Megan MIRANDA - The Perfect Stranger

NOW I STOOD OVERthe bathroom sink, staring deep into the mirror, as if I might blink and see Emmy instead.

I opened the mirrored medicine cabinet again. Her toothbrush sat at the same angle, the bristles stiff and dry. If she’d planned to stay with her boyfriend, wouldn’t she have taken it? Come back for it?

Maybe Jim bought her one. Maybe they shared one. But it was obvious now – now that I was looking for it – that she hadn’t been back. I hadn’t seen her in five days.

I was preoccupied by the empty bed, and the empty house, and the two warring sides: Don’t make a statement. But Emmy. Don’t get involved. But Emmy.

I checked the clock and out the window for the third time in as many minutes, holding tight to the hope that her car might round the bend at any moment. Went through the list of reasons I shouldn’t worry, yet again. She was a grown adult, probably staying at her boyfriend’s. It was so Emmy, honestly. Going wherever the wind took her, eventually landing here.

I checked every corner for missed sticky notes. Or forced entry. For signs of a struggle or blood.

Air, I just need some air. A clearer head.

I opened the secondary door at the end of the hall, past our bedrooms, which opened to a square of wood, one step down, straight to woods.

The afternoon light caught something on the decking. Something stuck between two boards. I used my nails to pry it out, the dainty silver chain glinting in the sunlight. The weight of the pendant – a black oval, misshapen edges – unraveling my last bit of rational calm. The chain hung from my palm, and the pendant fell off at a split in the chain itself. Two links, bent open, as if it had been ripped from someone’s neck.

The chain settled into the crease of my hand, and I began to shiver, as I had the first time I’d seen a crime scene.

I heard a car coming up the drive, and I didn’t think for a second that it was Emmy.

I raced around the side of the house to meet the cruiser moving slowly up the drive. He stopped in the middle of the lane and opened the door, his brow furrowed – this kid no older than Emmy and I had been when we first met.

“Everything okay?” he asked, one foot on the pavement, one foot propped on the floorboard. The engine was still running.

“I need to speak to Detective Donovan,” I said, gasping for breath. My hand went to the base of my throat. My pulse rebelled.

He looked beyond me at the house, as if he expected something to spring forth. A hand rested on his holster.

As if the danger were something either of us could see or defeat.

By the time Kyle Donovan arrived and let himself in through the sliding glass door, the young cop who first pulled up, Officer Calvin Dodge (as he introduced himself once he’d realized there was no imminent threat), had gone through the basics. He’d sat in a vinyl seat across the kitchen table from me, the gnome between us, while I still had Emmy’s necklace clutched in my fist.

Officer Dodge asked me the typical questions after I showed him the necklace: Was there any sign of forced entry? Did anything look disturbed?

I clenched my fist tighter as I answered every irrelevant question, No, no, but he didn’t understand. I thought of the dangers of home rentals – copied keys and old locks, a history I couldn’t begin to know. People who might’ve gained the ability to come and go without disturbing anything. To move undetected. The danger you didn’t even know awaited.

I said, “The light was on in the living room three nights ago.”

I said, “Someone called the home line and hung up.”

I said, “Something happened to my roommate.”

At Kyle’s arrival, Officer Dodge stood, placed his hat back on his head, and turned to go. He paused at the entrance to share all the information he’d gotten thus far. “She’s worried about an Emmy Grey. Her roommate,” Dodge said, and Kyle nodded his thanks.

Kyle Donovan looked like a cop again. I decided it was all in his expression, that he could turn it on at will. He projected a confident authority in the school’s front office but a relaxed demeanor in my classroom. Today he was back to authority. I wondered if he had to actively flip the switch or if something automatic came over him, as something came over me when I approached a crime a scene.

“Hey there,” he said, sitting down in the freshly vacated seat.

“Thanks for coming,” I said.

He tilted his head to the side. “I told you I would. I’m glad you called. I actually wasn’t even aware you had a roommate.”

“Emmy Grey,” I said. “We moved down here together this summer.”

“And you’d like to file a missing persons report?”

“No, something more. She’s not just missing. Something happened to her.” I unfurled my fist, showed him the necklace. “I found this on the back porch. She never takes it off.”

He narrowed his eyes at the pieces of chain. “Looks like it broke and fell off. She may not even know she’s missing it.” He leaned back in his seat, let out a slow sigh. “Look, we’ve been keeping an eye on the Cobb house. He hasn’t left today. I’m afraid this is my fault – that I’ve made you worried for nothing.”

I was already shaking my head. “No, no, not today. Before .”

He frowned, the overhead light catching the scar on his forehead. “When did you last see her?”

“Five days ago,” I said. Five days while I went about my life, barely giving her a second thought.

He blinked too long, tried to hide it. “But you weren’t worried, not at first?”

“No, she’s an adult. We work opposite schedules. But she’s late on the rent, and with the calls, your questions, and the woman found down at the lake. . I started to worry.”

He nodded. “Have you checked in with her work?”

I paused, embarrassed. A fault; the holes in our relationship. “I’m not sure where she works, exactly. A motel lobby, the night shift.” I had a feeling her job cleaning houses was all under-the-table stuff. I wondered if the motel was, too. A temporary way to pay the bills until she found something more permanent and fitting.

“Okay, why don’t we start with the basics, then.” He took out a pencil, a pad of paper, wrote her name at the top. “G-r-e-y or a-y?” he asked.

“G-r-e-y,” I said. “I think.” I knew this, didn’t I? I’d seen it written somewhere? It felt right, so I went with it. Tried to project sure and assured. “Yes, that’s right,” I said.

The lead scratched against paper, echoing through the kitchen. “Date of birth? Where she’s from?”

How to explain that I didn’t know these things. I almost said, Her birthday isn’t in June through October, because wouldn’t she have told me? But then I thought, Maybe not. Maybe Emmy thought birthdays were trivial and meaningless. Maybe she cast them aside as she had cast off the rest of her life, flying to Africa with nothing.

Detective Donovan wanted to know the facts, the type of things we report in the paper. But these weren’t the right questions for me and Emmy. I didn’t know where she was from, the names of her parents, her blood type or place of last residence.

But: the sounds she made, the lies she told the men in her bed, the hours she kept and slept. The nightmares, the way she paced the hall before knocking, and the words she said when she thought no one was listening. I knew the squeak of her mattress, restless or otherwise. I knew the arch of her spine and the sunken skin beneath her rib cage, where she once was all curve and allure.

I knew her mother was dead. I knew, like me, she couldn’t go back.