The Perfect Liar

by Debra Lynch

  Before I fell asleep, I sent Rachel some romantic text messages with plenty of heart emojis.

  Women always loved the gushy stuff.

  Fourteen

  I swung my leg over the piece of shit bike my uncle had given me and wiped my brow. The sweltering day promised to hit the 90s, and I was already sweating like a pig.

  But none of that mattered because I had a goal. I pedaled the two blocks to the address I’d found on White Pages and slowed down when I reached Rachel’s auntie’s house. I let out a low whistle when I saw the neatly tended lawn and meticulously kept up paint job. The house wasn’t exactly my style. Too old fogey for my tastes. I knew exactly my taste, and it had to do with a sexy yogi who lived in Laguna Beach.

  I eased my way down the hill and let what little breeze there was dry my skin, then I turned back around to continue my recon mission.

  It was then that I saw the old bag for the first time. Madeline seemed to be in her late sixties and hoo boy did she look every second of it. What’s that old saying? Time marches on? Yeah, well, it looked like it marched all over her face.

  She rolled her wheelchair down a ramp with a watering can on her lap. I slowed my bike. Her eyes caught mine, and an electric charge went through me when she smiled like I was her long-lost friend and gave me a merry wave.

  I waved jerkily back.

  I circled the block, and when I got to the next street, I stopped my bike and found a spot where if I stood in the perfect position under the shade of a ficus tree, I could see past the palms and shrubs to spy on Madeline.

  I’ll hand it to her. For someone suffering from an incurable disorder or whatever the hell Rachel said was wrong with her, she moved her arms just fine. What with the way she worked that watering can tending to her begonias, pansies, and whatnot. Probably from all that wheelchair yoga.

  At one point, she stopped to sip from a water bottle, and her face lit up like a Christmas tree when a black cat hopped on her lap and nuzzled her chin.

  I must’ve stood in that spot for a good thirty minutes while the stifling heat seared my skin until the geriatric finally wheeled her ass back up the ramp and went inside.

  I waited five minutes, parked my bike across the street from Madeline’s, and took a selfie with her Victorian house in the background.

  Things were moving along just the way fate intended with Rachel and me. She had her going steady bracelet, and she’d invited me over for drinks. I couldn’t wait to see the house that would one day be mine.

  Of course, there was still the matter of the thumb drive, and Rachel had some crazy idea that I’d made copies of the surveillance video. Hell, yes, I made a copy. One copy which I’d saved to my laptop. But we wouldn’t need the insurance for long because once Rachel had sex with me, she’d know what it meant to have a real man, not some wimpy dude like Levi, who probably ate vegan and needed some meat on his bones.

  On the night I started my recon mission of Rachel’s house, I parked my car as far away as possible from her beach home and made the trek to the house directly next to hers.

  It stood empty and forlorn, a haunted house if I ever saw one. Somebody had tried to remodel at some point, but lord only knows what bad cards they’d been dealt. All construction had halted, a chain-link fence erected, and a no trespassing sign installed.

  The building was right on the beach. The location was great for whoever the saps were who’d eventually take over the god-knows-how-many-millions it would take to remodel to snobby OC standards.

  I arrived at the leaf-strewn gothic monstrosity around ten p.m. the night after I’d broken that dude’s arm.

  Anger still burned through me when I thought of the way that he dissed my Rachel.

  I’d started my surveillance at the Anchors Away, a dive bar one block from Rachel’s where it was easy enough to blend in with the crowd of drunks. Nice enough place if you like loud music, pool tables, and sawdust on the floor, but those partiers needed to rein themselves in from all the booze. It was a great place to get the lay of the land.

  One guy in particular stood out cuz he made so much damn noise—skinny dude in his mid-twenties, dirty T-shirt, and baggy jeans. I first spotted him at the pool table, working on a schooner of beer with a whiskey chaser and getting sloppier by the second.

  His friend had his iPhone, scrolling through YouTube videos, and from where I stood, I could see Rachel’s show. My ears perked up when skinny man peered over his friend’s shoulder and started talking trash about my girlfriend. “That skank needs to eat a greasy burger once in a while. Fuck. You can see her ribs through that sleazy top.” The wisecracks went on as the loser drank more, abusing Rachel with more vile comments until my blood reached a boiling point.

  Who the hell did he think he was? Rachel was a goddess, and she looked beautiful no matter what she wore. What kind of a way was that to talk about my future wife?

  When I saw him close out his tab, I walked outside and waited. There were cameras everywhere nowadays, but I had a plan. I’d watched him stumble to his car. Idiotic drunk driver. From there, it was easy to lure him over to the staircase leading to the beach by asking him if he wanted to buy some killer weed. I had made a show of glancing up at the (nonexistent) camera on the telephone pole and telling him we needed to make the deal down on the beach. “Sure, whatever man.”

  He hadn’t seen it coming when I cold-cocked him with my right hook. The thrill of setting wrongs right still tingled in my blood as I rubbed my sore knuckles, remembering the way it had felt to crush the bones in his face, feeling them shatter and hearing his arm snap.

  I rummaged through my pack and made myself comfortable on the second floor of the skeletal house, hiding behind what was left of the exterior walls. I was here just to keep an eye on things, of course. It wouldn’t do to have anything happen to my sleeping princess while all the late-night revelers in town stumbled drunk out of bars. Who knows what could happen to a high profile person like Rachel when some lunatic got an idea in their head that they wanted her?

  That was the start of several days and nights of my personal mission to protect Rachel. I adjusted my binoculars and settled in.

  People think that surveillance work is exciting, but it’s mostly a bunch of sitting around, eating sunflower seeds, and waiting for something exciting to happen.

  But when something exciting happened, it was da bomb.

  On night one, I’d finished two bags of sunflower seeds and a bottle of water. And what do you know? I was fortunate enough to see Rachel parade around her bedroom (had the woman never heard of curtains?) while she undressed for bed.

  My high-powered binoculars were worth every last penny I’d paid to my fence as they zoomed in on Rachel’s creamy flesh. She lifted her shirt over her head, her lustrous blond hair tumbling around her shoulders as her lacy pink bra came into view, her boobs overflowing the half cups. Then she shimmied out of her yoga pants where a matching pair of panties clung to her tight butt. Damn, I wanted to touch her.

  I slammed my hand down in frustration when she sauntered into the bathroom, closed the door, and emerged wearing what looked like a terry cloth bathrobe. What the hell, Rachel? I’d have to get her something silky when we moved in together. I can’t have my princess walking around looking like her next step in life is cold cream and curlers.

  She turned off the lights, and the house went black for the night.

  Over the few days I spied on Rachel, I learned several valuable things: mornings were for cold-pressed juice, coffee, and her yoga routine. Then that disgusting Levi dude came over, and they worked on the show together. I learned the layout of her wraparound deck, the position of her outside cameras, and, using my powerful binoculars, I watched her key in the code for her security system. On the third night, Rachel rolled her trashcans out front for the next day’s collection. Bingo!

  I stole her trash, took it home and hoo boy, I felt just like a professional investigator with my lucky find.

  I held the bloody t
ampon up to the light and smiled.

  Fifteen

  I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this excited about a broad.

  I had gone the extra mile for the romantic date of a lifetime at Rachel’s house, setting up an emergency meet with my dealer to score the Rohypnol for my beloved.

  Here’s how it worked best: I’d crush up the roofies and dissolve them in water. Makes it easier to slip in her drink. Only problem is it turns the water blue, and Rachel messed everything up from the get-go by pouring herself a hefty glass of white wine.

  I’d had everything planned—from the first sleepy nod of her head as the drug took effect to the way her pretty blue eyes would glass over. Right down to the way I’d braid her hair so she’d look young before I’d carry her to her feather bed, rip off her clothes, and ravish her with hours of vigorous sex from a hot-blooded man.

  But nothing worked out that way, did it?

  The night after our date, I woke up to Seymour’s tarantula eyes staring out at me from his terrarium. I rolled over on my sofa with a groan. My head pounded like a son of a bitch, and when I sat up, the room went all spinny. I reached a hand to my throbbing head and thought there’d be no way I’d be able to go through my morning push-ups without passing out.

  I’d slept fully clothed except for my shoes and socks. I reached down to rub itchy toes and noticed that my fingers were covered in black ink. I tried to remember what happened but couldn’t. My mouth felt wrong, and I ran to the bathroom and drank from the tap. Dammit, my tongue felt like it was on fire.

  What I did remember rushed back in my head. Rachel had looked luscious and beddable in the flowing turquoise dress she had worn just for me. And her house! It went beyond all my dreams of what kind of mansion I deserved to live in. Gleaming hardwood floors, deep-cushioned sofa, and all that expensive artwork on the walls.

  I slowly patted my pocket. When I couldn’t find the vial, I frantically turned them both inside out and even checked the top pocket of my shirt, but the flask was gone. Damn it. It must’ve slipped out when I was in the back of the Uber, and no way would I be able to track down the driver and ask if they’d found my drugs. What would I say? You see, I had this fantastic date planned with my girlfriend. Only problem is it takes a bit of date rape drug to get her in the mood. You get it, don’t you?

  Why the hell had I agreed to smoke pot with Rachel? It was only because I wanted to impress her by being an agreeable boyfriend. It had been loads of fun at first, but then my brain went south on me. Man, oh man, people weren’t kidding when they said that weed was more potent than it used to be. And what did I do? When I felt myself getting high I had smoked it down like my lungs needed the fix to survive. Toke after toke of Rachel’s organic weed and I was toast.

  What would she think of me? What kind of man couldn’t hang with a woman when it came to partying? That’s it. Right then and there, I vowed. No more. I would keep my wits about me from now on.

  The worst part about it was that my plan to seduce Rachel had never gotten off the ground.

  Now I had to get more black-market Rohypnol. People didn’t understand that some women needed a little help in the romance department. It wasn’t rape. I liked to call it a romantic lubricant.

  If they were young enough, I could overpower them, but Rachel was strong, an athlete. Nothing wrong with a chill pill.

  The phone rang, and my heart nearly burst open with excitement when I saw Rachel’s name on the caller ID.

  “Well good morning.” Hearing my beloved’s voice on the phone sent tingles up my spine. I could tell by the way her voice sounded (musical!) that she couldn’t wait to see me again. We spoke for a few minutes, and she invited me to her hot yoga class that night.

  I didn’t care if I had to crawl on hands and knees to get there. I’d be there. And then I went into babble mode. The way I talked, you’d think I was a virgin or some shit. What can I say? Rachel was my dream woman, and I was in love.

  All it would take was a well-timed roofie, and before you could say lickity split! Rachel would be on my arm, walking down the aisle to her “I do.”

  She laughed, and I could imagine Rachel stark naked, her creamy skin against her silk sheets as she lay in bed, waking up from dreaming about me.

  We made plans to meet at class, ended the call, and I rubbed my hands together. Operation Dennis’s-plan-to-woo-Rachel was coming along.

  Next moves: I called my dealer, making plans to meet during lunch for more Rohypnol. Then I considered Rachel’s pathetic Aunt Madeline.

  Time for a bit of reinforcement to lock Rachel in.

  Riding my bike would be a great way to work off the effects of last night and get ready for another fantastic date with Rachel. And this time, I wouldn’t screw up.

  I lowered my head and pedaled a few blocks, then circled back until I reached the block before Madeline’s house. Hopping off the bike, I popped the air valve cap and listened to the low hiss until the front tire went completely flat.

  When I reached Rachel’s aunt’s house, I was sweaty. But luck was definitely on my side because Madeline was out front with her watering can working away on the flower beds.

  I made a big show of huffing and puffing, my gaze meeting hers followed by an apologetic shrug.

  Her smile was immediate, and she waved her crepey arms in greeting. “Hey! Don’t I know you?”

  I gave a nod. “Yep. New to the neighborhood.”

  “Well, welcome!” She wheeled down the walkway toward me. “Oh lawdy, bless your heart. Looks like you been chewed up and spit out.”

  I stopped and kicked the front tire. “I biked fifteen miles when this happened. Can you believe it? Taking it to the bike shop over to seventeenth street to see if they can fix it.”

  Her hands slid to a stop on the wheelchair. “I’m Madeline, by the way.”

  “And I’m Dennis.”

  She extended her hand, and I realized I’d have to move to her if I wanted to shake. “Pleased to meet you.” Her veiny hand disappeared in mine, and I thought of how easy it would be to crush her bony fingers. She cocked her head sideways. “Fifteen miles? In this heat? It’s hotter than blue blazes.” She placed her hand over her heart. “You must be parched. Why don’t you have one of those fancy water packs I see all the bikers around here wearing on their backs?”

  Because I only rode a few blocks? I slapped my helmet. “I went to strap mine on before I left and it had a hole in it. Crazy bad luck. And here I am determined to get in shape.”

  She smiled. “You look in fine shape to me.”

  We stood—to be fair, I stood, and Madeline sat—a few moments listening to the birds chirping when she finally said, “Want some ice water? Or maybe my homemade sweet tea? Wouldn’t want to have to call 911.” Her eyebrows drew together. “You look like ten miles of bad road.”

  I kicked the dirt with the toe of my shoe. “If it’s no trouble.” I gave her a lost look. “I am feeling kinda weak. From the heat, that is. Tea sounds great. So long as you’re not busy.”

  She fanned her face with her hand. “Not busy at all. You need to watch yourself. It’s hotter than a jalapeño’s coochie.” She jerked a thumb toward the house. “I love this place, but would it kill them to have installed air conditioning?” She chuckled and turned the wheelchair in a swift movement. “Come on in. I’ll get you fixed up with a drink before y’all have to push your bike one second more. Young man like you shouldn’t be out here risking his life for exercise.”

  I followed Madeline up the wheelchair ramp and swung the door open for her. “Thank you kindly. So nice to have an extra pair of hands,” she said.

  We entered a spacious living room with wooden floors, an overstuffed sofa, a braided rug underneath a coffee table piled high with magazines and worn paperbacks. A folding table setup held a jigsaw puzzle scene of a harbor filled with sailboats. I fingered the puzzle and said, “Never was any good at these things. Just don’t have the patience.”

  Madeline wheeled
herself close to the table and inspected the puzzle. “Seems all I got left these days is patience. Help me with the drinks, will you, hon?”

  Early morning sun streamed into the yellow kitchen complete with an old fashioned stove. “How can I help?” I said.

  “Glasses are in there.” She pointed to a low cupboard. “My sweet tea will fix you up.” She expertly wheeled to the fridge and removed the pitcher.

  “Sit for a bit?” she said. “Life around here moves slower than a Sunday afternoon.”

  “Only if it’s okay.” I settled in on the sofa.

  “Will you quit? Settle in.”

  I took a swig of Madeline’s concoction, and the sugar hit my system with a jolt. “Whoa. You sure make a great drink.”

  “I grew up in the South. Southern Alabama, to be exact. They won’t let you into the state without memorizing the recipe. Where’d you grow up?”

  “Florida.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Never been. Is it really the vacation spot they make it out to be?”

  I fidgeted in my seat. “It’s all right.”

  “Your mom and dad still there?”

  I delivered the line that usually shut people up. “No dad. My mom’s dead.”

  “Oh my. You poor baby.”

  “That’s okay. Mom raised me right.”

  She lifted her drink. “To mothers.”

  I shook my head. “To mothers.” Mom, God rest her soul, was a gynecologist who got her medical license in the Philippines. On the third try. God help the patient stupid enough to make an appointment with her.

  “Where in Florida?”

  “Town called Opa-locka.”

  “Say where?”

  “Close to Miami.”

  Memories of my mother raced into my head. Mom thought it would be a great idea to advertise her business. We’re talking the land of slip and fall attorneys and 1-800-PAIN (code for opiate addiction). So I suppose it was no surprise that she found herself a spot on one of the late-night Miami TV stations that nobody ever watched.