The Stranger Next Door

by Joy Fielding

  “Fine.” I spit out the word as if it were a piece of rotten meat. “You have till the weekend. If you’re not gone by then, I’ll call the authorities.”

  “Thank you.” Alison breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then she spun around, her face disappearing inside a blur of strawberry curls. I heard her footsteps retreating down the stairs, the kitchen door opening and slamming shut. I watched her from the bedroom window as she ran toward the cottage, then stopped, turned back toward the house. I thought I saw her smile.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I didn’t see Alison at all during the next several days. Nor did I see Lance, although I doubted he was really gone. I knew the matter was far from resolved, that they weren’t likely to leave empty-handed, not with all the time and effort invested in me so far. I lay in bed that first night trying to figure out how much of what Alison had told me was true, wondering where the lies ended and the truth began, if indeed there’d been any truth to anything she’d said. Ever.

  What difference did the truth make anyway?

  Looking back, I see that Alison’s great gift was her uncanny ability to make me doubt myself, to make me question what was beyond question, to make me see things that weren’t really there.

  To not see things that were.

  In spite of everything, I had to keep reminding myself that Alison was not the sweet young woman I’d welcomed into my life, but a liar, a con artist, and quite possibly, a cold-blooded killer. I wasn’t her friend—I was her target, a carefully selected one at that. And judging by what I’d read in her journal, I wasn’t the first unsuspecting woman she’d duped. What had happened to the others?

  And why?

  That was the part I couldn’t get past, the part that kept me awake at night, tossing restlessly back and forth in my bed. Not when Alison and her cohorts might strike again, but why?

  Why?

  What was she after?

  What do you want from me? I should have demanded of her. Why did you seek me out, work so hard to make me your friend? What is it you think I have that’s of any value?

  What was the point?

  What do you mean? would have come her inevitable response, green eyes wide with confusion, expressive hands aflutter. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  In my lighter moments, I told myself I was out of danger, that by confronting Alison and ordering her to vacate the premises, by threatening to call the police if she wasn’t gone by the end of the week, I’d effectively put the kibosh to her little scheme. But in my darker moments, I recognized that the only thing I’d accomplished was a slight delay, a modest retooling of her plans, that Alison was simply biding her time, waiting for just the right moment to come at me again.

  At any rate, several days passed without further incident. Alison made no further attempts to talk to me; the white Lincoln disappeared from my street. I went to work, tended to my patients, and almost managed to convince myself that the worst was over.

  On the morning of January 4, I was getting ready for work when the phone rang. I knew that Josh had returned from California the night before, and I’d been eagerly anticipating his call all morning. I glanced in the mirror over my dresser, trying to see myself through Josh’s eyes, noting the cut Alison had given me was growing out and I was in need of a trim. Impatiently pushing my hair behind my ears, I pinched my cheeks to give them needed color, then walked to the phone and, not wanting to appear too anxious, waited one more ring before answering it. “Hello,” I said huskily, as if freshly roused from sleep, although I’d been up for hours.

  “Erica says to wish you a happy New Year,” the voice announced.

  “Go to hell!” I shot back, about to hang up the phone.

  “I believe you have something that belongs to her,” the voice continued, undeterred.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do.”

  “You’re wrong. I have no idea what you want.”

  “She’d like it back.”

  “Like what back?” I felt the line go dead in my hands. “Wait! What do you mean, I have something of Erica’s? Wait!” I continued shouting long after I knew the caller had hung up.

  What could I possibly have of Erica’s?

  The necklace, I realized with a start. The heart-shaped pendant Alison had found beneath her bed and worn proudly around her neck, until I’d bought her one all her own. But it couldn’t be worth more than a few hundred dollars, and Erica owed me far more than that in back rent. Erica had never struck me as the sentimental type. But then I was a lousy judge of character, I reminded myself. Look how easily I’d allowed myself to be duped by Alison.

  My mind was racing, thoughts crashing into one another, like ocean waves. What was Erica’s connection to Alison? Had Erica left behind more than the necklace, something valuable she’d hidden inside the cottage? And was that something the reason Alison had shown up on my doorstep, gone out of her way to befriend me? What did she think I had?

  “Good God,” I said, my head swimming as I grabbed my purse and ran down the stairs and out the front door. Did I really think Alison had any intention of vacating my cottage by the end of the week? That she and Lance would depart empty-handed?

  I stood paralyzed by the side of my car, not knowing what to do, knowing only that time was running out, that I couldn’t continue to stay in my house, that I had to talk to someone.

  I had to talk to Josh.

  I returned to the house, full of fresh resolve, locking the door behind me and marching purposefully to the phone in the kitchen. I punched in the familiar numbers, then waited while the phone rang once, twice, three times, before someone picked it up.

  “Fourth-floor nurses’ station. Margot speaking.”

  “Margot, it’s Terry.” There was desperation in my voice, as if someone had pushed it from a high ledge.

  “What’s the matter? You sound awful.”

  “I don’t think I can come in today.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got that horrible flu bug that’s making the rounds.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Can you manage without me?”

  “Guess we’ll have to. Don’t want you coming in sick.”

  “I’m so sorry. It just hit all of a sudden.”

  “That’s how these things work.”

  “I felt fine last night,” I embellished, knowing I should stop while I was ahead, that the more lies I told, the more likely I was to trip myself up. Wasn’t that what had happened to Alison?

  “Well, get back into bed, take two Tylenol, and drink plenty of fluids. You know the routine.”

  “I feel really bad about this.”

  “Just feel better,” Margot instructed.

  I raced up the stairs to my bedroom, where I swapped my nurse’s uniform for a pair of navy pants and matching jersey. I packed the uniform, along with another change of clothes and some underwear, into the large overnight bag I kept at the back of my closet. I wasn’t sure how long I’d be gone, or where I’d be staying, but one thing was now crystal clear—I couldn’t stay here.

  Would Josh insist I stay at his place? I wondered, throwing in my yellow dress with the plunging neckline, in case he suggested somewhere nice for dinner. Or maybe I’d stay in one of those funky little art deco hotels in South Beach. Maybe Josh would stay with me, I projected giddily, opening the bottom drawer of my dresser and removing the slinky, lavender nightgown Lance had given me for Christmas. I tossed it into the bag, thinking how ironic it would be to wear a gift from my would-be killer to a tryst with my would-be lover, recognizing I was beyond giddy and was now verging on outright hysteria.

  I took a series of long, deep breaths, trying to calm myself down. I knew I was behaving foolishly, even irrationally. But it was as if, in finally deciding to take action, I’d unleashed a part of me I’d repressed for far too long—the part that was determined to enjoy life, take risks, have fun. The part that was tired of being surrounded by death. The part that wan
ted to live.

  I finished packing, debated whether to call Josh, tell him I was coming, then decided to surprise him instead. I told myself I didn’t have time for unnecessary phone calls, but maybe I was just afraid he’d tell me not to come, that he was too busy to see me. And I couldn’t risk that. I needed Josh to be there for me.

  I was at the car when I realized I’d left my nurse’s shoes on the floor by the bed. I knew I’d need them if I chose to return to work the next day. So I tossed my overnight bag into the backseat and reluctantly returned to the house, taking the stairs two at a time. I was doubled over and gasping for air when I reached my bedroom and saw my shoes standing by the foot of the bed, as if waiting for me. I was leaving the room when a cursory glance out the bedroom window revealed Alison emerging from the cottage.

  I raced downstairs, coming to an abrupt halt at my front door, fighting to catch my breath. I couldn’t appear panicky. It was imperative everything appear normal. Alison couldn’t suspect I was poised to take flight.

  “Going somewhere?” she asked, waiting by the side of my car, her head tilting toward the overnight bag on the backseat.

  “I joined a gym. Thought I’d work out before going to the hospital.” I held up my nurse’s shoes for added credibility.

  She seemed to accept my explanation. “Terry—”

  “I’m going to be late.” I opened the car door, threw my shoes inside, walked around to the driver’s side of the car.

  “Please, I need to talk to you.”

  “Really, Alison, I don’t see the point.”

  “Just hear me out. Then, if you still want me to leave, I will. I promise.”

  “I’ve already rented out the cottage,” I told her, watching her eyes widen in alarm. “A nurse at the hospital. She’s moving in on Saturday.”

  Alison’s head snapped toward the cottage. A gasp caught in her throat.

  “Look,” I backtracked, suddenly afraid she might try to restrain me if she thought she’d run out of time. “If you really want to talk, we’ll do it when I get home from work.”

  Relief flooded Alison’s face. “That’d be great.”

  “It might be quite late.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll wait up.”

  “Okay.” I climbed into the car and started the engine. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Later,” she agreed, tapping on the hood of the car as I backed out of the driveway.

  Later, I thought.

  *

  I’M NOT SURE WHY I CHOSE I-95 over the turnpike. Always take the turnpike, I recalled Myra Wylie’s advice to her son. You get in an accident on 95 and you can be stuck all day.

  Which was exactly what was happening, I realized, opening my window and craning my neck to see what was causing the prolonged delay. But all I saw were long lines of cars, like brightly colored snakes, stalled and going nowhere. “God, get me out of here,” I whispered, flicking the dials of the car radio, trying to find a traffic report. “I don’t have time for this.”

  I heard Alan Jackson singing about lost love on one station, and Janet Jackson singing about finding it on another. Maybe it was the same love, I thought, a laugh catching in my throat. Maybe Alan and Janet Jackson were brother and sister. Or husband and wife. Just like Alison and Lance. I laughed out loud, catching the worried glance of the driver in the car beside me.

  “I am not going to think about Alison,” I whispered through barely parted lips, then flipped to another station, listening as a male announcer swapped inane banter with his female counterpart.

  “So, Cathy, how many New Year’s resolutions have you broken so far?”

  “I never make New Year’s resolutions, Dave.”

  “Why, Cathy?”

  “Because I always break them.”

  I flipped to another station. “A four-car collision just south of the exit to Broward Boulevard is holding up traffic on I-95,” the newscaster announced with the practiced calm of someone used to detailing disasters. “Ambulances are on the scene—”

  “Great.” I turned off the radio, not wanting to hear more. A four-car collision, complete with ambulances and police cars, meant I wasn’t going anywhere for some time. There was nothing I could do about it, so there was no point in getting upset about it. Too bad I hadn’t packed a book, I thought, swiveling around to check the backseat. Maybe there was a magazine on the floor. . . .

  That’s when I saw him.

  “Oh, God.”

  He was several cars behind me, in the row to my right, and after the initial shock, I told myself I must be mistaken, that my eyes were playing tricks on me again, that the sunlight and my overactive imagination had combined to produce an image that couldn’t possibly be real, that when I looked again, the image would be gone.

  Except that when I looked again, he was still there.

  Tall, even sitting down, his skinny frame was hunched over the wheel of his car, small brown eyes peering over the top of his strong, hawklike nose. He was staring straight ahead, as if unaware of my existence. Was it possible he didn’t know I was there? That our being on the same stretch of highway at the same time was nothing but a strange coincidence?

  And then he leaned forward, rested his chin on the top of his steering wheel, and turned his gaze purposefully to mine, his narrow lips creasing into a slow smile. Why, Terry Painter, I could almost hear him say. As I live and breathe.

  “Shit!” I cursed out loud, watching as K.C. emerged from his car and sauntered lazily between the intervening cars toward me, his fingers hooked into the pockets of his tight jeans. What was I going to do? What could I do? Make a run for it? Where would I go? Damn it! Why didn’t I have a cell phone? I was probably the only person left on the planet who didn’t own one, who hated their mounting proliferation, their intrusion into every facet of our lives. Was I the only person who bristled at the sight of teenagers walking down the street, phones dangling from their ears like earrings, the person on the other end of the line more important than the person right beside them? I loathed the selfishness, the weird antisocialness of it all. Besides, it wasn’t as if I got that many calls, I thought, as a shadow fell across the side window of my car.

  I heard a tapping at my head and turned to see K.C. staring at me through the tinted glass. He signaled for me to roll down my window, and I complied. It was unlikely he’d try to harm me here, I reasoned, in the middle of a traffic jam, with so many witnesses.

  “Well, well, well,” he said. That was all. Well, well, well.

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to get out of your car?”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere.”

  I nodded, turned away. “Where are you headed?” I asked, not looking at him, pretending to be concentrating on the traffic ahead.

  “Nowhere in particular. You?”

  “Nowhere in particular,” I repeated.

  “Thought you might be going to see Josh,” he said, catching me by surprise. I’d forgotten they’d met at my house over Thanksgiving.

  I noticed him looking at my overnight bag on the backseat, ignored the snide grin that crept into his eyes, as if he could see the silk lavender nightgown inside.

  “So, I take it you’re all recovered from your little New Year’s Eve swim?”

  A shiver traveled the length of my spine. What exactly was K.C.’s role in all this? “Yes, I’m fine now. Thank you.”

  “You had us pretty worried.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Yeah, well, you should be more careful. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, would we?”

  “I don’t know. Would you?”

  His grin spread from his eyes to his lips. He said nothing.

  “Are you following me?” I demanded suddenly.

  The grin overtook his entire face. “Why would I be following you?”

  “You tell me.”

  He shook his head. “You’re imagining things, Terry.” Then he straightened up, slapped his open palm on the
side of my car and took a step back, as all around me, cars began inching forward.

  I heard the approaching roar of a motorcycle, held my breath as first one, then two more motorbikes whizzed by. My eyes followed them as they weaved in and out of the stalled traffic, shiny black helmets hiding their riders’ faces. Was the man in the red bandanna among them?

  “Be sure to give Josh my regards,” K.C. called as he returned to his car. Minutes later, when I finally worked up the nerve to check in my rearview mirror, I could still see him, sitting behind the wheel of his car, watching me.

  TWENTY-THREE

  We crawled along 1–95 for the better part of an hour. By the time we reached Broward Boulevard, the four cars involved in the accident had been moved to the side of the road and the ambulances had already gone. Judging by the mangled remains of two of the automobiles, one a bright red Porsche that now resembled nothing so much as a squashed tomato, and a puddle of what appeared to be blood beside one of the tires, I suspected serious injuries, possibly even fatalities. I wondered briefly whether any of the victims would eventually find their way to my ward at Mission Care, prayed we’d all be spared. Several police cars remained on the scene, their officers trying to persuade motorists not to waste time gawking, but, of course, everyone did. We couldn’t help ourselves.

  “Keep moving,” one of the officers directed as I again checked my rearview mirror. Immediately, K.C. waved his fingers at me in greeting, as if he knew I was looking at him, as if he’d been watching all along, waiting for our eyes to meet.

  On impulse, I lowered my window, beckoned the policeman forward.

  “Keep moving,” he repeated, louder this time, his large hands waving the traffic forward.

  “Please, can you help me? I’m being followed,” I ventured timidly, trying to make out the features beneath the officer’s protective helmet, seeing only his dark glasses and the impatient set of his jaw.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” the policeman said, his eyes darting back and forth among the cars, clearly oblivious to what I’d said. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to move along.”