The Perfect Lie (The Perfect Stranger)

by Charlotte Byrd

  I'm not always best listening to my intuition, but in this case, I know that I should.

  22

  Isabelle

  I know that something is off by the way that Mrs. Bowden looks at me. Before she was always friendly and at ease, but now her eyes narrow and she looks frightened.

  I could be wrong, but I don't want to take any chances.

  Tyler is gone. I thought that he left because of me, but now I wonder if it also had something to do with Mrs. Bowden.

  I don't have much time to figure anything out. I run into the bedroom and throw all of my stuff into the one remaining suitcase.

  “What are you doing?” Mom asks, coming in.

  “We have to go. We can't stay here.” I throw the suitcase over my shoulder and grab two armfuls of stuff.

  “You paid for this place. Why are we leaving?”

  I pause for a moment in the doorway and look at her with a smirk on my face. My head is tilted and I shrug my shoulders.

  Finally, she gets it. I knew that she would. She doesn't look like she's a stranger to running away from problems and luckily, she doesn't have much with her.

  I throw everything into the back seat and then run back to the cabin to take one last look around. When I get back into the car, Mom is already sitting in the front passenger seat with her seat belt on.

  I pull out of the spot and gun it down the street. When I turn onto the main highway running through town, I hear police sirens. I pray to God that they're not coming for me, but I have no way of knowing.

  I blend in with the rest of the traffic. I don't drive too fast or too slow. I don't hold my breath because I don't want to pass out but my thoughts are forced and difficult.

  I don't know where we’re going. I don't want to head back down to the desert and I don't want to head back through Running Springs where I was thrown into the van.

  Both places bring back bad memories, but I have to choose one.

  When I get to Running Springs, I don't look around and just keep driving. Jensen's Foods shows up briefly in my field of vision, but I don't let myself linger. A few minutes later, we get through the town and I let out a sigh of relief.

  “What happened back there?” Mom asks when we almost get to the bottom of the hill and into the Southern California sprawl. “Are you in trouble, Isabelle?”

  I shrug.

  I don't want to tell her anything and yet I don't have anyone else to talk to about any of this.

  “Tell me about Tyler,” Mom says.

  I clench my jaw.

  It's painful to think about him and all of the mistakes that I have made.

  “I love him,” I say. “He's a wonderful man and is the first person who maybe I felt like I could actually be happy with. I haven't felt like that in a long time.”

  She reaches over and puts her hand on my knee. I force a smile when she squeezes it.

  “Why wasn't he there?”

  “He thinks that I robbed him,” I say, staring straight ahead.

  Once the pine trees disappear, the smog and the clutter of the valley below us appears. The road leads us directly onto a six lane freeway and I'm swallowed up by the succession of traffic.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The money belonged to him. I took it without his permission and that's why he left. He thinks I stole it.”

  “You can call him and explain.”

  “He's not answering his calls. I think that he turned off his phone or maybe threw away the SIM card. I don't know.”

  “All because of this?”

  “It was $90,000. What would you do if someone stole $90,000 from you? Especially if it were someone who you thought you could trust and someone you were trying to build a life with?”

  Mom nods and tries to say something else, but I stop her. I don't want to talk right now.

  I just want to wallow in my own misery and try to figure out a way that I can find him, reach him.

  My thoughts return to the cabin. Mrs. Bowden had plenty of time to write down my license plate number and I wonder if the cops are already looking for it.

  If she knows that I was with Tyler McDermott, if she recognized him and called the police on him, then they will want to talk to me, too.

  What do I do then?

  What do I say?

  My only hope is that Mrs. Bowden didn't get a chance to get my plate number or maybe never even called the cops in the first place.

  While my mom bops her head innocently to the music on the radio, I try to think of what to do.

  I don't have much money besides my credit cards. I guess I could apply for another one. I grab my phone when we’re sitting in traffic and fill out the online application for one of the first ones to pop up.

  A few minutes later, I'm approved for a temporary $5,000 limit with a possible $10,000 extension when I verify my credit score. The interest rate is ridiculously steep at almost 15%, but I don't care. I just need a way to get some money so that I can get home.

  That word, home, surprises me. I haven't thought about going home in a long time. In fact, I had no plans to go home at all. I was going to start a new life with Tyler, but now…

  I don't really have a choice.

  What else am I going to do?

  I have my house and my job, at least I might still have my job. I have a life back there. It's the only place that makes sense.

  Of course, leaving him is the last thing that I want to do. I want to find Tyler. I want to make this right. I keep calling his phone even though the same message shows up. The phone number has been disconnected.

  I can't believe that it's as easy as that.

  One minute, you're making a life with someone.

  One minute, you're making all these plans and a vision for the future. Then it becomes something else entirely.

  Now, Tyler is nothing but a memory. I can't reach him. I don't know his number. I don't know where he is.

  Soon, I won't even know his name.

  My chest tightens. I try to process all of these thoughts. In a few days, maybe a week, maybe a month, there won't be any Tyler McDermott anymore.

  There will just be this man who used to have that name. He will be somebody else.

  He will get a new identity, new bank account, and new passport.

  He will be somebody else living someone else's life. I will never be able to find him.

  I want to pull over and stop driving, but I can't.

  I'm six lanes away from the exit and even if I were to get off, what then?

  No, it's better to just forget that any of this is happening. It's better to just force myself to think of something else.

  Besides, it's not like I don't have any shortage of worries. What do I do now? Do we drive all the way back to Pennsylvania in this car?

  No, that much time in one confined space with my mother I cannot withstand. I already took one long trip across country and the last thing I want is to do another one.

  So, what then?

  An hour later, I pull over to get some gas and see a sign for the Ontario airport.

  What if we were to fly home?

  “Do you have any ID?” I ask.

  I don't expect her to say yes, but much to my surprise, she nods.

  I go on my phone and use the credit card to book two tickets to Pittsburgh leaving three hours from now.

  Now the only thing to do is to figure out what to do with this car.

  23

  Tyler

  When I wake up the following morning, my body aches. I haven't slept in such a confined space in a very long time.

  I open the door, slide out of the driver's seat, and force myself to stretch. The sun is peeking in through the enormous pines and it feels warm on my face.

  I stretch from one side to another and do a number of sun salutations to get the blood flowing through my body. After getting some of the cricks out of my muscles, I let out a deep sigh of relief.

  I get back into the car and drive
to the closest gas station and ask them for the location of the nearest Walmart or big-box store. Luckily, it's not too far away.

  I buy a new phone. It’s disposable, untraceable, but smart, with Internet access and a data plan.

  When I get back to the car, I find a piece of paper where I wrote down Isabelle's number and debate whether I should call her. I'm safe now.

  She doesn't know my number. She doesn't know the type of car I drive. She doesn't even know where I am.

  Even if the cops are with her, I would still be able to hear her voice.

  I press the first few numbers, but then I stop. Actually, I have to physically force myself to stop.

  She betrayed me.

  She took the money and even if she is not working with the police, she stole my lifeline.

  What happens if she's working with the cops or the FBI or the federal marshals?

  Whatever she says, I'll never be able to trust her. I don't know who she's with or what she's doing. If she's working with the authorities, then they will want to put me at ease about everything. They're going to want me to trust her again and eventually they’re going to want me to meet up with her again.

  That can’t happen.

  This is my only chance to start my life again. She may not be working with the authorities, but she has already betrayed me by taking the money and that is enough.

  I’m not an idiot. I want to be. I want to call her.

  I want to hear her say that she loves me, but I can't let myself do that. Those words, that feeling that life makes sense, and knowing that there is someone out there who loves you unconditionally, that feeling is not worth all this pain.

  It's not worth years in prison. It's not worth any of that.

  I finish the cup of coffee that I bought inside and open my phone once again. I know that I will probably be tempted to call her again, but for now, the pep talk that I just gave myself seems to have worked.

  I have done some of the research on how to get a new identity, but now it's time to get down to the nitty-gritty.

  I search and I read until I figure out a way to get onto the dark web and onto the forums where all of these bank accounts and identities are sold.

  Even though there are cheaper ones available, I spend $1,700 on a complete set: new driver’s license, bank account number, United States passport, and a credit history.

  The identity doesn't come with a specific career option, but I could buy a college degree for an additional $500. Luckily, the credit card companies don't check actual pay stubs but rely on your statements of what your job and your salary is.

  I put in a modest amount of eighty-eight thousand dollars, something that won’t draw too much attention one way or another. The credit history isn't particularly extensive, but with that salary, it's enough to get the credit card with a $10,000 limit across three cards with pretty high interest rates.

  I work in the Walmart parking lot for hours this afternoon. I work so long that my phone runs out of its charge twice and I eventually just plug the USB cord into the car charger.

  Around six o'clock this evening, I have almost everything I need. I even open a day trading account with Robin Hood, an online stock trading app. I buy some blue-chip tech stocks like Amazon, Facebook, and Apple and then start reading forums and doing research on other promising companies.

  I haven't been involved in stock trading in years and I have forgotten how interesting and stimulating it is to make these bets. Stock trading is basically legalized gambling except if you lose one day, you don't have to realize those losses. You could just let them ride and hope that the stock price goes up in the future.

  Around nine p.m., I head back into the Walmart and buy a notebook and some pens along with some fruit and another coffee. I've been eating the junk food that I took from the cabin, but now I’m craving something nutritious and healthy.

  When I get back to the car, I transfer over all of the notes that I took on my phone and continue doing research well into the night. I need to go back to the campsite, but the reception will probably be bad there and I'm on a roll. The cup of coffee keeps me going well into the night.

  Eventually, I crash.

  I don't have the energy to drive all the way back so I just stay here in the parking lot, setting an alarm for three hours ahead of time to make sure that I wake up before any security guards make their rounds.

  When I do rise again, this time I'm not tired or sore. I open my eyes and immediately remember to reach for the journal to go through all of my notes.

  The stock market has already opened in New York and I'm up about $200.

  I sell the stocks and realize the gains.

  Then I go through my notes and make new purchases.

  This was how I got started all those years ago. This is how you day trade.

  You buy in the morning and you sell in the afternoon. You hope that things are good and the losses aren't bad.

  After a while, $200 here, $400 there, that sort of thing. It's a slog to do it every day.

  Day trading is a job just like any other except you have an actual quantitative value by which to assess the quality of your day.

  The next afternoon I go to a motel.

  I use my fake ID, the old one, the new one that I just got from the dark web isn't going to be delivered to the PO Box that I had just set up for another couple of days. I decide that I won't stay here more than two days, but it's good to have a roof over my head.

  I try to relax and even watch television, but my mind keeps racing. I had forgotten the rush that I got from working all the time. It's exhilarating and addictive.

  It makes me forget to eat, rest, and relax. It was always something that I hated before, but now it puts me at ease. Now, I can just bury myself in my work and I don't have to feel the pain that Isabelle has caused me.

  I did this once already. I used my savings to grow my nest egg to something worth millions of dollars.

  I did it once, I can do it again.

  The following day, I have a setback. I was $500 under or rather, I would lose $500 if I were to sell the stocks. I don't.

  I put in limit orders and wait for them to go up. I will only sell them when they reach the limit where I make a little bit over breaking even. I turn my attention to other stocks and other companies and read everything that I can find on who runs them, what they do, and the culture within the company.

  The next day, I'm up $300 and the one after that I'm up another $700.

  After a week, I become used to the ups and downs of this business. The money no longer represents something that I can use to buy things, but rather they are just numbers on a page.

  I want the numbers to keep increasing until… I don't know until when. A while ago, I thought that I would just start my life with the $92,000 that we had and that that would be enough.

  Now I wonder why I would need to settle for so little.

  24

  Tyler

  The next couple of days go by pretty much the same. I collect all of my research and I annotate. I have up days and down days.

  On my up days, I make $300-$500 and on my down days, I lose about $200. This isn't unexpected. This is just how the game is played.

  At the end of the month, at the end of the year, you just want to be up more than you are down. I finally feel comfortable enough to set certain goals.

  For instance, I want to clear $50,000 by the end of the month. I'm not sure if I'm going to make it all the way, but I hope that I can get close. I'm going to pay off some of the credit cards and then spend the rest on reinvesting in the business.

  Fifty grand sounds like a lot, but it's a long way to go to a million. Once I’m closer to fifty, I'm not going to buy and sell so aggressively every day. There are going to be certain stock positions that I'm going to keep for a long time, meaning a few months.

  A couple days later, I apply for another credit card, this one with a lower percentage rate. I'm surprised when I'm approved.

&
nbsp; It's Friday and the market closes so I decide to take a break.

  Looking out of the window, across from my motel, I see the neon sign for the local bar. There are no lines outside, no bouncer checking IDs, and no turning away of attractive patrons. It's just a door into a building with no windows.

  Occasionally, when someone goes in, I get a glimpse of the inside. White tables, a weathered bar top, and more weathered bartenders.

  It's Friday and the place is busier than normal. I see a few people from the motel make their way over there and I want to go, too.

  It's not a good idea. I know that.

  I don't have my new identification and I'm still in California, but what if I kept my hat over my eyes?

  It has been almost a week since I left Isabelle and to avoid the pain and heartbreak, I did the only thing that I ever knew how to do, Work.

  Work has always been my go-to. It has been the thing that I turn to when times get tough and when I just can't deal with life.

  I haven't worked in a really long time. Not like this. The monotony and the cacophony of working in prison laundry stops you from using your mind.

  You become just your body and nothing else. You lift heavy things, you throw, you fold. I used to think that it was better not thinking there, but it's never good to not think. Your mind, and keeping your mind engaged, is what makes you survive through all the hardships.

  About a year into my sentence, when I realized that I was probably never going to be getting out of there, I gave up drinking prison wine and smoking prison marijuana and went clean.

  Drugs and alcohol help you survive on the outside, but for prisoners, they’re almost a necessity. They also dull your senses and make the time harder to do.

  I was never much into religion or spirituality, but I started to meditate. I read about mysticism and I thought about life on another plane of existence.

  None of the other stuff stuck, but meditation did. So, I’d close my eyes and imagine being somewhere else. At first, it was difficult. Prison is loud and I could only do it at night.