The Perfect Stranger

by Marin Montgomery

  Absentmindedly she pulls a chicken salad out of the fridge, taking small bites as she leans on the counter, the glass of wine she poured not even registering on her taste buds.

  It all tastes bland.

  Pouring another, she thinks back to what Dr. Sabin said, considering his perspective. Twirling the stem of her glass, she jumps when she hears the sound of the doorbell. Dr. Sabin must’ve gotten her message.

  For a moment, she feels guilty, holding wine in her hand, but she hasn't done anything wrong. She just doesn't want him to think she’s going off the dead end. It started with alcohol last time.

  She swings the front door open, expecting to see his tall stature.

  Except it’s not.

  It’s a woman.

  A very tall woman - five foot nine, wearing a long, flowered kimono that’s been twisted in the wind, flopping around her knees. Her blonde hair’s being pulled back just as violently in the gust. Her lips are smothered in bright red lipstick, but the outline of her mouth is smeared, giving her a clown-like appearance.

  Green eyes pierce Stella’s, and her bony arms jut out of the flimsy material she’s wearing. The only thing she’s holding is a tiny crossbody purse.

  Stella darts her eyes around her, looking for a vehicle in the drive. There’s nothing. “Um ... can I help you?”

  The woman stares at her, unflinching.

  “Do I know you?” Stella takes a step back, her hand still holding the door for protection. “Did Dr. Sabin send…?”

  “Yes, Dr. Sabin sent me to your house.”

  “I figured he’d call first.”

  “He did, have you checked your phone?” The woman eyes the glass of wine in Stella’s hand, silently judging.

  “Uh...”

  The woman interrupts. “Not a big deal.” The woman shivers, her meager clothing no measure for the wind. “Mind if I come in? I’m freezing my butt off.”

  “I haven’t met you,” Stella grips the doorknob. “Are you new?”

  “Elizabeth,” she tilts her head at her, “I just help out when I can.”

  “Come on in,” Stella steps back from the door. “It’s going to be one hell of a storm.”

  “Thanks,” the woman brushes past her, stepping into the comfort of the warmth. As the heady scent of her passes into Stella’s space, she almost drops her wine glass.

  Her perfume.

  It’s that fragrance. The one she smelled in Grant’s vehicle. Stella knew it didn't belong to a client.

  Suddenly nervous, her throat tightens and she struggles to form her next sentence. “Let me get you those glasses and you can be on your way before the rain starts.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How did you get here?” Stella asks as she walks to the counter where she placed the glasses. They’re next to the sleeping pills she just picked up.

  “Uber.” The woman notices the prescription bottle and the ripped bag Stella pulled it from. “Oh good, you got your meds,” the woman remarks, acting as if she has firsthand knowledge of what's in the bag.

  “Elizabeth, did you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know Ruth?” Ruth is Dr. Sabin’s long-time receptionist. She’s a kind-hearted elderly woman who wears bright pink lipstick and too much perfume.

  “No, no one by that name,” Elizabeth blushes, “but it’s such a big office.” Warning bells go off in Stella’s head since Dr. Sabin has one receptionist and that’s it.

  “Well, Dr. Sabin is lucky to be able to count on you to get his glasses.”

  “Yes, very much so.” The woman looks at her phone. “I’ll get another Uber, didn’t want to make that one wait.”

  “Kind of expensive?”

  “Nah, I was headed out tonight. My boyfriend lives around here.”

  There isn’t a lot of young, single men right around here, at least the next-door neighbors. She’s kept an eye out for her friends when new bachelors pop up.

  “Oh, what’s his name, maybe I know him?” Stella tries to keep the beads of sweat from popping up on her forehead.

  “Grant Masen.”

  Stella feels as if the heavy floorboards shifted underneath her, signaling an earthquake. “Did you feel that?” she asks, gripping the counter.

  Elizabeth eyes her curiously. “No, what?”

  “I thought I felt something move.”

  “Maybe you should have a seat. You don't look so good.”

  “Yeah, maybe. I’ll do that after you leave.” She nods at the door, “I’ll sit down and relax.”

  “I don't think that's in the plan.” Elizabeth gestures to the room. “At least it’s not what your husband has in mind.”

  30

  Stella

  “My husband...” Stella’s voice trails off. “So you don't know Dr. Sabin...”

  “Sabin. No, can’t say that I do...” she rushes to add, “but I’m just as important.”

  Stunned, Stella mumbles, “What is this about?”

  “I think you already know.”

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  The woman’s lips twist into a scowl. “Why?”

  “You're scaring me, and I have no idea who you are.”

  The woman walks around the living room and kitchen, touching objects, adjusting a painting and fingering some art sculptures that they’ve acquired over the years at estate sales or gallery shows.

  “I already introduced myself. I’m Elizabeth,” she finishes wiping her hand across a glass frame, “and I know your husband.” She strides to the front door, keeping her gaze focused solely on Stella, locking the deadbolt. “In fact, I know your husband very, very well. We’ve been together awhile.”

  Stella stares at her, numb.

  “You’ve never heard him mention me?”

  She can only shake her head.

  “In the bedroom?” She giggles, “Maybe he accidentally said my name?”

  Stella starts to stand, but Elizabeth’s fingers fly out, clawing at her face. “I didn't tell you to get up.”

  Shrieking, Stella kicks her foot out. “What the hell? Get off my property or I’ll call the cops.” Before Stella has time to react, a sharp sting lands across her left cheek. Stella’s mouth drops open and tears form in the corner of her eyes. Elizabeth considers her with interest. “You going to call me a psycho just like your husband calls you?”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Grant’s girlfriend. Or mistress, if you prefer.”

  “I prefer neither.” Stella rubs the sore spot. “But you can leave.”

  Elizabeth ignores her. “You thought he was cheating. Well, here I am. Alive and in the flesh.”

  “He told you where we lived?”

  She chortles, and a look flashes in her eyes, one that chills Stella to the bone. “Of course not, silly. Public records. You’re married. Wasn't hard.”

  “But why?”

  “To warn you.” She shrugs.

  “About?”

  “That he wasn’t being faithful.”

  “Why couldn’t he tell me?”

  “I thought it’d be better if I broke the news to you.” Grinning, she strokes Stella’s cheek. “Gently, of course.”

  “What do you want from me?” Stella sighs indignantly.

  “To talk.”

  “We have nothing to talk about.”

  Elizabeth looks hurt, her eyes wounded. “Sure we do, we have a lot in common.”

  “Name one thing.”

  “Grant, for starters. And now your lipstick line. I’m loving the new palette. Grant made sure to chastise me for wearing another brand. He’s very loyal to you.”

  “How refreshing,” Stella’s sarcastic.

  Elizabeth rolls her eyes upward. “I figured you’d be lonely since he’s on a plane to New York and you’re stuck here.”

  “Look, Elizabeth, thanks for paying me a visit to check on me. Very sweet of you. Thanks for telling me about your affair. I’d like some time to process this.”
She tries to locate her phone, sure it’s on the other side of the counter or maybe by the fridge. Elizabeth notices her staring and walks over to the kitchen, keeping her eyes trained on Stella.

  Snatching up her phone, she brings it over to Stella.

  “What’s your passcode?”

  Stella snarls at her. “No.”

  “Thumbprint?”

  “Not a chance in hell.”

  “Here was your one free chance to get out of hell.”

  They glower at each other, Elizabeth holding out the phone in disgust and Stella clenching the arms of her chair.

  “I want you to leave.”

  “But I want to stay. And I have a gun, so you don't have a choice.” Unbuckling her handbag, she pulls out a pair of gloves and the tiniest firearm Stella has ever seen. She’s not even sure if it’s a real gun. It looks like a toy one. Must be a fake.

  “Guns don’t scare me.”

  “Then maybe when I tell you what your husband has planned for you, it will.”

  “Planned for me?” Stella smirks. “This should be good.”

  “Yeah, why he left you home alone this weekend.” A moment of silence passes as Stella waits for Elizabeth to continue. When she’s sure she has all her undivided attention, she continues.

  “Didn’t it seem a little suspect, him bouncing for four days and leaving his depressed and lonely wife all by her lonesome?”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “Grant has an elaborate plan for you. For all of us really. But especially for you.” She reaches forward to rub her forearm as if she’s rubbing sandpaper into her skin before sliding her hands into the yellow plastic gloves.

  Stella throws her hands in the air. “He wants a divorce.” Glaring at the woman, her voice remains flat. “Fine, I’m in no mood to argue anymore after this bizarre incident. You can have him. I’m done.”

  She starts to stand but before she can fully rise, a bullet whizzes past her, slamming into the drywall.

  “Oh my God, what are you doing?” Stella hollers, raising her hands to her ears, her face twisting in horror.

  Elizabeth speaks calmly. “Sit down.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Stella cries.

  “Listen to me Stella, and listen good.” Their eyes are locked on one another, Stella’s wild with despair, Elizabeth's calm and reticent. “He doesn't want a divorce, Stella. He wants you dead.”

  31

  Stella

  “Dead. He wants me dead.” Stella keeps repeating it, sometimes as fact, sometimes as a question.

  “Yes, like no longer of this earth. Buried in a shallow grave. Gone.”

  Stella can barely force the words out. “But why?” she whispers.

  “I think we both know why. He doesn’t want to be with you anymore. You’re a liability. And he doesn’t love you. He loves me.”

  “How long has this been going on for?”

  “Not as long as your own affair.”

  The color drains from her face. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  “So my husband’s mistress is going to kill me? And Grant knows about this? He fully supports this?”

  “He’s the one who suggested it.”

  “He told you to kill me?”

  Elizabeth doesn’t answer, handing her the phone once more. “I don't even need your passcode. I just need you to enter it.”

  Stella’s face is frozen in a grimace, her eyes silently pleading with Elizabeth. A sad look appears in her green eyes, but she doesn’t say anything in response.

  Snatching the phone from her, Stella can barely hold the phone steady to use her thumbprint. Elizabeth gives her a nod of thanks and then steps a few feet back, scrolling through her phone.

  She presses a button, then holds the phone up to her ear.

  “Okay, I’m here.”

  Stella can’t hear the other part of the conversation even as she cranes her neck to listen better.

  “Yep, I know the plan.”

  “I’ll throw the phone out when I’m done.”

  “Bye.”

  When she hangs up, Stella considers her with disgust. “There’s no way you could be communicating with Grant. He’s on a plane.”

  “Yeah,” Elizabeth doesn’t flinch. “So?”

  “You said he’s behind this.”

  “He is.” Elizabeth crosses the distance between them in two long strides. “I never said I was talking to my boyfriend.”

  “This is crazy, Grant would never send some young woman to the house to get rid of me.” Stella can’t even mutter the words ‘kill,’ it just seems so ridiculous and un-Grant like.

  “Why? We’re almost like kin.” She gives a maniacal laugh. “Just think, your husband’s been inside both of us. Should we talk about our favorite positions?” She coyly winks at Stella, and it’s all she can do not to tackle her.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  Stella decides to play along, asking questions. “How did you meet?”

  “I’m an aspiring writer. He’s read some of my stuff.”

  “So no relation to Maggie?”

  “No, I don't know a Maggie.” Elizabeth places her hands on her hips, agitated as she brushes back her unruly hair with the barrel of the gun.

  “How does Grant want you to get rid of me?” Stella asks casually, like she would ask a waiter for a refill of the bread basket or a glass of water.

  “He said to dispose of your body. I’m thinking the ocean is as good a place as any. A shark or one of those fishes with the sharp teeth can just chew on your skin. You’ll disappear and your bones will wash up one day, but perfectly clean and gutted.”

  “Great visual.”

  “Sorry, sometimes I get really into it.”

  “I still don’t understand why he’d want to get rid of me.”

  “So that him and I can be together.”

  “But we could divorce,” Stella shrugs. “It would be easier.”

  “Yeah, but you have assets and money. He told me all about your business taking off. He’ll inherit it all as your spouse.”

  “And you’ll spend all my money?”

  “Exactly.” She smoothes down Stella’s hair. “I can wear your clothes, except I’m a tad smaller, and even sleep in your bed.” Stella reminds herself to remain calm, trying not to let the churning anger and fear show on her face.

  “In fact, why don’t you give me a little tour?” Elizabeth whistles. “I’d like to see where my new bedroom and walk-in closet are. I’ve never seen this place on the inside. You know, for the moment, Grant wanted to preserve the sanctity of your marriage.” Motioning with the butt of the gun, Elizabeth indicates she should rise.

  Stella’s legs shake, and she has to grip the armchair to keep from losing her balance and toppling into the table at her side.

  “Okay, here are the rules.” Elizabeth rubs the gun to her chin. “Rule number one. I’m in charge. Rule number two. I’m in charge. Same for three, four, and five. You do as I say, understand?”

  Stella shakes her head, her eyes frantically searching for any weapons she can use, a heavy candlestick holder or a vase. Grant and her never took an interest in guns and Stella never thought about getting one. She always thought she could just call the cops or use her pepper spray, which isn’t even accessible, but buried in a drawer somewhere, and useless at this moment.

  Sighing, she starts to walk forward, one small step at a time.

  “That’s right, easy does it.” She motions towards the staircase. “Let’s start upstairs. Keep going, I’ll stay behind you at all times.”

  Stella feels cold metal pressed against her lower back followed by a painful thwack. “And if you even think about trying to use something as a weapon, I’ll sign your death warrant early. No skin off my back. I already have your man.”

  Swallowing hard, Stella leads the way up the stairs, holding the railing for support. They start at the back of the
house, and Stella stays quiet unless Elizabeth asks her a question. Strolling around the wrap-around deck, Elizabeth takes her time, observing the pitch-black sky, the vast open space of endless water, and the sounds of raindrops starting to hit the roof that bounce their way down with an emphatic thud.

  “I love rain at night,” Elizabeth chimes. “So peaceful, cleaning all the impurities away.”

  Stella doesn’t answer, her footsteps leading her to the master bedroom. She wants nothing more than to crawl into bed, shut her eyes, and pretend she’s in the middle of a nightmare. When she wakes, this erratic girl will be gone and she’ll be alone in the house, with nothing to do but watch trash television and drink wine.

  Her only hope is Dr. Sabin, she thinks.

  Doubtful, but trying to stay positive, she tells herself he might still show up tonight.

  As if reading her thoughts, Elizabeth cuts into them with a question. “Are you expecting anyone tonight?”

  “No,” she murmurs, “just your unexpected visit.” Her heart starts to palpitate in her chest. Stella knows deep down Dr. Sabin won't show up to the house this late at night, he’d be worried about disturbing her evening or disrupting the sleep. She’s supposed to be relaxing, meditating, and focusing on her mental health.

  “Good. Grant said you wouldn’t. He said you had therapy earlier, but that was all.”

  “Yes, Grant did suggest I see my doctor,” she spits out.

  “Brilliant for him. You kill yourself after a home visit from your clinical psychiatrist.” Elizabeth sucks in a breath. “He couldn’t have come up with a better scene.”

  “Where do you factor in to this?”

  “I’m just helping.”

  “You won’t get away with it,” Stella says matter-of-factly. “They always look at the mistress when the wife dies. You’ll go to prison for the rest of your life. Is that what you want?”

  “I will get away with it because there’s nothing tying your husband and I together. Zero. Not phone calls. Not texts. Nothing. He’ll look clean.”

  “Then how do you communicate?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Elizabeth shrugs. “First things first, we’ve got some writing to do. Grant gave you homework.”