Grant curtly nods, eager to get out of view of the nosy bystanders and inside his home, away from the press that’s starting to arrive with questions and speculation.
“Can I see her?” he whispers.
“We will need you to identify the body.”
“Did she … did she suffer?” Grant asks. “Did she harm yourself?”
Dickinson looks at him curiously. “Come inside and have a seat. We can talk and you can tell me why you’d suspect that.”
Grant doesn’t know what to expect when he enters, if the house will feel eerie, or if there will be blood, or even what room it happened in. But what happened, he’s not exactly sure.
There’s a group of people milling about inside - crime scene investigators, police officers, and a couple detectives.
His eyes linger on each part of the downstairs, searching to see what’s out of order and what’s been moved.
Dickinson guides him to the kitchen table, warning him he has to stay within a small perimeter. “Am I able to go upstairs and pack a bag for tonight?”
“We’ll worry about that later.” He motions to a chair. “Have a seat please.”
Frenzied, the last thing Grant wants to do after a long flight is sit, but he acquiesces and settles on the uncomfortable wood.
“I’m going to record this conversation and take notes. I’ll ask you again on record if that’s okay. So Mr. Masen, do you agree to let me record our conversation?”
“Yes.”
Clicking on a recorder, Dickinson repeats the information into the mic, then begins with his line of questions. “First, let’s start with some generic information. Name, date of birth, and your wife’s name.”
Grant provides the details.
“You asked if she harmed herself, has that been an issue?”
Floored, he doesn’t know how to respond or how much detail to provide. “Do I need an attorney?”
“Do you think you need an attorney?”
“No. I have nothing to hide.”
“We found not one, but two women in the house.”
“Excuse me,” Grant says. “What do you mean two women?”
“When I called you, one person was present. Upon a canvas of the house, there were two.”
“Who are they?” Grant asks. “Are you sure my wife is one of them?”
“One’s in the hospital in critical condition, the other shot to death.”
“With a gun?” Grant knits his eyebrows. “We don’t own guns or have weapons in the house.”
“We couldn’t find ID on the woman, and she didn’t match the description of the woman in the house.”
Dumbfounded, Grant stares at him, his mouth open. “What are you talking about?”
“What does your wife look like, Mr. Masen?”
“Caucasian, long blonde hair past her shoulders, blue eyes, and some freckles…” Grant swipes a hand over his mouth, distraught as he describes one of the features he loves most about her, the cute smidgen of freckles she has.
“The other woman has sandy blonde hair, green eyes, and fairly tan skin. She seems fairly young, mid to late twenties.”
His face wrinkles in confusion. “I have no idea who that person is.”
“And you’ll be relieved to know your wife’s in the hospital.” Dickinson watches his expression intently. “The woman with the gunshot wound is deceased.”
“Did my wife try and…”
Dickinson looks at him carefully. “Try and what?”
“Harm someone?”
“Does she have a history of hurting others?”
“No,” he says flatly. “But she does have borderline personality disorder.”
“Is that documented?”
“Yes. In fact, her therapist came to the house on Friday for an appointment. She’s been struggling lately.”
“And no idea who the other woman might be?”
“Do you have a picture?”
“Only after the fact,” Dickinson murmurs. “We’ll need to come by and see if you can identify her.”
“But my wife … what happened? Is she going to make it?”
“She had an overdose,” Dickinson offers. “Sleeping pills, half a bottle. They pumped her stomach, but she’s been out cold. She threw some of them up luckily, but she’s not out of the woods.”
Grant clamps his hands on his knees.
“You don’t seem surprised?”
He whispers, “She has a history of impulsive self-mutilation.”
“Consistent with the scars on various parts of her body, I presume.”
“Yeah.”
“But we found something that leads us to suspect this wasn’t an isolated incident, or one she planned. In fact, it looks like this might’ve been a set-up.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“We found a folded-up piece of paper that was the start of a suicide note with one exception. At the end, there was a sentence about ‘not wanting to die,’ and ‘please help.’”
Before Grant can respond, Dickinson adds, “and the date.”
“Where was it?”
“In a kitchen drawer.”
“There’s also a single bullet casing in the drywall of your kitchen.”
Dickinson asks him what he was doing in New York, contact names and numbers to verify his timeline for New York, flight itineraries, and people that were close to both him and Stella. He makes a list, hesitating with Lucy and Adam.
“You might as well come out with it right now.”
Grant hesitates, knowing how this will look. He knows he will be a suspect, top of the list, but this makes it even more likely. “My wife, she, uh, she had an affair with Adam Wagoner. I’m not precisely sure when it ended, but it happened.”
Dickinson gives a slight frown, but recovers quickly. “Stella had an affair with the husband of her best friend?”
“Yes.”
“When did it start and end?”
“I don’t know.”
He furrows his brows. “Then how do you know it happened?”
“I never confronted my wife about it.”
Dickinson’s shocked to hear this, his poker face starting to give. “I tipped off her best friend unknowingly when I caught her husband coming over and sitting in the driveway. All three of us knew about the affair, but I never discussed it with my wife, and neither did her best friend that I know of.”
“But they continued to hang out and act as best friends?”
“Yes.”
“And you were okay to be around this couple?”
“No, the wife, Lucy, yes, but her and Adam separated shortly after and divorced.”
“And you never approached her husband or threatened him?”
“I did not.”
“Would Adam have a reason to want your wife dead?”
“I don’t think so, but I don’t know.” Grant shrugs. “Possibly, if he was upset over it. But the way I understood it, it just fizzled out.”
“And this other woman we found in the house?” Dickinson peers at him carefully, his belly protruding over his pants. “Were you having an affair, Mr. Masen?”
Grant tries to hold his steady gaze, but fails, his face collapsing into a frown.
“It’s complicated.”
39
Grant
“Try me.”
“She thought I was,” he swallows. “She’s accused me of it, and it’s been a source of contention in our marriage lately.”
Dickinson leans back in his chair, considering him. “Still doesn’t answer my question.”
“No.”
“You realize you’re going to be at the top of the suspect list, because she’s your wife, and we will pull all the records we can get our hands on, read your texts, interview your closest confidantes, and find out what happened here, correct?”
Grant looks down at his hands. “Yes, I know.”
“If you come clean now, I can help you.”
“How so?”
“
Because you and I will start with a clean slate, one of trust and mutual understanding.” He leans forward, giving Grant a pointed look. “If you’d rather start with lies and deceit, it never goes well, and in fact, I’ll make it my mission to keep you at the top of list.”
“I didn’t cheat,” Grant offers, “but it’s more complex.”
“I’m all ears.” Dickinson settles back in his seat.
“Stella and I, we’ve been married a long time, over ten years, and we wanted to spice things up.” He takes a breath. “One of the ideas that came up was role playing.”
“Seems pretty typical.”
“We decided to use alter egos, or do things we thought seemed ballsy,” Grant explains. “Except Stella got in her head that it never happened.”
“Can you provide some examples?”
He hesitates, his face flushed. Starting to mumble, Dickinson holds up a hand. “Wait, I need to you speak louder and clearer.”
Taking a deep breath, Grant starts over.
“For instance, I had a fantasy about sex in the workplace, and I’ve always been conscientious of keeping my private and personal life separate, setting a good example for my employees. It doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it over the years, but it wasn’t until my name was on the sign that I thought, what the hell.”
Mussing his hair up, Grant sighs, “Stella also asked me which of her friends I thought was the most attractive, or would want to sleep with. I know for most that would be a trap, and no man would touch that with a ten-foot pole. But I did. I said her friend Lucy. I never told my wife this, but I used to sleep with her friend...”
Dickinson cocks his head, waiting,
Grant rushes to speak, “Before Stella and I dated. They’ve been best friends since college, but there was a rivalry between them. Actually, I met my wife through Lucy’s sister and husband.”
“Anyway, Stella came to my office wearing a wig, and we decided I would call her ‘Lucy.’ And she wore a brown wig, and violet contacts in her eyes, and sexy lingerie, and we pretended.”
“Seems harmless.”
“We did the same in the bathroom at a club. She met me in there and we pretended we were being sneaky and she was the other woman, stealing me away from my wife.”
“So what’s the problem if this was consensual?”
“It caused this other side of Stella to come out, and I was growing scared of the accusations that followed.” Grant sullenly looks at floor. “She was convinced I cheated on her. She found the panties from our office tryst in my vehicle and blew up, and there was no way around it. I’m sure you’re familiar with the term ‘gaslighting?’”
“Yes, very.”
“Stella thought I was doing that to her. It didn’t help she has a form of amnesia from a car accident she had.”
“What type?”
“Anterograde.” Grant wrinkles his forehead. “And she would have trouble recalling recent memories so the liaisons we had would blow up in my face and snowball into other accusations. I had to pay the tab for her party at the club and it turned into me lying about going there. She saw me with a female colleague and it turned into us having an affair. Oh, and she found a weird lipstick in my travel bag, which I still have no idea how it got in my stuff, but there it was, an unfamiliar tube of lipstick.”
“And this caused her to become paranoid?” Dickinson jots down a couple of notes.
“Stella latched onto all of this and I became the world’s biggest piece-of-shit husband.”
“So this fantasy role playing went awry?”
“Yes.”
“I started to think she was trying to set me up, like she wanted to try and sniff out something that wasn’t there.”
“You mean, that she was using her amnesia against you?” Dickinson asks, “picking and choosing what to remember?”
“Yes.” Grant shakes his head.
“Did you want your wife dead?”
“No, of course not. Never.” Grant asks for a cigarette break. “Can I smoke in here?”
“It’s your own house.”
“Stella’s therapist suggested we take a couple days’ break since we were caught in this
pattern of fighting. We both agreed to go to therapy together, and I wanted her to think if we could continue on as a couple.”
Grant lights up, Dickinson pushing a metal object to him that’s probably expensive, but
works as an ashtray. Nodding, he flicks his ashes in the sculpture.
“We will get to the bottom of this.” Dickinson promises.
“When can I see my wife?” He inhales, the nicotine causing him to relax a little, the
smell comforting to him, reminding him of his childhood.
“I’ll have an officer take you to the hospital now,” Dickinson rises to stand, “but first I
need you to identify the unknown girl.”
40
Grant
Grant wants to hurl, his stomach not cut out for such a heinous sight. His stomach was
growling before this, now all he wants to do is bury his face in a trash can, images he can no longer unsee will be forever etched in his memory.
He has no clue who the girl is, has never seen her in his life. He will remember her and
the single bullet wound that pierced one of her arteries, causing immediate death. As if whoever caused the affliction knew just where to strike.
He tries to tell himself his wife has no idea how to operate a firearm, that she would
never hurt someone else intentionally, but so much of her psyche is beyond his control or understanding.
She’s impulsive, and risky at times, and doesn’t think through her actions when she’s
having one of her episodes.
Maybe this woman was an intruder and she had to protect herself?
But where did the gun come from? Was she secretly hiding it in one of her shoeboxes,
hoping he wouldn’t notice?
Or is this someone from her past, or maybe even his that he doesn’t remember?
But he could swear he’s never seen this woman in his life.
The police ask him a million different ways, but Grant keeps coming to the same
conclusion. He’s never seen this woman before.
Scratching his head, he’s baffled, wondering the same thing they are.
What does this woman have to do with Stella McKinney?
The doctor greets him at the hospital. “Hi, I’m Dr. Chan,” the petite middle-aged woman
stands at the ICU entrance, notified of his arrival. “Officer Murray let me know you’d be arriving.”
“Grant Masen.” He shakes her hand, his eyes bloodshot and watery.
“Your wife had her stomach pumped, and she’s resting. We’re waiting to see how her
vitals are, as her system has had quite a shock.”
“Do you think she ingested them on purpose?”
“There were a lot of pills, but there’s no way for us to tell. We know this is being
investigated as a potential homicide, and we are cooperating with law enforcement.”
“Thanks for the update.” Grant rubs a hand through his unkempt hair. “Can I see her?”
“Sure,” Dr. Chan leads the way down a long corridor, the smells of potent medications
and medicinal cleaning products replace the cigarette smoke in his lungs.
When Grant walks in, the sight of his wife tied to a hospital bed by IVs and lots of wires
and beeping machines gives him a jolt. He hesitates, taking one step back, practically knocking Dr. Chan over. She sees the surprise on his face. “I know it’s a lot to take in. She’s getting the best possible care.”
Taking a few steps forward, he rests his hands on the bedside chair, his beautiful wife
almost unrecognizable.
“Take your time, Mr. Masen,” Dr. Chan says, “I’m going to make my rounds, but the nurse’s station is around the corner if you need anything.”
He settles in the chair, uncomfortably crossing and uncrossing his legs. His cell buzzes in his pocket, but he has nothing to say, no information, and is at a loss.
It keeps vibrating, and he pulls it out of his pocket, resentful.
It’s Lucy.
“Hi,” she says automatically when he picks up the phone.
“Hi yourself.”
“I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
“About Stella.”
“Don’t be.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m sitting in her hospital room with her, she’s alive.”
A long pause follows. “What did you say?”
“She’s hooked up to tubes, and in the ICU, but she’s breathing.”
“Seriously, Grant, that’s great news.” But she doesn’t sound enthused, she sounds pissed off. “And what about Em…?” Abruptly she stops, and there’s a pregnant pause.
“Who?”
“The other woman they found,” Lucy adds, “I saw it on the news.”
Grant swallows, a gut punch to his stomach. He hasn’t seen anything released on the stranger, because according to the police, they don’t know who she is. She had a purse on her, but no ID and no phone.
Surely they would have communicated with him if they had a lead.
“They haven’t released her name.”
“Sure they have,” she teeters. “Where would I have heard it?”
“What station?”
“It was online,” she stammers, “one of the breaking news site, I think the local paper.”
“Impossible.” Grant clenches his hands into fists.
“Grant.” Lucy’s tone is sickening, too sweet and calculated. “I’m not sure what you’re insinuating.”
“Nothing.” He isn’t in the mood to argue, his eyes fixated on his lifeless Stella, whose chest rises and falls based on her machine.
“Is she going to pull through?”
“Yes, they think so,” Grant murmurs. “They’re unsure about long-term damage to her organs, but time will tell.”
“Can I come visit?” Lucy begs. “I need to see her.”
“Visiting hours are over,” he lies, “they’re kicking me out now.”
“Okay, I guess I’ll wait,” she pauses, “or I could come down there and sit with you?”
The Perfect Stranger Page 21