The Perfect Stranger

by Megan Miranda

  It wasn’t, really. The first bell hadn’t rung yet, but I was a stickler if I called him on it. It would ring in three minutes, anyway. He would have every right to be here then. And I was supposed to be open to students coming in before or after school for extra help. I was graded, as my students were graded, by somebody else. Even the school itself was graded.

  I didn’t answer. Instead I unloaded my bag and got ready for the start of class.

  I sat at my desk against the side wall, but the green monitor light of the computer was already on, the tower humming. I moved the mouse, and the black screen came to life. The computer was set to the sign-in page, awaiting my user name and password. Impossible to tell whether someone had gotten in and signed out again. I thought of the email address I’d given Kyle—wondered if it was just the police who’d been here, checking the hard drive.

  But Theo was sitting here, in an unlocked room, with the computer on.

  I stared at the side of his face, watched the corner of his mouth tick up, like he was waiting for me to accuse him. Everything was a game here, and I was coming in late, learning the rules as I went.

  I opted for silence, as if I didn’t notice, as if I didn’t care. If I said anything, he’d deny it, and then he’d know he’d shaken me. I logged on, scrolled through my email. Could see no indication that anyone had been in there. I even checked the sent message log, the trash, but everything looked as I’d last left it.

  I pretended to work, as he was obviously pretending to work. I shuffled papers on my desk, listening to the footsteps in the hall. Wanting out of this room but not wanting to leave him with free rein over the space. I was never so grateful for Molly Laughlin’s early entrance to class. I think even she was taken aback by my overly cheerful greeting.

  As the rest of the students funneled in, I handed back their responses from Friday. When the bell rang, I wasted no time. “It seems you all have strong opinions on the events of last week. So we’re going to write anonymous letters. It should be a persuasive argument to address a new proposed safety measure in our school. We’re starting in class, and it will be due, final copy, tomorrow. Type it up, print it out. Whether you sign your name or not is up to you. I’ll check off your name when you turn it in.”

  Someone in this class was talking to me. I had to let them speak. Listen without pushing, without nodding in encouragement, lest they get spooked. This was the type of source you had to let lead the way.

  CHAPTER 11

  There was an unmarked car in my driveway when I pulled in after school let out, and Kyle was waiting on my front porch, sitting on the top step. I parked beside his vehicle—the difference between the driveway and the yard was practically indistinguishable—and he stood as I exited the car.

  My heart was in my throat and I was thinking, Emmy, barely deciphering what he was trying to say—

  “Sorry,” he said as I approached. “I should’ve called first. Didn’t know what time you got home, and didn’t want to interrupt if you were in the middle of class.” He started down the steps. “Didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

  “Nothing?” I asked, stopping mid-stride.

  “Unfortunately, no. Still waiting to hear from a few places, but the preliminary search hasn’t given us much.” He tapped a manila folder against the side of his leg.

  I took a steady breath, climbed the front porch steps, stood one level above him. “There should really be some code that cops give when they’re waiting on your porch. Something to clue us in that you’re here to deliver bad news. Or good news. Or no news.”

  Kyle cringed. “Sorry, Leah. I’ll call first next time.”

  I nodded. “Want to come in?” I asked, unlocking the door and sliding it open.

  I noticed Kyle looking around, as he hadn’t on Friday night. Maybe it was because it was light out now. Maybe because he had questions. But he seemed to be taking it all in. “This place,” he said, “it’s only in your name, is that right?”

  “Right,” I said. Because Emmy had spent years overseas and then bounced around from place to place. She had no credit history. Her last few apartments were in her fiancé’s name. I was the one who could vouch for the money. I paid first and last months’ rent, plus security deposit, and Emmy paid me half in cash.

  “Eclectic,” he said.

  “I can’t take credit for it,” I said. “It came furnished.”

  In truth, my style was more clean-lined Crate & Barrel. But we’d kept the furniture that came with the place, and Emmy had added the decor. I chose to see my lack of design contribution as a prolonged, delayed shell shock. “Want something to drink?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said, pulling a chair from the kitchen table.

  The fridge was pretty sparse. I had forgotten to go shopping this weekend, all the typical mundane tasks slowly slipping from my grasp. All we had was Emmy’s orange juice, my cans of soda, a cluster of beer bottles.

  “Water’s fine,” he said.

  I poured him a glass from the filtered container I kept in the fridge. One of the larger items that had made the move with me.

  As I sat across from him, he opened his file folder, pulling out photocopies of drivers’ licenses with names below. Each was some variation of the first name Emmy, Emily, Emmaline, Emery, Emmanuelle; and the last name Grey/Gray. “Just wanted to double-check. Any of these your Emmy?”

  I scanned them all, looking for Emmy. Looked for the cheekbones, the large eyes, the fringe of bangs. The addresses were all from D.C., Virginia, and Massachusetts. “No, none of these.”

  He leaned back in the chair, nodded as if he had expected that.

  “No luck with the Peace Corps?” I asked.

  “I swear, they must keep their records in brown boxes thrown in a basement. They’ve been, quote, looking into it for a few days. Though I’m not sure anyone actually works there on weekends.”

  “What about our old apartment in Boston?” I asked. You needed to give a Social Security number on rental applications, and that would be a quick line to a name and photo ID. The apartment in Boston had been hers, not mine.

  Kyle shifted the papers into a pile again, pulled out a sheet from the back of the folder. “Yeah, that.” He slid another photo across the table. “Look familiar?”

  The woman had long blond hair, a diamond-shaped face, small, close-set eyes. “No,” I said.

  He let out a long exhale. “I was able to track down the rental info of the apartment, get a name on the lease. At the time you gave me, it was rented to a woman named Amelia Kent.” He pointed to the photo staring up at me. “Her.”

  I looked again, tried to make the connection, focused harder, as if Emmy would suddenly appear from the angles of the woman’s face. “Maybe this was her first roommate?” I said. “Emmy told me the girl who lived there before me graduated and moved back to California. That’s why she was looking for a short-term roommate.”

  But Kyle was already shaking his head. “I gave Ms. Kent a call, and miraculously, she was willing to speak with me. She said she was living with a boyfriend named Vince. But that she and Vince had an ugly breakup and she moved out. She let the place go, forfeiting her security deposit, and she assumes he finished out the last few months on his own there.”

  Vince. None of the names clicked into place. “Maybe Emmy sublet from him then?”

  Kyle frowned. Gave a slight nod. “Possibly. But we’re back where we started. She’s not on file anywhere.”

  “Were you able to find this Vince guy?”

  “She said she didn’t know. Couldn’t remember his last name.” He saw the look I gave him and put his hands up. “I know, I know. But can you blame her? If they had an ugly breakup eight years ago, she may not want to risk doing anything that would put them in contact again. She probably wants to keep that door closed.”

  Maybe for the police, but I was already filing away the information for myself. Amelia Kent. Her license had her living in New Hampshire now. I could look her up.
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br />   “Sorry I don’t have anything more for you, Leah.” He slid the documents back inside the folder, took a sip of water, didn’t get up to leave.

  My heel tapped against the floor in a steady rhythm. “Okay, what can I do for you, Detective?”

  “Kyle,” he said.

  “Right. Okay, Kyle. What do you want?”

  He pressed his lips together, trying to hide his grin. “Am I that obvious?”

  “You are, actually.”

  “Must be off my game.” He stretched his arms out in front of him, tilted his neck side to side, as if prepping to take the field. “Okay. Look, I need to know some more about Cobb. Everyone around here keeps telling me what a stand-up guy he is, volunteering his time with the youth leagues. On paper, it’s all pretty standard fare. He married his high school sweetheart, and he’s lived here forever. Never had a complaint against him that I can tell.”

  “You’re not from here, then?”

  “Nope. Been here about two years now,” he said. Then he leaned forward, clearly preparing to share a secret. “Still feeling the people out.” It felt like a secret granted to lure me closer, to make me believe we were on the same side. It was working.

  But it was more than that. I was familiar with the feeling, when new on a job, of having to project confidence even when you were uncertain. Of starting from scratch every time, all over again. Of trying to build a reputation for yourself as quickly as possible. I was surprised how his colleagues looked to him, then, in our interview. He had obviously done well for himself.

  I placed my hands on the table, palms up. “I can’t tell you much more than you know. Everyone told me what a good guy he was. I took him up on an offer for drinks, thought it was a welcome to town. He thought it was something else.”

  “What did he think it was?”

  I thought back to Davis Cobb’s smile when we sat at the table. His broad forehead, thick nose, mouth that seemed too small for his jaw. His wide face leaning across the table. His knee bumping against mine underneath. “An invitation.”

  “How soon after did the calls start?”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Not until we were back at work in the fall. That first week, he stopped by my room as class let out, like he’d been waiting just outside. He asked if I wanted to go out for a drink again, and I could tell right then he had the wrong idea, so I declined. A few weekends later, he showed up at my house drunk, and I sent him away. Then came the calls. The emails. Always late at night. Usually weekends. Sometimes more. I just figured he was drinking, figured he was drunk and it was a habit.”

  “Wait, he showed up at your house?” A piece of information I had withheld, a piece I could see Kyle turning over in his head, sliding it into place.

  “Only the once,” I said. “After that, he implied a few times that he knew I was sitting home alone. But I assumed it was just because he thought I lived alone.” I met his eyes across the table. “You assumed the same thing, didn’t you?”

  Kyle tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Did he ever try anything? Get physical?”

  “No, never,” I said. “I even found myself alone in the copy room with him once, and I told him point-blank to back off. And he did. Made a big show of raising his hands in the air and backing out of the room, smiling like the whole thing was a big joke.” I shrugged. “That’s the thing—it was only words.”

  “What words?” he asked.

  I laughed, then stopped, realizing he was serious. “The usual type.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know the usual type.” He was looking at the table, sparing either him or me the embarrassment.

  I cleared my throat. “The things he would like to do to me.”

  “Can you elaborate?”

  I laughed deep in my throat, and Kyle looked up. I wouldn’t repeat them even if I wanted to. I was glad I’d deleted the emails, which somehow felt worse, existing in print: That blue sweater from yesterday is my new favorite; I think you could teach me a few things—

  “I’m sure you can imagine,” I said. I could not have my name tied to an official statement. I would not get pulled into an investigation where my own name might raise some flags, where I’d have to start all over again.

  I felt Kyle’s knee bouncing under the table, knew he wanted to press, but he let it go. “And you didn’t notice things getting worse? Maybe because you’d recently started seeing someone?”

  I held myself perfectly still. “No, I’m not seeing anyone.”

  “He might think so, though. If someone was paying you extra attention.”

  “No, there’s nothing like that,” I said.

  The tops of his cheeks turned red. “Even I could tell, Leah.”

  “What?”

  “Down at the school. The way Mitch Sheldon acted when we gave him your name to call down to the office. I could tell. And the way he called after you when you left. The way he asked us what was going on afterward.”

  The air in the room had changed, and I found myself holding my breath. This Kyle Donovan was something dangerous. He saw everything. Everything underneath.

  I raised one shoulder in an exaggerated shrug. I’d had a feeling that Mitch was interested in more. Always friendly, willing to help those first few weeks when I felt lost in the classroom, but he was also my boss. There weren’t a lot of women our age, unattached, at school. There was me, and there was Kate, but Kate was in the middle of a divorce, the tan line around her finger still fading when we met. It was a least common denominator, nothing more. “It wasn’t anything real.”

  “If Cobb saw the same things I did, he could’ve assumed.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table. Tried to think of a way to put it nicely. “It was one-sided,” I said. “It wasn’t reciprocated.”

  “Any reason?” he asked.

  “Well, he’s my boss. And not my type.”

  He nodded. “No passion, then,” he said.

  I tilted my head, met his eye. Pretty sure this wasn’t a standard part of police-witness interviewing procedure.

  “None,” I admitted, and the word hung in the air, filling up the room. Truth was, I liked the way Kyle saw the parts lingering underneath, even as it set me on edge. I liked that he was smart, didn’t hide it and didn’t flaunt it. I liked that he saw something in me that made him say something like that, deliberate or not.

  He flipped the notepad shut, slicing through the tension. “Right,” he said. “That’s all I’ve got. Unless you have something else?”

  I tried to think. Wanted him to stay. “Break Mountain Inn,” I said. “I think Emmy might’ve been working there.” I pulled out my phone, scrolled through to the picture, showed him the contact information. “I went asking around at a few motels. The guy here said he was new. Said there was a no-show he was filling in for. Maybe he’s Emmy’s replacement?”

  He frowned at the photo. “Leah, we’ve got it covered.”

  “I was trying to help.”

  “You can help by giving us information.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing,” I said, pointing at the screen.

  He copied down the details, jaw set, but I wasn’t sure if he was just placating me.

  “If you think of anything else, you let me know, Leah.” He got up to leave and looked around the house once more. He paused at the sliding doors. Fidgeted with the lock, ran his hand up the seams.

  “A better door won’t make a difference,” I said. All those cases I’d reported on. It made no difference. If someone wanted in, they got in. The majority of crimes happened with someone already on the inside, anyway. Everything else was smoke and mirrors.

  “Bethany Jarvitz lived all alone. Had no family. Wasn’t from here. Nobody would’ve reported her missing,” he said. As if he were pointing out the similarities in our living arrangements. But then I thought, Maybe he’s talking about Emmy instead. How I had failed her. How long would it have been before I noticed she’d gone missing, otherwise?

  “Will she b
e okay?” I asked. “Is she getting any better?”

  His mouth flattened to a thin line. “The doctors say she suffered a massive subdural hematoma.” He shook his head. “Between you and me, they’re not sure whether she’ll wake up at all.”

  I felt the air drain from the room, picturing Emmy in the hospital instead, in her place.

  “I’m just saying,” he said. “That I’m glad you called it in. I’m glad you called me.”

  * * *

  HIS WORDS LINGERED AS he drove off, and my fingers itched. I bit the skin at the side of my thumb. Don’t do it.

  But she looked like me. Her name was Bethany Jarvitz, and she lived all alone; Davis Cobb was the suspect, and she looked like me.

  I was already a part of this. The least I could do was educate myself.

  I sat at my laptop, typed in her name. Got a bunch of social media hits but couldn’t find that image Kyle had shown me—of the gap-toothed smile with my features, staring back. I tried the online White Pages but found nothing in the area. She probably used her cell instead of a landline. I looked through the recent local papers, but there was no reference to her name or the crime itself. If she were dead, they could print her name. If next of kin gave permission, she would be in here.

  I’d have to find her. I looked up the number for media relations at the nearest hospital. Tapped my finger repeatedly on the table, debating.

  I dialed the number and hit call.

  I knew the lines to give, and the angles to press, and I did—until I had a statement, and my heart fluttered, and the room buzzed.

  CHAPTER 12

  When I arrived at school the next day, I finally had a response from the phone company with my most recent bill attached. There weren’t many calls that came in on the home line other than sales calls. I recognized the middle-of-the-night hang-up, saw that it originated from a blocked number, and rolled my neck, stretching out the kink. I imagined it would be impossible to get a subpoena for a number that called once in the middle of the night and said nothing.

  There were no outgoing calls in the last few weeks, and I wondered if Emmy and Jim had broken it off. There was a number that showed up in the beginning of the month, some of the few incoming calls that were not 800 numbers.