Goose bumps rise on my skin as the realization slams into me: it’s the necklace I found on the subway platform.
Where is it now? I wonder. The hours following Amanda’s suicide are a blur. Maybe I put it in my shoulder bag. I reach into my tote and try to discreetly feel around, but my fingertips don’t catch on any small, sharp edges.
I probably dropped the necklace in the shock of the moment, but just in case, I’ll check my bag again later, I decide.
By now, two other women have come up to look at Amanda’s photograph.
“I’m going to miss the way she always teased me about my accent,” one says.
“I can still hear her asking if ‘ya pahked ya cah in Hahvad Yahd,’” the other adds.
Then a third woman comes over and wraps her arms around the other two. Other than that they all appear to be around thirty, they have almost nothing in common physically. The woman with the Boston accent looks a little like an unmade bed—her shirt is rumpled, her red hair is untamed, and she’s holding a wad of crumpled paper napkins. The woman who imitated her accent is small and tough looking, with a purple streak in her dirty-blond hair. The third is the kind of woman I think of as a glossy girl—from the tips of her fingernails to the delicate straps of her blush-colored sandals, she’s perfectly put together.
The affection between the trio is tangible. And Amanda—again, appearing so different from all of them—was obviously part of their group.
Maybe they were all sorority sisters in college, I think.
I wonder if Amanda, who clearly had such loyal friends, reached out to them for help. They obviously cared deeply for her. But I guess whatever she was grappling with was too strong for her to overcome, even with their support.
I watch as the three women lean their heads close together again, talking, then the one with the purple streak in her hair turns to look at me, her close-set eyes narrowing. The two others do as well.
I quickly move away in case they intend to approach me to talk about Amanda. Even though Cassandra welcomed me, I’m still an impostor.
As I begin to walk toward the door, yet another woman appears in my path. “Are you okay?” She gives me a sympathetic smile and a dimple appears in her right cheek. “I’m Jane. You met my sister Cassandra earlier.”
I would’ve guessed they’re related: They share not only the same ebony hair and luminous skin, but the same magnetic quality. Jane is more petite than her sister, with softer features and a gentle voice.
“Thanks.” I take the tissue she offers. I reach beneath my glasses to dab at my eyes. “I guess … I just wish I could have helped Amanda.”
Jane takes a step closer to me and I inhale the sweet smell of her floral perfume. “I know,” she says, her voice confiding. “A lot of us are grappling with complicated feelings today. I certainly am.”
Perhaps everybody second-guesses themselves in the aftermath of a suicide, I think.
I’d give anything to take back my lie about how I met Amanda, but since I can’t, I’m honest with Jane now. “I didn’t really know her well, but I can’t stop thinking about her. I suppose I came here to learn more about her.”
“I see.” Jane cocks her head to the side, like something has just occurred to her. “You know, a bunch of us are going out for a drink after the service. You should come.”
“O-oh,” I stutter, so surprised by the invitation I can barely talk. “I, uh, have plans.”
She looks disappointed. “That’s too bad. I know we just met, but I have a feeling we might have a lot to talk about.”
Before I can reply, Cassandra breaks away from her conversation with a tearful older woman holding a glass of wine who looks like she could be Amanda’s mother. Cassandra gives the woman a hug, then strides toward us, her gaze fixed on me.
She touches my arm, keeping her hand there. “My sister and I know what it’s like to struggle with loss. Please reach out if you ever want to talk. Connecting with each other is one of the most essential things we can do. I only wish Amanda…”
I find myself nodding. “I would really like that.” My voice is too eager, but Cassandra awards me a full, genuine smile.
“Here.” She’s holding out a business card with her free hand. The embossed black letters stand out sharply against the crisp white rectangle: CASSANDRA MOORE. Instead of any business contact information, there’s just a phone number and email address.
“I hope we’ll see you again, Shay.” Cassandra removes her hand, but I can still feel the heat of its imprint on my bare forearm. Suddenly I don’t want to leave.
It’s no longer about the connection I feel toward Amanda. It’s the connection I want to feel with her friends.
CHAPTER NINE
CASSANDRA & JANE
CASSANDRA AND JANE LEARN two things about Shay during their brief encounter with her.
She is a bad liar; her cheeks flushed and she avoided eye contact when she fabricated the story about the veterinarian.
And Shay has a strange and alarming attachment to Amanda.
Immediately following the memorial service, Shay walks to a bistro and sits at the bar. She is watched by Valerie, the sixth and final member of the group—and the only one who didn’t attend the service.
Valerie, who was an actress in Los Angeles before moving to New York, is employed by Cassandra and Jane at their PR firm. She assists them with many professional assignments, as well as personal ones.
There is little danger of Shay noticing that she is under observation. Valerie is a chameleon; tonight she wears a simple navy dress with her hair tied in a low ponytail. She stands near a high bar table populated by a group of tourists and effortlessly blends in with them.
Initially, Shay’s story about having plans appears to be true. But as the minutes pass and no one joins her, it becomes obvious this is yet another lie. Shay sips a beer and eats a burger and occasionally looks down at her phone.
After about an hour, she exits the restaurant. The credit card slip she signed was quickly retrieved by the bartender before her name could be verified.
Shay walks thirty-eight blocks to her apartment with a loping, athletic stride, not even pausing at several subway stops that would quicken her journey.
It’s another curious detail about her. Perhaps the subway carries a dark reminder of Amanda.
She disappears into a five-story, white-brick, residential building.
Her apartment building.
The same building that, according to the sisters’ tracking device, holds Amanda’s necklace.
Valerie continues to watch the entrance, but Shay remains inside, keeping with her any secrets she might be holding about Amanda.
Valerie is raising her cell phone to take a picture of a man as he enters Shay’s building—he might be a neighbor who could provide useful information—when an incoming call from Cassandra registers on the screen.
“I’m with Daphne,” Cassandra begins.
Valerie’s hand reflexively clenches the phone at Cassandra’s tone.
“A police detective left a message for her while we were at the memorial service,” Cassandra continues. “She asked if Daphne could give her a call to answer a few questions.”
Valerie sucks in a breath. “About Amanda?”