I close my eyes and repeat it to myself silently. It’s such a pretty name. I know I won’t ever forget it.
I walk the forty blocks home, forcing myself to craft a plan for the rest of the day: I’ll update my résumé and send it to a new batch of headhunters. Then I’ll go for a run for a hit of mood-boosting endorphins. And I should pick up a little baby gift to give my friend Melanie, who invited me over later this week for a drink.
I do one other thing on my way home: I plan my route to avoid stepping over any subway grates.
CHAPTER FOUR
CASSANDRA & JANE
A FEW DAYS AFTER Amanda jumped in front of the train, Jane receives an urgent call: someone other than Amanda’s mother has shown up at her apartment building.
Jane rushes into Cassandra’s adjoining office, clutching her phone. It’s a busy morning at Moore Public Relations, their boutique firm on Sullivan Street. Up until now, their workday appears to have been business as usual—they’ve met with an up-and-coming purse designer, fine-tuned the details on a gallery opening for an artist they represent, and assembled a list of influencers to spread the word about a new Asian-fusion restaurant.
But all the while, they’ve been on high alert, their cell phones always within reach.
Stacey, who at twenty-nine is the youngest member of their group, is on the other end of the line. Stacey dropped out of school after the eleventh grade but later earned a GED and has taught herself so much about technology that she is now in demand as a cybersecurity consultant. With a small, wiry build that belies her physical prowess, and a rough, occasionally profane way of speaking that distracts from her razor-sharp mind, Stacey is often underestimated.
The sisters agree she was one of their most valuable selections.
Stacey was the one who hacked into Amanda’s laptop. She’s also savvy enough that she was able to install a security camera on a streetlight just outside Amanda’s building and remotely access the live video feed. From a coffee shop a block away, Stacey has simultaneously been working and surveilling.
While Stacey rattles off information—“She didn’t stay long, didn’t speak to anyone”—Jane rushes through the open door of Cassandra’s office.
Cassandra’s long, elegant fingers, poised above her computer keyboard, freeze as she catches the expression on Jane’s face. Cassandra leans forward in her chair, her hair spilling over her narrow shoulders.
Jane shuts the door and puts Stacey on speakerphone.
“I’m with Cassandra,” Jane says. “Take us through it from the beginning.”
The Moore sisters learn that at 11:05 A.M., a woman—thirtyish, tortoiseshell glasses and brown hair, tall and athletic looking—climbed the steps of Amanda’s apartment building. While the visitor stood looking at the old brownstone, which had been cut up into small apartments, her actions were captured by Stacey’s camera. Stacey didn’t recognize her, which set off alarm bells.
The visitor didn’t press any of the buzzers. After approximately ninety seconds, she lay a single yellow zinnia on the corner of the top step, just a few feet from the laminated memorial-service notice created by the sisters.
Then she turned and left. Stacey—who was already packing up her things in an effort to run toward the apartment and follow the woman—was too far away to catch her.
“Please send the video immediately,” Cassandra directs. “If she comes back—”
“I got it,” Stacey interrupts. “She’s not going to give me the slip again.”
The film is scrutinized the moment it comes in.
Cassandra pauses on the clearest frame of the young woman. It fills her computer screen, just as Amanda’s image recently did.
“Their coloring is different, but she’s tall, like Amanda was, too,” Cassandra says. “Could she be a relative we never heard about?”`
Jane shrugs. “Amanda had secrets. Maybe this woman is one of them.”
Taking in the mysterious visitor’s widely spaced blue eyes and the faint cleft in her chin, Cassandra leans closer. She reaches out, tracing a fingertip along the curve of the woman’s cheek.
Cassandra’s voice is whisper soft, but her gaze is intent and unblinking. “Who are you?”
CHAPTER FIVE
SHAY
552 suicides were reported in New York City last year; approximately one-third were female. 48 percent of the women were single. White females had the highest suicide rate. And within the five boroughs, suicide was highest among Manhattan residents.
—Data Book, page 6
A FEW NIGHTS AFTER my botched interview, I’m in the kitchen of Mel’s Brooklyn apartment, twisting off the cap of the bottle of Perrier I brought.
Her colicky baby daughter, Lila, is strapped to her chest, and Mel gently bounces up and down to soothe her while I fill a glass for each of us and take cheese and crackers out of my shopping bag.
Her place is cluttered but cheery, with a pink and yellow Boppy pillow on the couch and burping cloths stacked on the kitchen counter. An electric swing is wedged next to the small round dining table. The Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine” plays in the background, on the record player Mel’s husband bought last year.
I hate bringing the horror of Amanda’s suicide here, but Mel knows something is wrong. I’ve never been good at hiding my emotions.
“Shay, I can’t even imagine how awful that must have been,” she says, shuddering, as I finish the story. She hugs Lila closer.
I don’t reveal that I took a bus, then a twenty-five-dollar Uber, to get here instead of the subway. The panic descended again tonight, just like it did when I tried to ride the subway to my interview on Monday and my temp job yesterday. As I approached that forest-green pole, my heart exploded and my legs refused to move forward.
Logically, I know I’m not going to witness another subway suicide—the stats prove how rare they are. But the one I did see keeps replaying in my mind.
“I went to her apartment this morning,” I say. “Amanda’s.”
Lila spits out her pacifier and Mel pops it back in, jiggling faster. “You did what? Why?”
Mel looks tired, and I’m sure I do, too. Last night a bad dream jarred me awake. The onrushing rumbling of wheels was the backdrop of my nightmare. I looked up Amanda’s name on the white pages website when I couldn’t fall back asleep, which is how I found her address.
“I wanted to know more about her. To kill yourself that way is so violent … so extreme. I guess I’m just trying to make some sense of it.”
Mel nods, but I can tell from her expression she thinks my behavior is odd. “Did you learn anything?”
I toy with the Fitbit around my wrist. My steps have nearly doubled in the past few days now that my usual mode of transportation has been eliminated.
“There’s a memorial service tomorrow night,” I say instead of answering Mel directly. “I’m thinking about going.”
Mel frowns. “Is that a good idea?”
I can see why it seems weird to her, here in the cozy apartment with three-bean chili warming in a pot on the stove and a postcard for a Yoga with Baby class affixed to her refrigerator.
Amanda wouldn’t have haunted Mel; they have nothing in common.