Megan MIRANDA - The Perfect Stranger

I had just about drifted to sleep when I jerked awake from the sound of her voice, unable to tell whether it was from nearby or a dream. I was straddling that line, and I searched the house just to check. Called her name in a voice just above a whisper. Because in my semiconscious state, the word I’d heard was Leah .

After I’d finished checking the house, I saw a cruiser out front. I watched out the window with a glass of water in my hand, standing in the dark kitchen with nothing but the light from the open refrigerator, but I couldn’t tell who it was. I pretended not to notice him and climbed back into my bed. Had those half-sleeping dreams where everything felt too close to real and then too far away.

KATE TURNER KNOCKED ONmy open classroom door Friday morning. Of all the teachers, she was probably closest to me in age. She was also new this year, having moved from out of town, and by all accounts we should’ve been friends from the start.

But she had done a better job assimilating, and our slide toward friendship had been slower, more halted. The one time we went out for lunch, back during orientation, we’d had very little to talk about. “Divorce,” she’d said as an explanation of what had brought her here.

Meanwhile, I was too busy sticking to my line, as a defensive maneuver. “Looking to make a difference,” I’d said, which shut down the conversation pretty quickly. I realized now what a transparent lie that had been. She had nodded agreeably, but that was the last honest piece of information she’d bothered sharing.

Now she was a sympathetic smile in the doorway. Maybe she had only wanted company to begin with, in her heartbreak. Now she could probably see the misery written clearly across my face. We had both picked up and moved to start over. She must’ve seen it on me that first lunch, perfectly obvious. Who the hell had I been trying to fool?

“Pretty rough week, huh,” she said. Pretending, for my benefit, that we had all come under the same scrutiny, were all shaken and fighting our way through.

I nodded, gathering everything up.

She leaned against the doorjamb, her dark curls brushing her shoulders. “I thought I’d only miss my ex – who was a real piece of shit, by the way – when I needed someone to reach the smoke detector batteries. But I can’t say I’m looking forward to going home by myself for another weekend, either.”

I wondered whether she was nervous. If she missed the protection of living with another person. “They’ve got cops watching the Cobb house,” I said. “He wouldn’t do anything.”

She shook her head. “Apparently, it might not have even been him to begin with.” She saw the look I gave her, changed her approach. “Well, either way, one woman who lived alone, fighting for her life in the hospital, is enough. I can’t keep my mind from going to the dark place.”

I didn’t know what she wanted me to say or if she was gearing up to tell me something.

“Anyway, I was hoping you’d be up for joining me for a drink.” And before I could object, she said, “I could really use a night out, with no pressure to flirt with random guys at the bar. Just to get out. What do you say?”

I could really use a night like that, too. Sitting home was full of waiting and unanswered questions, a constant fear. A day had passed, and I hadn’t heard from Kyle. Hadn’t heard if they’d picked up James Finley yet, or tracked down Emmy’s last-known whereabouts. “Yes,” I said. “I’m in.”

Her smile stretched wide, her shoulders dropping in relief. “How’s seven? Do you know the restaurant by the lake house?”

I did. It was the place Davis Cobb had taken me the first time. There was a bar on one wall, windows facing the lake on the other, booths and tables scattered throughout. The noise level was high, and the beer was cheap, and it was crowded enough to feel anonymous. It was also not too far from where I lived, which was a bonus. I hadn’t been back to it since.

“Okay,” I said. “Seven it is.”

BY SEVEN P.M., LAKESIDETavern was full, and it took me a while to spot Kate; then she stood from a booth on the other side of the bar and waved. I slid in across from her, recognizing but ignoring a few other people from school as I passed. The history teachers all out together, joined by what I assumed were a few of their significant others. An English teacher maybe out on a date. A few students I vaguely recognized, working as waiters and waitresses.

Rounds of laughter at the bar, music playing underneath, so I had to tip my head forward just to hear Kate. “Come here often?” I asked as she leaned across the table as well.

“Once or twice.” She smirked. “Only place in town where eligible bachelors seem to gather on a Friday night.”

I smiled. “And how’s that been going for you?”

She scrunched up her face, which made her seem about ten years younger than what I had guessed, mid-thirties or so. “It’s getting old. Really, it’s the same crowd each time. Kind of impossible around here to meet someone you haven’t met before.” She spoke as if this were something she’d lost – a feeling I recognized well.

“You from the city?” I asked.

Her face lit up. “Pittsburgh. You?”

“Boston,” I said.

She smiled, spread her hands on the tabletop. “Allow me to lay it all out for you, then.” She tipped her head toward the bar. “Here’s the breakdown tonight: Far end, too young. In the middle, already have dates. Over there, guys’ night. If you make a move on one, you gotta deal with the whole thing of it, know what I mean?”

Suddenly, I tried to picture Emmy here. Or Jim. I scanned the room, looking for him. For the worn jeans, the bowlegged stance. The too-long hair. Thought he might prefer a place a notch or two below this one, now that I knew more about him. Wondered if Emmy was the same.

One of the men from Kate’s designated guys’ night slid off a barstool, leaving his beer behind. He turned around, and his eye caught mine. Kyle. With a slow smile, he raised his hand. I half-waved my fingers in response, and he continued on his way toward the sign for the restrooms.

Kate’s eyes twinkled, and she raised an eyebrow in question.

“Long story,” I said.

“Those are the best kind,” she said.

“Not this one. He interviewed me about Davis Cobb. Didn’t you speak with him, too?”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry.” She looked again, taking him in as he walked away. “Right, I guess so. I didn’t recognize him dressed down like that, and it was just for a few minutes. Sorry, Leah. I didn’t mean to pry about that. I just thought he was a cute guy on a barstool. Shit.”

I shrugged with one shoulder. “It’s fine.”

“Is it?” She raised an eyebrow. “Word on the school grapevine is the police believed he was pursuing you. Or. . seeing you. Honestly, depends on the source.”

I let out a mean laugh. “Not seeing. Definitely not seeing.” I pressed my lips together. “Truthfully, I don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on. He used to call me, drunk, is all. I ignored him. He called me the night of the attack on that other woman, but I didn’t pick up. That’s why the police keep coming back to me.” I thought of the earlier voicemails, where he might’ve been walking home from in the night. “Did you ever see him around here? Davis Cobb?”

She shook her head. “No, not that I can recall.” She took a long drink from the beer in her cup. “This is so fucked up. Do you think it was him? With the woman at the lake?”

“Can’t say. But that’s what the police seem to think.”

I also knew how the police worked. It was like those intro science courses I had to take for graduation: You form a hypothesis and work with that theory in mind, to either prove it or watch as it falls apart in your hands. As crime reporters, we worked beside the cops more often than not. Pushing their leads forward, digging up the information they couldn’t. Or the other way around – using a leak from a source in the department to get things moving. In the end, though, we all got what we came for. The truth wanted out, and we were its facilitators.