You Are Not Alone(16)
The two women’s lives have no other natural intersections. They didn’t grow up in the same town or attend the same college.
“They lived near each other,” Cassandra says to Jane as the Town Car they’ve hired for the evening pulls up in front of a Chelsea art gallery. “Six blocks apart.”
The sisters are careful to sanitize their conversation in case the driver is eavesdropping: no names or identifying details.
“That doesn’t mean they ever met. New York can be a city of strangers.” Jane keeps her tone light, as if they are gossiping about acquaintances. “Do you know the names of everyone in your building? Or in our yoga class?”
Cassandra nods to acknowledge the point as the driver opens the back door.
Right now, Shay is a bigger concern than even the police detective who reached out to Daphne to ask about Daphne’s date with James.
Daphne had been badly thrown by the call, but the sisters had coached her well, and Daphne had handled herself beautifully during the brief police interview.
Daphne had told the detective, a woman named Marcia Santiago, that she’d gone out on a single date with James that previous fall. She’d found him handsome and charming. They’d ended the romantic evening in her apartment.
Then had come the tricky question: Why did you send that hostile text to a man you say you liked?
Daphne had given her practiced answer: He never called like he promised. I was upset.
Detective Santiago had stared at her for a long, unsettling moment. Then she’d closed her notebook, saying, I may have some follow-up questions.
That was two weeks ago. There has been no further contact.
There’s no reason to worry that the police are continuing to investigate any connection between Daphne and James.
Cassandra and Jane thank their driver, then step out of the sedan and walk toward the entrance of the gallery.
The balmy early-September air caresses Cassandra’s shoulders, which her slinky red halter top leaves bare. She wears butter-soft leather leggings and high-heeled sandals. Jane’s fitted dress accentuates her hourglass shape, and her delicate gold and platinum bangles clink as she pulls open the door.
The gallery is hosting an opening for the promising young mixed-media artist the sisters represent, Willow Tanaka. She was profiled in this week’s New York magazine.
Heads turn as the sisters step in—shoulders back, high-wattage smiles in place. They are completely at ease in this cultured, sophisticated environment: They know which clothes to wear, the correct way to eat the oysters offered by a passing waiter, and how to gracefully extricate themselves from unproductive conversations.
Seeing Cassandra and Jane in this moment, no one would ever guess the details that compose their backstory: Their father died when Jane was still an infant. Their mother scrambled to make ends meet. The girls wore hand-me-downs and often ate peanut butter sandwiches for dinner alone while watching television.
But the sisters possess something money can’t buy. Something grittier than perseverance and more powerful than determination. It carried Cassandra and Jane through college, as they cobbled together scholarships and loans and part-time jobs, and led them to an enviable life in one of the world’s most dazzling cities.
As Cassandra accepts a glass of champagne from a waiter, she looks at the collage hanging on the wall, priced at seventeen thousand dollars.
The canvas, one of fifteen on display, depicts the water’s edge. Rough, foamy waves crash into gray boulders under a bleak sky. It’s delicate yet assured and stark—at least at first glance.
When they glimpsed Willow’s work in the small, turpentine-scented apartment that doubled as her studio, they were mesmerized. Layered into her paint strokes are curious objects: a feather, a typewriter key, and a dried mushroom.
Right now, Willow is just a few feet away, talking to a prospective buyer. She’s as compelling as her creations: Willow’s blunt bob is dyed white-blond, which contrasts with the thick red liner winging her eyes and her midnight-black dress.
“This one is my favorite,” Cassandra tells her sister, pointing to a piece featuring the Kiso Mountains.
The collage holds the eyes of a puffer fish, a Nerium oleander flower, and the silver mercury from a thermometer, all woven so seamlessly into the brushstrokes that it takes several moments for the eye to distinguish them.
As with all of Willow’s work, the seemingly disparate elements share a common denominator: They are linked to death. Even the key is from the typewriter of a serial killer.
Without the relevant information, though, the ingredients appear innocuous.
Maybe there’s a lesson here, Cassandra thinks. They’ve been assembling facts about Shay. But they’re missing the invisible ingredient that will link all the disparate parts together.
Shay also appears innocuous. But is she?
Cassandra’s thoughts are interrupted as Willow rushes over to give them both a hug.
“Cheers,” Jane says, lifting her champagne glass and handing one to Willow. “Tonight is a triumph.”
“The Times review is going to be a rave,” Cassandra says.
The sisters want to savor the moment, but the alert tone for Valerie’s texts—one that’s distinct from the sounds assigned to everyone else in their contacts—is erupting on both of their phones.
Valerie is keeping an eye on Shay tonight—or more accurately, the tracker in the necklace that Shay somehow got from Amanda.