The Perfect Roommate

by Minka Kent

  I’m officially a person of interest.

  Thirty-Six

  I sit in Elisabeth’s driveway for the better part of twenty minutes, still shaking, replaying my time with Lee over and over in my mind.

  How do I tell her the police think I had something to do with her husband’s murder? How do I explain that he was cheating on her, I knew about it, and I never told her? A true friend would’ve said something, but I only ever wanted to protect her.

  Resting my forehead against the steering wheel, I kill the engine and step out onto the paved walkway to the back door. It’s late now, the house is dark, and Elisabeth is probably in bed. The doctors gave her a light sedative, something safe for her to take to help her sleep. And that’s all she’s been doing. Sleeping the days away. She told me when she’s asleep, it’s the only time she can be with Reed. When she wakes up, it’s like he died all over again.

  Twisting my key in the lock of the back door, I tiptoe inside, kicking off my shoes and maneuvering through the darkened kitchen. Not only does this house feel like death, it looks like death too.

  I fix myself a sandwich and a glass of juice, eating at the island.

  I’m going to have to tell Elisabeth, at least before the police do. I don’t want her to find out that way, and I want a chance to explain myself. She’ll probably kick me out, but I would too. It’s going to hurt knowing that I kept this from her.

  There’s enough money in my account to get me by through the end of summer if I spend carefully, but if I can’t land a short-term rental, I’m going to have to stay at a hotel, and that’s going to eat through everything I’ve got left.

  I’ll end up right back where I was. Broke and homeless.

  Everything I own in my backseat.

  Finishing my supper, I pad upstairs, passing Elisabeth’s door. The flicker of TV light illuminates the bottom, but it’s hard telling if she’s awake or not. Either way, Reed’s funeral is almost here and I’m not going to bother her with this yet.

  In two days, she buries her husband.

  The day after that? I’ll tell her everything I know.

  Thirty-Seven

  Elisabeth wakes at a quarter past three in the morning. I know because I hear the hum of the water pipes, the soft scuff of her swollen footsteps up and down the hall.

  I also know this because I haven’t slept since my head hit the pillow. There’s too much adrenaline coursing through me from Caldwell’s interrogation, too many unanswered questions. At this rate, I might as well stay up the rest of the day. Anything is better than lying here, wallowing in a puddle of the unknown.

  Climbing out of bed, I decide to check on her, see if she needs anything. I’m sure Reed’s impending funeral is weighing heavy, filling her every thought.

  But she has me.

  I’ll get her through this.

  The two of us—together.

  Padding down the dim hallway, I find her door closed and the flicker of TV light at the bottom—same old—only the sound of her voice rises above the drone of the infomercial playing in the background.

  She’s talking to someone.

  “We haven’t even buried him yet and already you’re asking about this?” Her words are rushed, pointed. Her shadow momentarily obstructs the pale TV light at the bottom of the door before moving on. From the sound of her footsteps, she’s pacing the room. “You know exactly what we agreed on. Don’t call me again. Not until I say you can.”

  I’m frozen, wondering if I’m sleepwalking, dreaming. Wondering if everything I just heard was a product of an exhausted, overtaxed imagination.

  Creeping back to my room, I bury myself under the covers, trying to make sense of Elisabeth’s words. By the time the sun comes up, I surrender to the fact that I can’t explain any of that away.

  Someone called her, wanting something. Something they could only get if Reed was dead. And she told them not to call her again until she said they could. The only logical explanation? Money. Life insurance. Inheritance. Something along those lines.

  Maybe Elisabeth knew about his affair? Maybe she wanted retribution and to be set for life and this was the only way? It would make sense, especially with the baby. Everything would go to the two of them, guaranteed. And anything Reed would’ve inherited from his loaded Aunt Char would go to the baby eventually as well.

  Sitting up in my bed, I drag my hands down my face and exhale. This is bad. This is really fucking bad.

  I’m going to have to talk to Lauren, I’m going to have to extend an olive branch, and we’re going to have to stop accusing each other long enough to get justice for Reed Bristowe, philandering asshole that he was.

  And this is the only way we’ll be able to clear our names.

  Thirty-Eight

  “You told them I was crazy,” I say to Lauren later that Monday morning.

  We decided to meet on campus, someplace neutral. She chose the park bench outside Griffin Hall, which is the farthest point from the English department. This area is dead since Griffin is under renovation, and while there’s a student body of almost twenty thousand roaming around, out here, it’s just us.

  “I didn’t make you sound crazy, I just told them what I knew, what I’d witnessed. They inferred the rest,” she says. “You told them Thayer killed Reed.”

  “How did you know I had a gun?” I ask.

  “Please.” Lauren rolls her swollen eyes. She hasn’t stopped crying over him, probably in days. “You went through my shit all the time. I can’t count how many times I found things moved, products dwindling quicker than I could use them.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Still. I know you were in my room. The only reason I went into yours was because I couldn’t find something and I thought maybe you’d taken it,” she says. “Then I found your gun.”

  “It isn’t mine actually. It belongs to my mom’s boyfriend. I was going to get rid of it,” I say. “I forgot it was there, honestly.”

  She says nothing, just like Caldwell. Lauren doesn’t believe me either.

  “You were obsessed with Thayer and I though,” she says. “Even Tessa noticed it.”

  “I wasn’t obsessed.” I cross my legs and stare toward campus. We should be making peace but instead we’re bickering, pulling on threads and taking digs and getting nowhere. “It’s complicated.”

  “I bet.” Lauren huffs.

  “You lied about the house. Your parents didn’t own it. You were subletting.”

  Her head tilts and her brows rise and her mouth curls at one side. “Yeah. I was.”

  “Why did you make up that whole story about your monthly stipend and your GPA?”

  Lauren re-crosses her legs, staring forward and hooking her hands around her knees. “I was living with Thayer before.” She clears her throat. “We got into a fight. I moved out to prove a point. I didn’t want a year lease, just something to get me through the end of the year. I found the house. Moved in. Realized I couldn’t afford it, so I decided to get a roommate. The sublease didn’t allow for that, so I thought it was easier just to say my parents owned the house. I didn’t want to scare you away or make you think I was shady.” She turns to me. “I liked you, Meadow. I liked you from the moment I met you.”

  I offer her a tight-lipped smile. It’s sad that it’s come to this. We could’ve been great friends. We could’ve had a friendship that spanned careers and decades and continents.

  But she lied. She lied about everything.

  One more question before I put a stop to this juvenile backbiting. “Why did you have my necklace?”

  “What necklace?”

  “The sterling silver heart with my initials,” I say. “I knocked over your purse once and that spilled out.”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh! That. I found it on the floor in the hallway one day when I was leaving for class. Didn’t want it to get lost, so I threw it in my bag. Meant to give it to you. Guess I forgot.”

  Exhaling, I accept her explanation for the time be
ing, if only because it’s undeniably plausible and I have bigger fish to fry. “All right, let’s just get to the point here.”

  Lauren angles her body toward mine.

  “I’ve been staying with Elisabeth Bristowe,” I say, watching the shock register on her face. “She’s actually a friend of mine, and I’ve been taking care of her this past week. Anyway, I overheard something in the middle of the night—a phone call. Someone called to ask her about something. It sounded like money … and then she told them not to contact her until she said they could. Lauren, I think Elisabeth paid someone to kill her husband.”

  She glances away, swiping a tear from her right eye. I wait for her to say something, to tell me I’m being ridiculous, that my theory makes no sense.

  Hell, I want her to prove me wrong.

  I don’t want to believe Elisabeth is capable of something so vile and beneath her.

  “He was worth a lot of money,” Lauren finally breaks her silence. “Millions. He told me once. When his parents died, everything was put in a trust that he couldn’t access until his thirty-fifth birthday … next year.”

  She whispers the words I didn’t want to hear.

  “We have to go to the police,” I say. “Immediately.”

  Lauren turns to face me, shoulders slumped, defeated. “Yeah. You’re right.”

  I rise, slipping my bag over my shoulder. We need to leave. Now.

  “We should stop at Thayer’s on the way,” she says. “It’s only fair we present with a united front since you accused us both of having something to do with this.”

  “Fine.”

  I follow her to a church parking lot across the street, climbing into the passenger seat of her Lexus and buckling my seatbelt as she taps out a text message to let him know we’re on our way.

  We don’t speak on the drive to Thayer’s, but I’m breathing easier. Closure is just around the corner.

  Everything makes sense.

  And soon, this nightmare will be over.

  Thirty-Nine

  “He’s not answering.” Lauren sighs as we wait in the parking lot of Thayer’s apartment building. “Texts or calls. We’re going to have to knock.”

  Climbing out of her car and up the stairs to the second level, I follow her to apartment 2D and stand back as she balls her manicured fist and pounds on the door. The muffled sound of some Pantera song blasts on the other side of the door, which explains why he didn’t hear his phone.

  Lauren knocks once more, nostrils flaring and lips pursed. She’s just as anxious as I am to get to the police station. The music dies and the door swings open.

  Thayer’s eyes widen and his form fills the doorway. He’s surprised to see us—me especially.

  I’m pretty sure I’m on his shit list right now, and understandably so. I went to the police and told them I thought he murdered someone, and now I have the nerve to show up at his place? My posture wilts as I imagine the look he’s going to give me, but I suck in a deep breath and force myself to do the right thing.

  “What’s this?” he asks, brows meeting as his gaze is directed at me.

  “Didn’t you get my text?” Lauren asks, fidgeting.

  He pulls his phone from his back pocket, swiping his thumb across the screen. “Now.”

  She rolls her eyes. “We need to go to the police. Meadow thinks Bristowe’s wife had something to do with his death. She, um, heard something. I thought we should all go together?”

  Thayer turns his attention to me, drawing in a hard breath, examining me. Maybe I owe him an apology, but now’s not the time.

  “I think Elisabeth paid someone to kill her husband,” I say. “I heard her on the phone in the middle of the night. It sounded like someone was asking for money and she talked about an agreement and waiting.”

  “You’re sure?” he asks. And he has a right to ask. My track record with assuming things isn’t the greatest.

  I nod. “Positive. I mean, it’s not like she admitted to anything, but I think the police should check into this.”

  Thayer steps out of the doorway, glancing at Lauren. They exchange a look that I can’t read.

  “What did you hear, exactly?” he asks, one hand cocked on his left hip as he studies me. Already, I can tell he doesn’t want to believe me. That or he simply doesn’t want anything to do with me.

  “She was on the phone,” I begin, “and she said something like ‘we haven’t even buried him yet and already you’re asking for this? Don’t call me again until I say you can.’”

  Thayer drags a hand across his face before glancing toward the distance. “That could mean anything.”

  “I know.” My hand clasps over my heart. “I know it could mean anything. But what if it doesn’t? Shouldn’t we at least tell the police?”

  Lauren’s gaze darts between us. I’m not used to her being so quiet and reserved around either of us, but then again, she’s been through the ringer this week. The man she loved was brutally murdered. That’d be enough to send anyone into a silent tailspin.

  “Lauren?” Thayer turns his attention to her.

  “We should go to the police,” she says. Her lips press into a straight line as she pauses. “All of us.”

  His jaw flexes as he contemplates, and a moment later he says, “Just … give me a minute to shower.”

  “Really?” I lift a brow. He looks fine to me. Maybe his clothes are a little wrinkled and his mussed hair could use a comb, but last I checked, the police station didn’t have a dress code.

  “Twenty minutes,” he says. “And then we’ll go.”

  Forty

  I follow Lauren into Thayer’s apartment, and we take a seat in the living room on a saggy, beer-stained sofa positioned across from a seventy-inch TV with at least three different gaming consoles arranged beneath it. A Rocky IV poster hangs behind me and the curtains are drawn tight.

  I’m not sure why, but I was always under the impression that Thayer came from money … like Lauren.

  This place is a dump—aside from his vast collection of electronics.

  The carpet is stained and matted. The furniture looks like it was found on someone’s curb and loaded into the back of his buddy’s pickup truck. And it smells like pot ash and weed. All this time, and I never knew Thayer smoked up. Makes me wonder what else I don’t know about him.

  Or Lauren.

  I mean, do we ever truly know anyone or are we only seeing what they want us to see?

  Crossing her legs, Lauren’s ankle bounces and she nibbles her thumbnail. This isn’t like her. Then again, with everything that’s transpired in the past week, none of us are really ourselves. Checking her phone, she taps out a text and we sit in palpable silence until the whoosh and hiss of Thayer’s shower fills the small apartment.

  He’s taking his time, and I have half a mind to assume he’s doing it out of spite. When he first saw me standing at his door, his eyes flashed dark, his lips pressing flat. He used to be cool with me but now? Since I basically accused him of murder? I’m beginning to think he hates me.

  And maybe Lauren knows he hates me and that’s why she’s so antsy? She knows how he can be sometimes … unreasonable and controlling. I’m sure there’s a whole world of complexities layered beneath his typical-college-boy façade.

  My mind wanders to Elisabeth.

  I left a tray of scrambled eggs and buttered toast outside her room along with a note saying I had some business to take care of. I didn’t feel right about any of it.

  “What’s taking him so long?” Lauren sighs, sliding her phone in her left pocket. “Hold on. I’ll check.”

  Sauntering back to his room, I watch her knock and then disappear inside a second later. The door closes quickly.

  I don’t hear a thing after that.

  If they’re talking … they’re whispering.

  As soon as the door opens a second later and the two of them emerge and return to the living room, Lauren avoids my gaze.

  Thayer’s hair is damp, combed,
and parted on the side, and he’s dressed in jeans and a polo. His thick cologne fills the small space the three of us share.

  “Ready?” I ask, standing, my hand gripped around my purse strap. My palms are sweating and my stomach turns.

  Lauren and Thayer exchange looks, as they’ve been doing. But that’s what they do. It’s what they’ve always done. It’s like they speak their own language. Only right now, I’d love the hell out of an interpreter because something’s amiss.

  “We should leave now,” I say, eyeing the door.

  Thayer hooks his hands on his hips, positioning himself so Lauren is blocked from my view. “We’ve decided not to go.”

  “What? Why?” I ask.

  “None … of us … are going,” he says, taking his time. He reaches for something in his back waistband.

  I’m going to be sick.

  “You should sit down, Meadow,” Lauren says, watching Thayer as if she’s waiting for a sign or a signal.

  “No.” I march toward the door, my back to them and my hand on the knob. “If you guys want to stay here, fine. But I’m going.”

  It doesn’t hit me until now, that I realize I’m stranded. My car is back at campus, where I met Lauren, and the nearest bus stop is a good five mile walk from here. Either way, I’m leaving. I’ll walk to a gas station and call an Uber or whatever.

  I just don’t want to stay here.

  I can’t stay here.

  Every part of me is screaming to get the hell away from these two.

  “Sit down, Meadow,” Thayer says, his tone dark and laced with power. He rakes his hand across his jaw, and for a second I catch a menacing smirk that disappears in a flash.

  When I turn to face them, I find a black handgun pointed in my face. He yanks my purse—which contains my phone—off my shoulder and tosses it into his kitchen. It slams against the wall, contents spilling.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I ask. “What is this? Lauren?”