The Perfect Stranger

by Marin Montgomery

  “That won’t be necessary.” He lowers his voice. “What happened last night?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You told me you visited the house and she was fine.”

  “I did.”

  “But the officers said she’d been unconscious for hours, that this had happened earlier on.”

  “She was fine when I saw her, but I did see her bottles on the counter,” Lucy whispers. “Look Grant, I know you don’t want to think she would hurt herself, but we both know Stella, and though we love her, it’s a struggle sometimes because we know what she’s capable of.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me she was suicidal?”

  “Suicidal?”

  “Yeah, the cops pulled her phone records and said the last call she made was to a suicide hotline.” Grant fumes. “Funny enough, you were the last person to reach her with a call time of over twenty-seven minutes.”

  “She said she was depressed because you left her, but she never once mentioned being suicidal.” Lucy seethes, “Think about your place in this, Grant. You had a therapist coming to the house that prescribed them, why don’t you ask him? How was I supposed to know she’d take the whole damn bottle?”

  “You better get your story straight, Lucy,” he warns. Gazing at Stella, he says, “I gotta go.” Disconnecting, he slides his phone back in his pocket.

  Staring at her puffy, barely-recognizable face, his eyes fill with tears. He holds her hand in his, the skin translucent except for the blue veins that peek through the sallowness.

  A nurse comes in a little while later, letting him know visiting hours are over.

  He stands, his eyes burning from a lack of sleep and stress. Slowly exiting, he feels like he’s aged fifteen years over the course of a weekend.

  Pulling out his pack of cigarettes, he’s down to his last smoke. Sagging against the brick building, he knows what he needs to do, he just keeps putting it off.

  It’s time.

  Dialing a number on speed dial, a deep male voice picks up on the second ring.

  “Antonio speaking.”

  “Antonio, Grant Masen here.”

  “Hey Grant, you ready to file the paperwork?”

  “It’s actually about something a little more serious.”

  Antonio waits, giving Grant a chance to fill the silence. It takes him another drag before he’s ready. “I need an attorney.”

  “Okay, for your divorce, right?”

  “No,” Grant shakes his head as he says it, “for murder and attempted murder.”

  41

  Stella

  When she comes to, Stella has no idea where she’s at, until a quick glance down at the IV in her hand fills her with dread. She’s got a hospital band around her tiny wrist, covering one of the scars, and an ugly hospital gown on.

  Horrified, Stella’s sure she did something bad, something she’ll come to regret.

  She thinks of her husband and her best friend. She tries to focus on what brought her here, but there’s a blank space as she tries to remember why. This makes her fearful, because she had the same reaction after her car accident.

  The blinds are closed, and besides the sound of the machines, it’s eerily quiet.

  Searching her memory bank, she starts to retrace her steps, but they don’t go very far back. Grant left to go on a business trip, and she knew they’d had a fight. Her mind hits a brick wall, and she struggles to remember why he went out of town.

  Remembering a blonde girl, this one with green eyes, she has some importance, but Stella doesn’t recall what, just that she showed up at her door.

  She was a complete and total stranger.

  Stella gasps, almost choking, as she shudders, small tidbits of information sliding back into her stream of consciousness. Something about Grant and an affair.

  That’s it, she almost claps, he was cheating.

  A squeak from the right side of the room causes her to pause, and Stella assumes it’s a nurse or doctor checking her vitals. She has nothing to say and isn’t ready to re-enter the living, breathing world, until she figures out what she did. Her actions have gotten more out of control, and her hands shake as she considers what might have happened.

  Pressing her eyes closed, she hears a familiar voice.

  Lucy.

  Lucy Wagoner, her best friend.

  But she was there … she struggles to pull out the facts, but yes, she vaguely remembers her being at the house.

  Stella hears her footsteps, the comfortable tap of her standard heels, then the feeling you get when someone’s watching you. She could feel her eyes intently focused on the bed. Something in her gut pleads with Stella to keep her breathing even and to ignore her.

  A vibrating noise echoes in the room, and Stella’s positive it’s one of the machines. Except it’s not, it’s a phone, since Lucy whispers. “Hello?”

  Stella can only hear her side of the conversation, and her voice is muffled.

  “Yeah, I’m visiting right now.”

  “I got rid of it. I told you that.”

  “The girl doesn’t matter.”

  When Lucy mentions the girl, a flashback hits her. Lucy showed up to help a girl, the girl that was trying to hurt her. She pretended to be a friend, then…

  The events of the night slam into her brain, as if they’d been forced on her in some predetermined manner.

  A gasp almost escapes her sore lips as Lucy murmurs, “We’re safe, honey, I promise. We can always come up with a plan later.”

  Stella’s eyes start to flicker, and she’s lucky Lucy’s facing away from the metal hospital bed, standing in the small entry that opens to the sparsely furnished room.

  Lucy wanted her dead.

  Her and Stella’s loving husband planned her death to look like a suicide.

  42

  Grant

  A sharp intake of breath escapes from the attorney. “Is this for you, Grant?”

  “Possibly.” He sighs, “I know I’m at the top of their wish list.”

  “Whose?”

  “The cops. Because by all accounts, I should be heartbroken my wife had an affair.”

  “Let’s set up a meeting for tomorrow. First thing, that work?”

  “Can you come to the hospital?”

  “Certainly.”

  Grant stubs out his cigarette, settling into an uncomfortable waiting room chair. He must’ve fallen asleep, because he’s awoken by Officer Murray when the two cops pay him a visit.

  “We figured we’d find you here.” Murray hands him a cup of lukewarm coffee.

  “Come to ask more questions?”

  They both look at Grant with pity, one sitting in the chair across from him, the other next to him.

  He rubs his sore neck, a headache throbbing at the base. “Have you been able to locate my wife’s phone?”

  “Nothing. Last place it bounced off of was your house.”

  “Any luck on identifying the girl?”

  “Not yet, we’ve asked other law enforcement channels and the media to ask the public for help,” Dickinson says. “She seems to be elusive.”

  Warning bells go off in his head. How did Lucy know the name of the girl, if that really was the name of the girl?

  “Did your wife have any issues with narcotics?”

  “You mean like marijuana?”

  “Anything.”

  “She smoked weed occasionally and experimented in her early twenties with a few designer drugs, but that’s all I know about.” Grant frowns. “Is there a reason for the question?”

  “We found a bunch of syringes and illicit drugs in a tan handbag located in the walk-in closet.”

  “Was it by any chance a Balenciaga handbag?”

  Dickinson frowns. “We’ll have to ask evidence to confirm the brand.”

  Murray adds, “Why do you ask?”

  “It went missing.” Grant murmurs, “at a club.”

  “Well, there’s a stash of substances in your walk-in closet. They belon
g to either you or her, Mr. Masen.” Murray chews his lip. “We just want to know everything we can.”

  “Did you come here to arrest me?”

  “No, not yet.” Dickinson pulls out a stick of chewing gum, “should we?”

  “It was just a question.” He takes a sip of the bitter liquid, “I retained an attorney just so you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Antonio Pasquales.”

  “Good one,” Murray nods, “great choice.”

  “This mean you’re done playing ball with us?” Dickinson flicks the wrapper off his knee, aiming for Grant.

  “No, not at all. I just want to protect myself.”

  “What about your wife?”

  “She deserves justice.”

  “Speaking of, we’ve talked to most of her friends. Lucy Wagoner claims to have talked to her that night and said she was depressed because you were having marital problems.”

  “Yeah, she was supposed to check on her.”

  “Did a great job.” Murray says flippantly. “Both of you.”

  Grant glowers at him, “Let’s not place the blame on anyone.”

  After they leave, Grant’s on the phone with Rebecca, directing her on what to do with immediate business needs, when Lucy and Adam walk in.

  Grant’s hands ball into fists, but he keeps his expression neutral. Sure, he was livid when he found out Stella was cheating on him with Adam. He wanted to break shit, and he did, but always in the comfort of his own home and always when he was alone. Nothing was irreplaceable that he took his aggression out on. In fact, at the gym, he learned to box and it’s been an obsession for him lately, picturing Adam’s face.

  Most men would want to throttle their wives as well, or divorce them, or even the score, but Grant approaches this in a pragmatic way. Stella’s always been out of his league, but he loves her all the same. And though she struggles at times with instability, he has to admit that with her, it’s a wild card. Women like Lucy bore the shit outta him. Pretty to look at, but nothing of substance.

  Sure, he was disgusted and furious when Stella cheated on him, but he had to take a hard look in the mirror. He’d been working long hours, ignoring her needs, and barely came home by 10pm and left by 5am. He was drowning in work, a self-imposed prison, and he was impossible to cajole.

  If it continued, he would’ve put a stop to it, but he waited to see what happened.

  The two have never looked happier, and Grant swallows as he watches them walk towards him. “Hi Grant.” Lucy seems uncomfortable.

  “Hi Lucy, hi Adam,” he greets them. “Couldn’t stay away from your bestie, could you?”

  “Can we see her?” Lucy’s apologetic, “Adam wanted to come with me this time.”

  “I think so,” Grant says, “but be patient with her. Our girl’s not out of the woods yet.”

  Adam nods his head. His gelled brown hair and collared shirt remind Grant of a child whose hair’s slicked back for pictures but outside of the classroom is a total dirtbag.

  “Room five-oh-two,” Grant hollers after them, “but check in at the nurses’ station. It’s down the hall.”

  Something isn’t sitting right with them visiting, but he can’t put his finger on it. Maybe because it seems like a sordid love triangle, but to be fair, he was with Lucy back in the day before he married Stella.

  But it’s what Lucy said last night that keeps giving him pause. The girl’s name she mentioned. It’s not on the news. Can he Google Emily and try to find her by a search?

  In LA, yeah, right, he thinks.

  Plus, the police will see and think he’s even more of a suspect.

  He stands up, slowly walking down the hall, watching as they enter Stella’s room. He doesn’t see anyone at the nurses’ station, and he’s almost relieved, hoping a nurse is in the room with them.

  Why doesn’t he just demand to be in there?

  His phone rings at that moment. It’s Antonio, and he’s got bad news.

  “The police want to charge you with the attempted murder of your wife and the murder of twenty-nine-year-old Emily Bartlett, an aspiring actress.”

  Hysteria rises in his voice. “On what grounds?”

  “They claim you hired Emily to kill Stella, except it didn’t go as planned. Emily ended up being shot by your wife.”

  “What?” Grant’s floored. “I did no such thing.”

  “Apparently Emily told her roommate you hired her to pretend she was having an affair with you to gain access to your wife to murder her, and in return, you promised her five thousand dollars in cash that was wired to her account. The police combed the beach and found the gun. Photos of Stella and Adam Wagoner in shall we say, sensitive positions, were found locked in your desk drawer. They’re calling it a crime of passion.”

  Grant’s stunned, his hands trembling as he walks backwards, one step at a time, not caring about the amount of people he bumps into. Unaware of his grubby appearance and his tired eyes, he sinks down into the waiting room chair, his hands braced for the handcuffs coming.

  Sirens shrill in the distance, and he waits, the trepidation building as he’s walked out of the hospital, no longer an innocent man.

  43

  Stella

  Lucy and Adam are sitting in Stella’s room when she rouses from her deep, sedated sleep. They’re standing close to the television that hangs from a wall mount, their backs to her. Glued to the television that’s barely audible, Stella notices the subtitles running across the bottom of the screen.

  Stella automatically looks for the nurse call button, uneasy about being in a room with Lucy, if her memory serves her correctly. The pit gnawing at her stomach tells her this visit isn’t friendly. The red switch had been hanging off the bed earlier, but now it’s absent from her line of vision.

  Nervousness creeps in and she starts to tremble. Trying to remain calm and grateful Adam’s in the room, she’s about to address them when she catches a glimpse of the television screen.

  Bewildered, she watches as Grant’s carted off from the hospital in metal handcuffs, his fate sealed after a “thorough search of his Malibu beach house led authorities to make a shocking discovery that ended with Grant Masen, a prominent literary agent, being arrested earlier this afternoon. Join us in fifteen minutes for a recap of this bizarre story.”

  They haven’t yet noticed that Stella’s awake, which she’s grateful for. If she can pretend to go back to sleep, maybe they will leave. Lucy’s probably being nosy, trying to find out what she remembers. Play dumb, she reminds herself.

  Adam mutters, “Bizarre isn’t even the word for it.”

  “We so lucked out,” Lucy whispers.

  “What are we going to do about her?”

  “Unplug the machine?”

  “Is that necessary? They think he acted alone with Emily.”

  “I want her dead,” Lucy seethes, “and the two of them erased from our lives.”

  “Okay,” Adam says, “okay.”

  Both turn to look at Stella, her eyes flickering. Lucy rushes to her side. “Stella, you’re up, thank God.” A fake smile’s plastered on her face.

  “I’m so sorry, Stel,” Lucy tries to comfort her, reaching for her ice-cold hand. “How awful.”

  “We all thought he was a stand-up guy,” Adam adds, “even though he’s never been my favorite.”

  “And that poor girl … we’re sorry you pulled the trigger on her.”

  “What?” Stella looks down at her fingers, “I did what?”

  “You didn’t mean to,” Lucy rushes to say, “it just happened.”

  “She was trying to hurt you, it was self-defense,” Adam reassuringly says.

  “The girl, the blonde girl?” Stella murmurs.

  “Yes,” Lucy says, “she passed away of a gunshot wound.”

  “But I don’t know how to shoot a gun.” The idea sounds inconceivable to her.

  “Well, you did long enough to kill her. I mean, you did it rightfully so, honey, you were tryi
ng to protect yourself from a lunatic.”

  Adam tries to cheer Stella up. “She had it coming. She tried to kill you.”

  She shudders at the thought, the violence that took place in her beloved house is unsettling to her.

  “I’m so lucky to have friends like you,” Stella lies.

  “We feel the same way.” Lucy squeezes Adam’s hand. “I hope we can move forward from our unfortunate past.”

  “Me too.” Stella’s hit with a wave of nausea. “Would you mind buzzing the nurse for me?”

  “Why,” Adam asks, “what’s wrong? Anything we can get you?”

  Surely Stella’s safe since Adam’s in the room. She has to be.

  “I just feel like my pain meds aren’t doing enough,” she lies.

  “Oh, we can fix that, no problem.” Lucy cackles. “We don’t even need the nurse.”

  “We’ll adjust your meds,” Adam offers, “get you all settled.”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t,” Stella says weakly, “I’d like the nurse please.”

  “No nurse,” Lucy hisses, “and no doctors.”

  “We want you to rest now.” Adam pats the sheet beside Stella, keeping his hand out of arm’s length. “Just relax.”

  “I don’t … please … just get the nurse.” Stella feels a hand on her forehead, then a monstrous pill being forced into her mouth. She tries to choke it up, but cool water is forced down her throat after it.

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” she hears Adam whisper, “just trust me, I know you do.” His warm hand grasps hers, and she no longer feels anything, just a tingling numbness, and when she tries to move her legs, they’re immovable, and as much as she wiggles, her limbs seem to be anchored to the bed.

  She wants to open her eyes, but they’re so heavy, and she can’t. Every part of Stella’s body is weighted down, as if she’s being held by invisible hands.

  The last words she hears right above her head are, “See, we really did it.”

  Epilogue