The Perfect Stranger

by Marin Montgomery

  “Homework?”

  “Your suicide note needs to be drafted.”

  “No.”

  “Let me guess,” Elizabeth giggles, “over your dead body?”

  Stella suddenly stops in the hall as Elizabeth crashes into her. “You might as well just shoot me, I’m not writing a note.”

  “Why not?” she asks, “Grant said you already had one started. Care to show me where it is? Maybe in the office?”

  When Stella doesn’t respond, Elizabeth points the gun at her. “You’re already forgetting the rules, I’m in charge.”

  Stella doesn’t bother to look behind her and meet Elizabeth’s eyes, keeping her focus on the floor. The butt of the gun nudges her forward and she walks leisurely, knowing that her death sentence is mounting one small step at a time.

  32

  Stella

  “It’s in here, isn’t it?” Elizabeth shoves open the door of the office, waving Stella in first.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Sure you don’t.”

  “Why would I keep an old suicide letter?” Stella asks.

  “Because you’re deranged.”

  “I’m deranged? You’re in my house, holding a gun, threatening to kill me.”

  “It’s not a threat.” Elizabeth starts sobbing hysterically, black mascara running down her cheeks, smudging the rest of her fully-done face. Now she looks like an evil clown, the black streaks causing her to look wicked. “If you don’t have one, it’s time to start writing.”

  “Aren't you the aspiring writer?” Stella shoots back.

  “Yeah,” Elizabeth pushes her backwards into the office chair. “But you have a whole slew of problems to complain about.”

  “What would you suggest I write?”

  “How should I know?” Elizabeth shrugs. “Say something about how unhappy you are, that money doesn’t buy happiness, you know, typical rich people problems.” She continues, “Or you could mention he’s having an affair ... or you are.”

  Stella stares at her in hatred. “It’s not something to make light of.”

  “I know.” Elizabeth nods her head slowly. “That’s why you’re calling the suicide hotline. You need help immediately.”

  “You have to be kidding...”

  “It has to look real.”

  “Same as before, enter your passcode, hand your phone back to me.”

  Stella hesitates for a second too long. A loud vibration screams through her eardrums after Elizabeth smacks her across the cheek with her fist.

  “Stop trying to buy time,” Elizabeth commands, “now enter your code.”

  Stella types it in once again, wanting to knock her in the face with the phone.

  “You look like you’ve had a hard day.” Elizabeth looks at her in pity. “I’ll try to make this go fast.”

  She presses some buttons on her phone, then holds it to her ear.

  “Okay,” she whispers to Stella, “I need you to tell them you’re thinking about taking your own life.”

  Thrusting the phone at her, Stella hears a woman come on the line.

  “National Suicide Hotline, this is Mary. Who am I speaking with?”

  “Uh...”

  “It’s okay if you don’t feel comfortable giving your name, I just like to know who I’m speaking with.”

  “Stella.”

  “Stella, hi Stella, love that name. You named after someone famous or someone in your family?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “It’s just that type of name.”

  “Yeah, my grandma.”

  “She around?”

  “No.”

  Elizabeth gives her a hard shove, hissing, “Stop trying to make friends.”

  “What’s going on, Stella?”

  “I... uh, it’s hard to talk about it.”

  “I bet, that’s why I’m here.”

  “I’m unsure if I need help with suicide, I’m thinking I might just need help.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I just ... it’s hard to explain ...” at that moment, Elizabeth jerks the phone out of Stella’s ear, tugging hard on her earlobe. “Bitch, that was not what you were supposed to say.”

  “If you don’t make this right," Elizabeth grits her teeth, “I’ll kill you right on the spot.”

  “You’re killing me anyway, so what does it matter?” Stella calls her bluff.

  Elizabeth hisses, “Get back on the phone.”

  “What can I do to make you feel safe?” Mary asks. “Are you wanting to harm yourself?”

  “Yes,” she murmurs.

  “Let’s talk about what’s making you feel this way,” Mary keeps her voice neutral, “the stressors in your life.”

  “I have to go. Please don't call back,” Stella pleads, afraid she just sealed her fate. Pulling the phone from her hand, Elizabeth hangs up, then powers off the phone.

  “We aren't going to need this anymore,” she says cheerfully, as if it were a distraction. “Use some of that printer paper and let’s get your note done.”

  Sliding the phone into her handbag, Elizabeth whistles a show tune as Stella sinks back in the chair. Shoving a pen in her hand, Elizabeth taps the gun impatiently as she watches Stella hunch over the desk.

  “Anything specific?”

  “Just that the pressure is too much.” Elizabeth bites her lip, “I’m thinking that we keep it short and sweet.”

  Stella writes a few sentences, her mind screaming at her to ask for help. She thinks about writing gibberish, but there’s no point, Elizabeth will read it, rip it up, and make her start over again.

  But if she has to tear it up, at least there will be shreds of evidence.

  Adding a sentence at the bottom that she’s being forced to write this and needs help, Elizabeth grabs a chunk of her hair and pulls until Stella screams.

  “Ouch!” she yells in agony.

  “Ouch is right, Stella. Did I tell you to write another sentence?”

  “No.”

  “You think I’m that dumb that I’ll let you write a suicide note and not check it?” Elizabeth twists her hair in her fist and tugs harder. “I have to check it for grammatical and spelling errors. I’m sure you understand how important punctuation is.”

  Thrusting another piece of paper at her, Elizabeth rips up the offending one, but instead of tossing the pieces in the trash can, she tucks it into her purse. “See, I can just rip this up and toss it in the ocean. No sign it ever existed. Or flush it. You aren't very clever, Stella.”

  Writing a second note, Stella pushes it towards Elizabeth when she’s finished.

  “Perfect.” Elizabeth gives her a nefarious smile. Her haphazard makeup makes her look like a horror clown in a Stephen King novel.

  Stella’s hands tremble, dropping the ballpoint pen, and she wracks her brain for how she can escape. Elizabeth is tall, but she’s skin and bones and surely she could overpower her. She just needs to find a way to trip or catch her off-balance.

  “What next?” she asks calmly.

  “We need to go downstairs.” Elizabeth tilts her head, hearing a sound.

  “It’s just the rain.” Stella offers.

  “I know, but I thought I heard something else. Probably nothing.” Elizabeth pats her shoulder gently. “Committing a crime just makes me a little paranoid, you know?”

  Stella clasps her hands in her lap, nothing to add to this comment, and she waits for her next instruction.

  “Let’s go.” The butt of the gun is aimed between her shoulder blades. “Time to move.”

  “Do you need an envelope?” Stella asks. “There's one in the bottom drawer.”

  Elizabeth considers it. “Nah, that’s too thought out. We want this to look sudden.” Pushing the metal into her shoulder, she snaps, “Come on, time to get up.”

  Standing slowly, Stella’s knees wobble as she makes her way out of the cozy office that she spent all of her spare time in. Giving it a backwards glance, her eyes fill with hot te
ars, the idea of never lounging on the window seat again, staring at the ocean, reading a book, or eating a bagel filling her with sadness.

  Grant and her used to love sitting in here together. Even when they both had to work, just being in the presence of each other was enough.

  Not anymore, she thinks wistfully, her heart wrenched with hurt and despair. Could Grant really want her dead?

  They’ve been having problems, sure, but he’s always been even-keeled, the kind that never would let sex or money get in the way of his decision-making. That's what made him so good at his job. But he's changed, and his behavior as of late hasn’t been of an upstanding husband, it's been of an adulterer.

  She would know.

  But she considers the news and all the horror stories she hears. The accounts where the husband kills his wife so he can be with his mistress. And the eerie thing is that they never see it coming. When police search and go back through the timeline, it’s only the crumbs they’ve left but never any admission of guilt besides the mistress waiting in the wings.

  “Why?” Stella whispers.

  “Why what?”

  “Why would you want to be involved in something like this?”

  “Keep walking,” Elizabeth instructs, “don’t worry about me.”

  “But you're young, and pretty, and you don't need Grant. You’re twenty-seven, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And Grant is almost forty.”

  “So?”

  “He’ll be seventy when you’re forty-seven.”

  “Wow, that’s a big leap,” Elizabeth screeches. “I’m not thinking that far ahead.”

  “But maybe you should.” Stella pauses with her hand on the railing, turning to look over her shoulder. “You're making a choice to kill me, and that’s a lifelong one that’ll affect you forever.”

  “I’m not going to get caught.”

  “Yeah, but what about the guilt?”

  “I don't know you. You're just some woman.”

  Stella tries to meet her eyes. “You seem to know a lot about me. You said we have a lot in common.”

  “Yeah, your husband.”

  “But I think we would have more.”

  “Huh?”

  “Like we'd be friends.”

  “Stop. Whatever it is you’re doing, stop.” Elizabeth motions to the staircase. “Turn around and keep going.”

  “And Grant can't have kids...”

  “That’s too bad,” Elizabeth shrugs.

  Stella’s surprised, Elizabeth doesn't react the way she’d assume a twenty-something girl would when faced with her much older boyfriend being barren. She expected borderline hysteria, especially from this one.

  “Yeah, he’s unable to.” Stella sighs. “Why do you think we haven’t? I’m sure he’s shared our struggles with you...”

  “He has,” Elizabeth intones, “it’s no wonder he had an affair.”

  “Yeah, no doubt.” Stella rolls her eyes.

  When she reaches the landing, she steps down, but at an awkward angle. Pretending to trip, she plummets face first to the ground, her hands catching her fall.

  33

  Stella

  Blonde hair covers her face and she moans as she clutches her ankle in agony.

  “Oh my God, it hurts,” she gasps, rolling onto her side.

  She hears a sigh of exasperation from Elizabeth, who leans over her to see what's going on. Keeping her eyes shut, she yelps in pain, clenching and unclenching her jaw.

  Elizabeth taps her. “Your ankle?”

  “Arghh ... yeah.” Stella cries, “can you get me an ice bag from the freezer?”

  “No, you don't need it. Sit up.”

  “You’re too fragile to carry me.”

  “I’m not going to. It’s not far, you can lean on me.”

  Squatting, Elizabeth's distracted, her eyes darting around the staircase. She sets her gun down, reaching forward to examine Stella’s foot.

  Stella gives a small cry before she thrusts her leg out hard, catching Elizabeth off guard. Shocked, Elizabeth tries to recover, but Stella’s kicked the gun away and gives her a punch square in the face. Grabbing her around the neck, Stella chokes her for dear life.

  Elizabeth’s small but fierce, like a feral cat, and she uses her long fingernails to fight back, slashing Stella’s cheek.

  A tall decorative vase filled with sand and sea shells sits next to the stairs. It’s heavy, at least fifteen pounds, but Stella uses her strength to lift it and smash it over Elizabeth’s head. The glass breaks and broken pieces of shell and fragments of coral reef shower down over her, along with particles of sand.

  Stunned, Elizabeth stumbles backward. She reaches a hand out and tries to grab Stella, but she can't get a good grip on her arm.

  With one final smash, Stella manages to clock Elizabeth one more time, knocking her out cold.

  Blood runs down her forehead, a nasty wound must be underneath her long blonde hair, as Stella watches it trickle down like an oozing red river.

  Though she’s tall like an Amazon woman, she has barely any weight on her and Stella easily drags her across the floor to the kitchen. Checking her pulse to make sure she didn't kill her, she feels a faint one. Uneasy around guns, especially since she doesn’t know if the safety’s on, Stella sinks onto a barstool, setting the gun next to her on the counter.

  Body shaking, she taps the countertop in nervous apprehension, trying to calm her jittery nerves and take control of the situation.

  Her phone.

  She needs Elizabeth's handbag.

  Jerking her hand out gradually as if Elizabeth will attack her, she reaches into her small crossbody, feeling for the folded-up note and her phone. She carefully removes the piece of paper and places it in the junk drawer.

  The girl said she used a ride sharing service to get over here, but there’s no phone in the bag. Was that a lie? Could someone have given her a ride?

  Powering her phone on, her heart pounds in her chest.

  She starts to dial 9-1-1, her fingers struggling to press all three numbers.

  As she’s about to hit send, her phone shrills in protest, startling her. It comes loose from her delicate grasp, and she sees Lucy's name and photo pop up.

  “Lucy, oh my God, Lucy.” Her body quakes as she heaves words into the speaker.

  “Stella?” She’s puzzled, “What’s going on?”

  “I ... uh ... there’s a...”

  “Take a deep breath, honey, I can’t understand you.”

  Stella doesn't, and her words come out in a flood. “A strange girl came over and said she’s with Grant and he wants to kill me and she's trying to kill me.”

  “I only caught kill. Wait, did you say kill? Someone’s trying to kill you?”

  “Yeah, Grant or this girl...or I don't know. One of them.” Stella waves a hand in the air, "or both of them.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Home.”

  “I’m coming over.” She hears the jangle of car keys as Lucy grabs them off her key rack. “Did you call the police?”

  “No, going to now,” is all she can manage to say.

  “Don’t call them until I get there. You have me so freaked out, I want you to stay on the phone with me.”

  “What if she wakes?”

  “Do you have some rope or something to tie her up?”

  “I think so, maybe in the garage.”

  “Okay, I’m staying on the phone with you. Don't hang up. You're scaring the shit outta me, Stel.”

  “I’m so scared...” Stella starts to wail, her eyes never leaving Elizabeth’s crumpled body.

  “Where’s the girl?”

  “On the floor of the kitchen.”

  “Okay, I want you to walk out to the garage, keeping her in your line of vision at all times.”

  There's a long pause.

  Lucy murmurs, “Can you do that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, does she have any weapons? You said kill
- did she tell you what she was planning?”

  “She has a gun.”

  “Where is it?”

  “On the counter.”

  “I want you to grab it.”

  “I’m scared of it," Stella moans, "I can’t tell if the safety's on.”

  “Okay, let me help you with that.” Lucy walks her through how to check to ensure the safety is on.

  “How do you know anything about guns?”

  “Adam made me take a self-defense class when we first got married, and it also had a gun safety portion.”

  Stella follows her instructions and takes one step backwards at a time, sure that every time she moves, Elizabeth has switched positions or opened her eyes.

  “I’m on my way, Stel. Can you hear the road noise?”

  “Barely.”

  “It means I’m coming. Are you to the garage yet?”

  Stella’s hand hesitates on the doorknob. “I’m at the door, I’m just scared to leave her.”

  “How ‘bout this, how about you prop something in the door so you aren’t shutting it behind you. That way you can see her.”

  “A doorstop?”

  “Yep, I thought you had one, it’s in the shape of something beachy.”

  “Yeah, it’s a sea crab.”

  “Okay, put that in the door and walk out to the garage.”

  Hyperventilating, Stella’s worried she’s about to suffocate and drown in her own anxiety, her breathing coming in gasps.

  Lucy directs, “Keep breathing Stel, come on babe, you got this.”

  “She’s going to wake up.”

  “No, she’s not. And I’m almost there, I’m coming to you. Just keep talking. I want you to grab the rope, knowing I’m on the other end of the phone. She’s not going to hurt you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know where it would be?”

  “In one of these totes.”

  “Okay, you can look through them but don’t hang up, I need you to focus on me.”

  Stella’s rummaging in one, sure Elizabeth is going to come running out to the garage, kitchen knife in hand. Trembling, she drops the phone into the bin.

  “Stella?” She hears Lucy’s concerned voice.

  “I’m here.” Breathlessly, she grabs the phone, “I just dropped it.”