrying down sidewalks, talking into cell phones, many carrying to-go cups of coffee or bags with take-out lunches. It’s hard to believe that only a week ago I was one of the 1.6 million people in the city doing the same thing.
You Are Not Alone (ARC) Page 27
