“Sure you will.” Still didn’t move.
Adrenaline flooded her body. No one else was within view. The doorman was ten flights away. She prayed for the sound of the elevator ding, announcing that a neighbor was coming. But the hallway was still.
He kept staring at her, his face expressionless.
“So…” Her voice faltered. “It’s getting late.…”
The instant he stopped blocking the door, she’d slam it and quickly engage the dead bolt. She’d also phone Raymond to make sure James had really left the building.
After what seemed like an eternity, he finally lifted his foot and stepped into the hallway. But he didn’t turn his back to her. Instead, he edged sideways. Still, at least he was no longer in the threshold.
Daphne leaped back into her apartment and began to slam the door.
But his arm shot out and pushed it violently in the other direction while her palms were still on it. She tumbled backward, unsteady on her heels.
It was James who slid home the dead bolt.
In the days that followed, Daphne picked up the phone a half dozen times to call the police. But she always hung up before dialing.
She kept experiencing the sensation of James’s hands closing around her throat while she lay there, unmoving. His ugly words reverberated in her mind: I know you like it rough.
The only evidence she had was the faint bruise on her neck. She imagined a prosecutor asking, Did you tell him to stop?
It would be her word against his. Even her doorman likely saw them kissing, and definitely saw her leading him into the elevator. She knew the legal system had failed other women. She couldn’t trust that justice would prevail.
Late one night, she reached for her phone and sent James a text: I hope you rot in hell. Then she blocked him. It felt like such an inconsequential reaction, but she didn’t know what else to do.
She told no one at first. Daphne was an only child, and she wasn’t close to her parents, who’d had her later in life. They hadn’t been trying for a child and didn’t seem particularly pleased to be raising one, even a quiet, self-sufficient little girl.
She tried to lose herself in long, exhausting runs along the West Side Highway, and she began dropping weight. Food held little appeal. She couldn’t meet the eyes of Raymond whenever she passed through her lobby.
Then one day,a few weeks after the attack, a chime sounded in her boutique. Daphne had taken to locking up when she was alone and leaving a sign directing shoppers to press the doorbell.
It was a slow Tuesday afternoon on a slushy winter day, but somehow, none of the dirty gray snow or salt on the sidewalks marred the high leather boots of the two women who strolled in. Daphne had never seen them before, but she immediately guessed they were sisters.
“We’ve walked by your shop a million times and we’ve always wanted to stop in,” Cassandra gushed.
“I can already tell this place is going to be my new favorite addiction!” Jane said, running her fingertips over a stack of cashmere sweaters.
They’d stayed for nearly an hour, chatting easily as they tried on clothes and sipped from the flutes of champagne that Daphne brought out for good customers. They were much friendlier than most of the shoppers who passed through Daphne’s door; the sisters seemed truly interested in getting to know her.
By the time she was packing their purchases into glossy shopping bags, Daphne felt a little lighter, as if the presence of these warm, vibrant, strong women had somehow provided a barrier against the emotions battering her.
“We’ll be back soon, Daphne!” Jane promised as the sisters left.
And they were, a few days later.
A week or so after that, they’d invited Daphne to Jane’s apartment for drinks. It felt natural and spontaneous, like an extension of the drinks and conversation they’d shared in the boutique.
Daphne hadn’t intended to reveal James’s assault to the sisters. She barely knew them after all. But something about them—she couldn’t quite put her finger on what—invited her confidence. They seemed to know exactly what to say to draw her out. As Daphne sat on Jane’s couch, stroking Jane’s pretty little calico cat, Hepburn, Daphne felt less alone.
Cassandra’s eyes had darkened. “James is a criminal. He raped you, Daphne.”
Jane had wrapped an arm around Daphne: “What can we do to help?”
“I don’t know,” Daphne had whispered. “I just want him to pay for this.”
Later the sisters told Daphne that was the moment they knew she was one of them.
They were a group of five: First Cassandra, Jane, and Valerie, then Beth—whom Valerie had gotten to know because they were neighbors in an apartment building—had joined the circle. And shortly thereafter, Beth had brought in Stacey.
Their vote was unanimous: Daphne would become the sixth member.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SHAY
Strategies to alleviate panic attacks:
1. Breathe in through your nose to the count of five, hold it for the count of five, and breath out through your mouth to the count of five
2. Count backwards from 100 by 3’s
3. Tune into four things you can see, three things you can touch, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste
*Attempts to enter subway without a panic attack: 12 (none successful)
—Data Book, page 11
I THOUGHT AMANDA’S MEMORIAL service would provide a sense of closure, and things would get better.
But they’re worse.
Nearly two weeks have passed since I saw her jump, and I still can’t get close to a subway. Home is no respite; Sean rarely spends time at Jody’s place because she lives in a tiny two-bedroom with two other girls. So they’re always around, cooking dinner or cuddling on the couch in front of the TV.
I walk and take buses when possible, but sometimes taxis are the only option—like the other day when my bus broke down and I was running late to my temp job. The fares are whittling away at my bank account.
Geography is shaping my choices: I feel like my life is tunneling inward. Instead of visiting the Brooklyn Botanic Garden over the weekend, which always brings me peace, I went to a smaller park a few blocks away. My favorite CrossFit class is in SoHo, but I’ve begun frequenting a little gym that’s only a few blocks away.
Sometimes, when I reach into my tote bag, I think I feel the scrape of a tiny, sharp edge against my fingertips and I’m convinced I’ve found Amanda’s necklace. But it’s just the ridge on my Chap Stick tube, or the bend in the stem of my sunglasses, or the uneven seam at the bottom of my bag. I’ve turned my tote inside out more than once, but it’s never there. I wonder if it’s still glinting somewhere down in the Thirty-third Street subway station.
I dread falling asleep, knowing nightmares await. The worst one yet left me drenched in sweat: I was running down the subway platform, desperately trying to stop Amanda from jumping and knowing I wouldn’t get there in time. Just as I reached for her arm, clawing at empty air as she pulled away, she turned to look at me.
But instead of her face, I was staring into my own.
That’s what made me finally pick up the phone and schedule an appointment with a psychologist. I’d like to say I selected her based on her academic credentials or a referral, but the truth is, I chose my therapist because she is covered by my insurance—and the walk is only eight minutes.