Megan MIRANDA - The Perfect Stranger

“I’m sure you can imagine,” I said. I could not have my name tied to an official statement. I would not get pulled into an investigation where my own name might raise some flags, where I’d have to start all over again.

I felt Kyle’s knee bouncing under the table, knew he wanted to press, but he let it go. “And you didn’t notice things getting worse? Maybe because you’d recently started seeing someone?”

I held myself perfectly still. “No, I’m not seeing anyone.”

“He might think so, though. If someone was paying you extra attention.”

“No, there’s nothing like that,” I said.

The tops of his cheeks turned red. “Even I could tell, Leah.”

“What?”

“Down at the school. The way Mitch Sheldon acted when we gave him your name to call down to the office. I could tell. And the way he called after you when you left. The way he asked us what was going on afterward.”

The air in the room had changed, and I found myself holding my breath. This Kyle Donovan was something dangerous. He saw everything. Everything underneath.

I raised one shoulder in an exaggerated shrug. I’d had a feeling that Mitch was interested in more. Always friendly, willing to help those first few weeks when I felt lost in the classroom, but he was also my boss. There weren’t a lot of women our age, unattached, at school. There was me, and there was Kate, but Kate was in the middle of a divorce, the tan line around her finger still fading when we met. It was a least common denominator, nothing more. “It wasn’t anything real.”

“If Cobb saw the same things I did, he could’ve assumed.”

I drummed my fingers on the table. Tried to think of a way to put it nicely. “It was one-sided,” I said. “It wasn’t reciprocated.”

“Any reason?” he asked.

“Well, he’s my boss. And not my type.”

He nodded. “No passion, then,” he said.

I tilted my head, met his eye. Pretty sure this wasn’t a standard part of police-witness interviewing procedure.

“None,” I admitted, and the word hung in the air, filling up the room. Truth was, I liked the way Kyle saw the parts lingering underneath, even as it set me on edge. I liked that he was smart, didn’t hide it and didn’t flaunt it. I liked that he saw something in me that made him say something like that, deliberate or not.

He flipped the notepad shut, slicing through the tension. “Right,” he said. “That’s all I’ve got. Unless you have something else?”

I tried to think. Wanted him to stay. “Break Mountain Inn,” I said. “I think Emmy might’ve been working there.” I pulled out my phone, scrolled through to the picture, showed him the contact information. “I went asking around at a few motels. The guy here said he was new. Said there was a no-show he was filling in for. Maybe he’s Emmy’s replacement?”

He frowned at the photo. “Leah, we’ve got it covered.”

“I was trying to help.”

“You can help by giving us information.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” I said, pointing at the screen.

He copied down the details, jaw set, but I wasn’t sure if he was just placating me.

“If you think of anything else, you let me know, Leah.” He got up to leave and looked around the house once more. He paused at the sliding doors. Fidgeted with the lock, ran his hand up the seams.

“A better door won’t make a difference,” I said. All those cases I’d reported on. It made no difference. If someone wanted in, they got in. The majority of crimes happened with someone already on the inside, anyway. Everything else was smoke and mirrors.

“Bethany Jarvitz lived all alone. Had no family. Wasn’t from here. Nobody would’ve reported her missing,” he said. As if he were pointing out the similarities in our living arrangements. But then I thought, Maybe he’s talking about Emmy instead . How I had failed her. How long would it have been before I noticed she’d gone missing, otherwise?

“Will she be okay?” I asked. “Is she getting any better?”

His mouth flattened to a thin line. “The doctors say she suffered a massive subdural hematoma.” He shook his head. “Between you and me, they’re not sure whether she’ll wake up at all.”

I felt the air drain from the room, picturing Emmy in the hospital instead, in her place.

“I’m just saying,” he said. “That I’m glad you called it in. I’m glad you called me.”

HIS WORDS LINGERED AShe drove off, and my fingers itched. I bit the skin at the side of my thumb. Don’t do it .

But she looked like me. Her name was Bethany Jarvitz, and she lived all alone; Davis Cobb was the suspect, and she looked like me.

I was already a part of this. The least I could do was educate myself.

I sat at my laptop, typed in her name. Got a bunch of social media hits but couldn’t find that image Kyle had shown me – of the gap-toothed smile with my features, staring back. I tried the online White Pages but found nothing in the area. She probably used her cell instead of a landline. I looked through the recent local papers, but there was no reference to her name or the crime itself. If she were dead, they could print her name. If next of kin gave permission, she would be in here.

I’d have to find her. I looked up the number for media relations at the nearest hospital. Tapped my finger repeatedly on the table, debating.

I dialed the number and hit call.

I knew the lines to give, and the angles to press, and I did – until I had a statement, and my heart fluttered, and the room buzzed.

When I arrived at school the next day, I finally had a response from the phone company with my most recent bill attached. There weren’t many calls that came in on the home line other than sales calls. I recognized the middle-of-the-night hang-up, saw that it originated from a blocked number, and rolled my neck, stretching out the kink. I imagined it would be impossible to get a subpoena for a number that called once in the middle of the night and said nothing.

There were no outgoing calls in the last few weeks, and I wondered if Emmy and Jim had broken it off. There was a number that showed up in the beginning of the month, some of the few incoming calls that were not 800 numbers.

The number looked familiar in a vague sort of way, in the way names tended to blend together for me after too many deadlines in a row. But it was a local number, and I didn’t know many of those.

I pulled my cell from my purse and scrolled to the picture I’d taken at Break Mountain Inn. I zoomed in on the contact card – and the numbers matched. A lead. Something to grasp on to, to get the story moving.

I forwarded the entire bill to the email address on Kyle’s card and added a note: I think Emmy’s boyfriend, Jim, called from the highlighted number. It’s the number for Break Mountain Inn. Maybe they worked together there?

I almost dialed the number for the inn myself, had my finger over the call key of my phone, hovering, thinking. I could get the answer nice and quick. Ask for Jim, ask him about Emmy. But this wasn’t my job anymore, and Jim was too central to the case. I had to leave that first call to Kyle.

That was a move, too.

THE WHISPERS IN CLASShad started up again. The furtive glances in my direction. The shift in their approach. Izzy licked her lips when I asked them to face the board. Her hand went up. I ignored it. Someone giggled. If I hadn’t lost the class before, I certainly had now.

“Take out your homework,” I said. I scanned the room quickly for anyone who might give themselves away. Someone else preoccupied with the things only they knew, only they had seen.