The Perfect Roommate

by Minka Kent

  It’s almost as if she wants me to get out of bed, to face her.

  My heart races. I feel a showdown coming on. I’m finally going to get a chance to say all the things I’ve been dying to say to her for weeks now. Tossing the covers off my legs and grabbing my phone—I want to record this—I trek to the hall and duck into my bathroom to freshen up before I face the stupid whore.

  When I emerge, she’s seated at the kitchen table, rosy mouth glued to the lip of her favorite tea mug as she stares out the window. I take heavier steps. She turns to face me.

  “Morning,” she says, voice chipper. And then she has the audacity to smile. This bitch is crazy. “Haven’t seen you in days. What’ve you been up to?”

  “I texted you the other day,” I say, arms folded. “You read it and ignored me. I figured you’ve been avoiding me.”

  Her blue eyes rest in mine, lashes fluttering. “Why would I ignore you?”

  I shrug. I have no idea if Thayer told her what I shared.

  “I’ve been staying at Thayer’s for a few days,” she says. “He’s helping me with that video for my grandmother’s birthday.”

  So, they’re still together …

  “Okay.” I grab one of my cheap white mugs from my cupboard and make myself a cup of Earl Grey. I’ll be damned if I ever drink another caramel green tea almond milk piece-of-shit latte. “Did you guys go out Friday night?”

  I already know the answer to this. I stalked her Insta and Facebook all night that night. Not a single picture was posted, not a single status was updated.

  “We stayed in and got caught up on Game of Thrones,” she says, yawning. “Thought we’d take a break from the bar scene. What’d you do?”

  Before I get the chance to respond, both of our phones light up with some kind of chirping and vibrating alert that sends a shock to my heart and nearly knocks Lauren off her seat.

  “God, I hate when they do that,” she says, reaching for her phone and silencing it. “I wish we could opt out of this stupid campus security alert bullshit.”

  Unlike her, I actually read these things.

  CAMPUS POLICE ARE INVESTIGATING A HOMICIDE WHICH TOOK PLACE SOMETIME AFTER ELEVEN PM SATURDAY EVENING. MONDAY CLASSES ARE CANCELLED UNTIL WE CAN DETERMINE IF THIS IS A PUBLIC SAFETY THREAT.

  “Jesus,” I say. “Someone died last night on campus.”

  Lauren’s gaze flicks to mine. “What? No way. Who?”

  I shrug. “Doesn’t say.”

  She grabs her phone, firing off text after text. Mine lights with an email notification. Margaret Blume.

  “Is it true it’s Reed Bristowe?” she writes, only she copied the entire English department. Students, faculty, deans.

  Gripping the countertop’s edge, I stabilize myself since the ground feels a little unsteady. Drawing in a deep breath, I hope to God Margaret doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She usually doesn’t.

  “Ohmygod.” Lauren’s hand flies to her mouth. She’s trembling. “It’s Reed Bristowe.”

  “Blume doesn’t know what she’s saying half the time,” I say. “I’ll believe it when I see—”

  “Blume?” She shakes her head, blue eyes narrowing. “No. I got a text from someone who knows someone who found him. Somebody shot him, Meadow. They shot him in his office last night. He’s dead.”

  My throat swells when I try to speak. There’s a sharp sting in my stomach, like someone sucker punched me.

  Lauren sobs. Her face buried in her palms. Shoulders heaving. She’s trying to speak but I can’t understand any of it.

  I take a seat across from her before my legs give out.

  Bristowe is dead.

  Not just dead … murdered.

  Somebody killed him.

  I never knew it was possible to feel so many things at one time. Dumbstruck. Speechless. Angry. Sad.

  Somehow numb on top of it all.

  And what was he doing on campus around midnight last night? Who lured him there? Was someone with him? Did someone know he was going to be there? Who wanted him dead?

  Too many questions. Not enough answers.

  “Lauren,” I say, clearing my throat.

  She glances up, pretty crystalline eyes cloudy and bloodshot, lids swollen and face ruddy. I’ve never seen her so … ugly.

  “I know you were with him yesterday,” I say.

  She’s quiet.

  “I saw you two together. At Backroads,” I say. Still kills me that she would go to a place like that, though I suppose if you’re not wanting to be seen by your regular crowd … that’d be the place to go.

  She sits a little straighter, sniffs. “Okay. We had a thing.”

  A thing?

  “Let’s call it what it is,” I say before correcting myself. “What it was. An affair.”

  “Do we have to do this now?” She rises, her hands splayed on the table. For the first time, she looks at me with bitterness in her eyes and she speaks to me with contempt in her tone … like I’m the asshole here. “I know it was wrong. I don’t need a lecture. The man is dead, Meadow.”

  “I’m not saying you killed him,” I say. “But you were one of the last people to see him alive. You should probably go to the police and let them know.”

  It’s the least she can do. For Elisabeth. And the baby. They need closure and answers and above all else, they deserve to know the truth.

  “Good God, Meadow.” Her voice is raised and her eyes are wild. “My fucking boyfriend just died, can I have a minute?”

  “Your boyfriend? What about Thayer?”

  “You know what I mean.” Lauren’s nose is wrinkled.

  “Does Thayer know about your little side piece?”

  “No. He knows nothing.” Her words send a tingle reverberating through every fiber of my body.

  He does know. I told him.

  Did he follow them? Did he plan this out, waiting for the right moment to strike? Was this some kind of sick revenge fantasy brought to life?

  I want to throw up.

  If Thayer did this … Reed’s blood is on my hands. Not in any real, tangible way. But for the rest of my life, I’ll know I’m the one who pushed the first domino into the next one, setting off a chain reaction that led to someone’s murder.

  “I know you’re sad. I know you’re in shock and you’re grieving, but we have to go to the police,” I say. “You don’t understand. Thayer knew. I told him.”

  Lauren’s creamy complexion fades into white.

  “I think Thayer killed Bristowe.” I rise, reaching for her arm. “We have to go, Lauren. If he did this, you’re not safe here.”

  I don’t need two dead bodies on my conscience.

  She jerks away from me. “I’m not going to the police. Not yet.”

  “Then you’re crazy.” Or maybe guilty …

  “Just stop …” Lauren’s eyes brim with tears again and she swats me away. “I loved him, Meadow.”

  In an instant, she’s gone. Her bedroom door slams a few seconds later. The pop of the lock echoes in the hall.

  Her phone lies on the kitchen table, exactly where she left it, the screen filled with messages. Everyone’s talking. And everyone heard that it’s Bristowe.

  I’m about to walk away when her phone vibrates with a new message, this time from Thayer.

  SORRY ABT YOUR PROF. I KNOW HOW MUCH HE MEANT 2 U…

  I take a picture of it with my phone.

  Lauren can stay here, crying tears into her pillow for the rest of the day, but I’m going to the police.

  Thirty-One

  I’d hoped they’d let me talk to the lead detective on the case—whose name I’ve learned is Lee Caldwell, but it appears they’ve placed me with some paper-pushing underling with a bad knee and a wheeze when she exhales.

  I can only hope nothing gets lost in translation. I’ve never seen anyone write slower than Rhonda here, and she doesn’t seem to be taking everything down.

  “So Thayer knew that Lauren was cheating, but Lauren didn�
��t know Thayer knew,” I say.

  “Right,” she says, wheezing. “You’ve already said that.”

  I know. I’ve said it at least three times. But I didn’t see her write it down.

  “And do you have proof that the boyfriend knew that the girlfriend was cheating?” She places her pen down, peering over her glasses. I don’t even think she finished writing her last sentence. Something’s going to get mislaid here.

  Typical government employee. Only here for the pension.

  “No,” I say. Her question is dumb. “I told you. He ran into me on campus and asked if I knew anything. I told him what I knew. How would I have proof? It was a conversation …”

  “It’s just a question, ma’am.” I don’t like her tone. And I’m twenty-two. Hardly a ma’am. She’s the ma’am. “No need to get worked up.”

  Taking a deep breath and forcing myself to smile, I try to come at this from a different angle. “It’s just that I can’t help but notice that you’re not writing everything down.”

  Rhonda’s mouth draws into a slow side-smirk. “These are my personal notes. Everything’s being recorded.”

  She points to the ceiling, where a microphone hangs from a loose tile.

  Oh.

  “Okay, so you said the two of them had a contentious relationship,” she says, reading her notes. “Did you ever witness any physical altercations? See any markings or bruises?”

  “No,” I say. “But Thayer kind of … stalked her from time to time. She’d mentioned that to me. So did her friend, Tessa. He once showed up at our place because he didn’t see her car at the barre studio. He knew when she worked out. He had her schedule memorized.”

  “It’s not uncommon to memorize your significant other’s schedule,” she says, as if I didn’t know. “Did he ever harass her while he ‘stalked’ her?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Technically stalking includes harassment,” she says. “Did Lauren ever tell him to stop following her?”

  “I’m sure. They fought all the time. Breaking up, getting back together,” I say. “I witnessed it firsthand a couple of times.”

  “It happens.” She chuckles, shaking her head. “Sounds like my daughter and her boyfriend.”

  This isn’t funny.

  “I think we’ve got all we need,” she says, pushing herself up and hunching over the table. She checks the black and white clock on the wall.

  “I was just getting started,” I say, retrieving my phone. “Look. Look what he sent her this morning. It’s cryptic.”

  Peering through the bifocal section of her glasses, she reads the message. “You can’t infer anything from this.”

  “Okay, but you don’t understand the rage, the hatred I saw in his eyes when I told him about Lauren and Bristowe,” I say. “And now Bristowe’s dead and Thayer’s offering his condolences? And don’t you think it’s odd that I saw Lauren and Reed together and then hours later he’s dead? What if Thayer was following them?”

  “We’re going to look into him,” Rhonda says with a sigh. She acts like she’s doing me a favor, like I’m inconveniencing her. And I get it. I know I didn’t come here with hardcore, irrefutable, tangible evidence. I understand I presented her with a theory rooted in assumptions and pure speculation. But every shred of me knows Thayer had something to do with it.

  He’s the only one who would’ve wanted to hurt the two of them. Physically and emotionally.

  “Thanks for coming in, Meadow,” she says. Rhonda reaches into her pocket and hands me Lee Caldwell’s card. “Lee will be in touch with you if he has any questions.”

  Rhonda walks me out to the lobby of the police station before waddling over to the receptionist and stealing a piece of candy from a bowl on her desk. The thought of going home makes my stomach heavy, and I start to tremble, erratically. Like I’ve been doing all day. I can’t control it. It’s like the fear and anxiety and shock are all bubbling to the surface, trying to get out.

  Getting into my car a minute later, I silence the radio and let the engine warm.

  Elisabeth.

  I back out of the parking spot and drive east on Mayfair Avenue, toward the Bristowe house. And I don’t need to call first because we’re friends and friends drop in on each other, especially in times of need.

  And she needs me.

  She needs me now more than she’s ever needed me before.

  Thirty-Two

  Aunt Char opens the door in sunglasses, as if the Bristowe house wasn’t already dark enough. Every curtain is drawn. Every light switched off—save for the one above the kitchen sink and a lamp in the living room.

  “Can I help you?” she asks, twisting the black pearls around her wrinkled neck.

  The darkness seeps out of the house, wrapping me in an ominous embrace. I can feel the weight of Elisabeth’s sadness already.

  “I’m a friend of Elisabeth’s,” I say, holding a brown paper bag of raspberry scones I picked up on the way here. I doubt she’s in the mood to eat anything right now, but it’s the thought that counts.

  She eyes me up and down, maybe deciding she recognizes me from the baby shower yesterday, and then she lets me in. A couple of police officers chat in the kitchen and Char tells me Elisabeth is upstairs in her room and offers to “fetch” her for me.

  I wait in the foyer and a moment later, Char returns, Elisabeth in tow. Her hair has been brushed, pull tight in a low ponytail, and her nose is red, raw.

  “Meadow,” she says, gripping the stair rail. When she hits the landing, she shuffles toward me, wrapping me in an embrace though I should be the one holding her.

  “Elisabeth, I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “How did you know?”

  “Everybody knows,” I say. “The whole campus knows.”

  She breathes me in and lets me go. “It doesn’t feel real.”

  “It doesn’t.” Our eyes hold. “But you’re going to get through this.”

  The house is empty, save for the cops and Aunt Char, and I know now more than ever that I’m all she’s got.

  “Are you hungry?” I rub her arms. “When was the last time you ate?” Steering her toward the dining room, I pull out a seat. “Stay here. I’ll make you a sandwich. You might not want to eat right now, but I bet that baby does.”

  Five minutes later, I return with a turkey sandwich, a container of vanilla yogurt, a napkin, spoon, and a glass of milk, and then I take the spot beside her.

  “Thank you, Meadow. You didn’t have to do this.” She lifts the sandwich to her mouth, taking a reluctant bite. I doubt she tastes it.

  “How long is Char staying?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “She hasn’t said much of anything to me. I’ve asked her to handle the … final arrangements.”

  The sandwich falls on her plate and she dabs her eyes with a paper napkin printed with pink stars and purple flowers.

  “Who’s going to take care of you after this?” I ask. “Who are you going to call when you need something?”

  Elisabeth leans against the tall back of the wooden dining chair, forehead wrinkled. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  “Do you have anyone who can stay with you? A cousin or something?”

  Biting her trembling lip, she shakes her head. “No one that I’d feel comfortable asking to inconvenience.”

  Rolling my eyes at her self-deprecation, I place my hand over hers. “Me. I’ll do it.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll move in. I’ll help you with everything. I’ll clean the house, I’ll run your errands. I’ll take you to your ultrasounds and birthing classes, and—”

  “Meadow, you can’t,” she says. “You have school. And work. And I couldn’t do that to you. My burdens are not yours.”

  “It wouldn’t be a burden,” I say. I have enough money in my account that I don’t even need to work at Sparkle Shine Cleaning Co anymore. “I’ll still go to class and everything. I’ll just be here when I’m not there. You’ll have me at your co
mplete disposal.”

  “You are way too generous.”

  “I want to do this for you,” I say, chin tucked and tone steady. “Let me do this for you.”

  Elbow on the table, she rests her chin on her hand, staring ahead at a portrait of General Washington hanging on the dining room wall.

  “I know you don’t want the help,” I say. “But you need it. And believe me when I say, I’m happy to do this.”

  Our eyes hold and her hazel eyes tear. “I’m not exactly in a position to say no, am I?”

  She half-laughs.

  “Nope,” I say, shoving her plate closer and peeling the lid from her yogurt. “Someone has to stay here and make sure you don’t waste away.”

  I hand her the spoon next, and she accepts it with a trembling hand.

  “I don’t know who would want to hurt him, Meadow,” she says, voice cracked. “Everybody loved him. Anyone who knew him knew he was about to become a father. Who would do this?”

  There’s a heaviness in my chest, one I imagine barely compares to the one in hers right now.

  The world is cruel.

  And there’s not much worse than being a pregnant widow.

  “It’s tragic.” My words are a forced, breathy whisper. I can’t tell her about Thayer … not yet. Not until I know for sure and not until she’s stronger, emotionally and physically. “Listen, you need to eat. And I’m going to run home and get my things. Call me if you need anything, do you understand?”

  Elisabeth dips her spoon into her yogurt, leaving it there. “I will.”

  I show myself out, and on the drive to Lauren’s, I practice exactly what I’m going to say to her when I get there.

  Thirty-Three

  Lauren’s car is in the driveway but the house is silent. As far as I know, she’s still in her room, crying thick alligator tears and ignoring the rest of the world.

  On the way here, I stopped and picked up an oversized suitcase, something big enough to hold all of my things. Ripping off the tags, I hoist it onto my bed and begin yanking clothes off hangers and tossing them in. There’s no time for folding.