You Are Not Alone(7)
My mom’s life is so different: She worked for a construction company and married Barry, who was a foreman, when I was eleven.
“What have you been up to?” my mom asks now. “I haven’t talked to you all week.”
“She’s probably too busy napping at that cushy temp job,” Barry calls from the background before I can answer.
Barry’s the main reason I don’t go home to see my mom as often as I should.
I pretend to laugh at his comment. A minute later, when Barry calls my mom to come eat quesadillas, I’m glad for the excuse to hang up.
I remove my glasses and rub the bridge of my nose, then put them back on and lean against the seat, taking in the Manhattan skyline as we cross the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s a sight I never grow weary of, but at twilight, with the majestic buildings rising into the purple-and-orange-tinged sky, it seems especially beautiful.
Every year, people are drawn to this bridge to enjoy the beautiful views or a relaxing stroll.
Or jump to their deaths.
The thought zings through me like an electric shock.
I jerk my gaze away from the steel beams and shimmering darkness of the East River below.
I keep my eyes fixed down, staring at the Uber’s rubber floor mat, until the bridge is well behind us.
CHAPTER SIX
CASSANDRA & JANE
AN HOUR BEFORE AMANDA’S memorial service begins, five women assemble in a private room at the Rosewood Club to mourn the emergency room nurse with the effervescent personality who tracked her steps on a Fitbit to offset the sweets she loved.
They sit on sofas and chairs in a semicircle, softly talking. One weeps, her shoulders shaking, as another comforts her by stroking her back.
They’re the same women who appeared with Amanda in Cassandra’s photographs.
Only one is missing; she isn’t attending the memorial service because she has a more important assignment tonight.
Cassandra and Jane survey the room. Everything is in place: The corner bar is stocked with plenty of alcohol—which will loosen tongues. The buffet holds a cheese board and tea sandwiches. Perched on an easel is the enlarged photograph of Amanda holding the calico cat. Beside it, the guest book is splayed open on a small table.
Cassandra closes the door, then strides to the center of the room and stands silently for a moment. Her ebony silk dress hugs her tall, lithe body. The only splash of color is her red lipstick.
Somehow the strain and pressure of the past days haven’t dimmed her sharp, unconventional beauty. If anything, her features seem even more finely chiseled, and her amber eyes are mesmerizing.
“I know Amanda’s death was as devastating to each of you as it was to Jane and me,” Cassandra begins. She briefly bows her head. “Amanda was one of us.”
The women murmur in agreement. Cassandra lifts her head and looks at each of them in turn:
Stacey, so small and scrappy and smart, who possesses at least a dozen Marvel T-shirts, a temper quick to flare, and a reservoir of loyalty that appears bottomless.
Daphne, who at thirty-two owns a chic boutique in the West Village and has the sort of innate sophistication that makes it easy to imagine her charming clothing designers and selecting styles that will entice her clients. Daphne always appears camera ready; her buttery-blond locks are professionally blown out twice a week, and her makeup is flawless.
And finally Beth from Boston, a thirty-four-year-old public defense attorney who often seems to be overwhelmed and a little flustered—her purse filled with crumpled receipts, half-eaten granola bars, hair bands, and loose change—but who possesses a sharp, uncanny intuition about people.
Cassandra admires these women greatly. They are smart and loyal. They have something else in common, too: All have overcome obstacles that range from job loss to assault to cancer.
“I just can’t believe it,” says Beth. Despite the strains of her occupation, Beth is quick to laugh. But today, tears glisten on her cheeks. “The last time I went to her place she baked the most amazing butterscotch cheesecake”—Beth pronounces it butta-scotch—“because, y’know, Amanda and sweets. And we made plans to see the new Julia Roberts movie. I’m still in shock. I keep thinking I shoulda done something differently—tried harder to get her to talk.”
“Look, I know things spiraled out of control,” Jane says. “It’s no secret that Amanda was upset by our … experience.”
“We all wish she’d come to us instead of shutting us out.” Cassandra clears her throat. It’s time to reclaim the women’s focus. “We don’t want to alarm you. But we have to consider the possibility that Amanda may have talked to someone about our group.”
What the sisters haven’t told the others is that Amanda’s necklace—the one Cassandra designed and created—didn’t disappear beneath the train wheels when Amanda died.
A GPS tracking device was inserted inside the sun-shaped charm the sisters had given to all of the women. It was a precaution, intended to protect them during the sometimes-dangerous work they performed—but perhaps it was also the result of a faint premonition. Other than the sisters, none of the women know that their necklaces aren’t simply a piece of jewelry.
When the sisters checked the location of Amanda’s tracker on their phones a few days after her suicide, they expected to see nothing: Surely the necklace had been destroyed.