Megan MIRANDA - The Perfect Stranger

She shook her head. Shrugged. “In the library,” she said, as if the thought had just come to her.

I had a feeling she knew more – could feel her wanting me to ask something – when the overhead warning bell rang. She blinked, and in that moment before she stepped back and lost her nerve, I reached out for her sleeve. “Izzy, wait,” I said.

But she backtracked to the door – “I need to get to my locker before class” – and I had already lost her. She was slipping away, everything about her shutting down.

How had I missed her? The girl right in front of me, raising her hand, telling me, It wasn’t Cobb.

A minute later, the second bell rang for the start of class, and she returned in the sea of faces, like everyone else. Sitting in the desk beside Theo, holding herself very still, as if remembering that people were always watching: that she was both Izzy Marone, girl taking notes, and Izzy Marone, girl being watched taking notes.

I didn’t call out to her after class, didn’t ask her to stay behind, didn’t want to spook her or give her away. She had come to me in confidence, as I had asked them to do. She had listened when I spoke, and she’d found a way to reach me. But I still didn’t know what she was saying: that Theo was responsible and Cobb was not? Then why not tell someone? And it seemed ludicrous. What would Theo have to do with a twenty-eight-year-old woman down by the lake?

I was used to being an outsider, looking in. With a little distance, a little perspective, you could watch the moves on the chessboard, witness the string of cause and effect unfolding.

But this. This was disorienting. The circle happening around me, to me, because of me. Stuck in one place, you could not see everything happening outside your line of sight.

I had resolved right then that once I had something substantial – not crumbs thrown up as defense, a bunch of half-assed alternate possibilities reeking of desperation – I’d present it to Kyle, with the story already framed for him. Once I knew what was happening, so I could be absolved. So Kyle could see the ins and outs, the who and what, the logic of it all. So he would have no choice but to believe me. So he could pass it on to his boss and be believed.

But to get that, to see the thread from Emmy to Bethany to me, I’d have to see inside Bethany’s life. I had the address from the apartment front office, and I pulled in to the lot before the nine-to-five folks made it home.

The apartment complex was everything I had imagined: walk-up units with outdoor staircases, originally conceived as town-home style, though elements had been left unfinished. Wiring for the outside lights was in place, but the lights had never been added.

Cars were parked in about half the spots, though it wasn’t quite the end of the business day. There was nothing outside each individual door to distinguish it from the next. I heard the television coming from inside a few units as I walked to Bethany’s apartment on the third floor.

I checked all the normal places for a spare key: over the doorjamb, potted plants (there were none), or welcome mats (also none). I checked the staircase landing for hiding spots but found nothing.

I heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and I backed away, leaned against the rail, took out my phone, and tried to look busy – like I was waiting for someone.

The footsteps belonged to someone moving fast in heels, and they slowed as they passed – then stopped.

The shoes were low-heeled and black, attached to bare legs, black shorts, a white blouse tucked into them – a waitress uniform, I thought. The woman was about my age, maybe younger, with dark lipstick set against pale skin and bleach-streaked hair.

“Are you Bethany’s sister?” she asked.

For once, I was glad for the similarities in our faces. For the way that, if you were looking for it, you might find me in her or her in me. “Did you know her?” I asked, pushing off the railing.

“Sure, yes, I’m her neighbor.” She raised her hand to her chest. “I’m Zoe.” And when I didn’t respond, she said, “Do you have a key?” I shook my head, and her smile stretched wide. “Don’t go anywhere.”

She pushed through her apartment door, came back out a few seconds later with a plastic bag slung on her arm and a large ring of keys, metal jangling as she flipped through them. “This one,” she said. It had a piece of tape stuck to the top, with the letter B in blue pen. “I’m kind of the spare key holder around here.”

The type of person everyone trusts, whom everyone shares their secrets with. I used to be that type of person, too.

She slid the key into the lock, turned it for me. “The police came through the day after they found her, but they didn’t take anything. I let them in, made sure they didn’t go through anything they shouldn’t, but I think they’ve been waiting for you – for next of kin, is what they said, in order to look any closer. Nobody’s been here since. Do you have any information? Is she doing any better?” She raised her hand to her chest again and shook her head. Shame, such a shame. “I’ve been meaning to get to the hospital, but I share a car with Rick on the second floor. . we’re on a pretty tight schedule.” She said this apologetically.

“Everything’s the same,” I said, though I didn’t know whether that was true. I made a mental note to check with the hospital and that woman Martha again.

“Well, here you go,” she said, pushing the door open. “Are you staying here?”

“No,” I said. “I just want to get a few of her things.” I stayed in the entrance, staring at her until she realized I wasn’t inviting her inside.

“Okay, well, I’ll be next door when you’re done.” She handed me the plastic bag. “Her mail. I’ve been collecting it. Don’t really know what to do with it. I mean, I’m sure there’s bills and stuff. . ”

“Thanks,” I said, hanging it on the inside door handle.

“Let me know when you’re done and I’ll come lock back up,” she said.

Bethany’s apartment began as a narrow hallway with a coat closet. Contents: one raincoat; one longer wool jacket with pulls in the material; an umbrella in the back corner, a cobweb clinging to the inside handle. The hallway opened up to a carpeted living room, cutting abruptly into laminate flooring where the kitchen began, the wall behind covered in a row of cabinets, a refrigerator, a stovetop, and a sink. There were dishes in her sink, two glasses, two plates. Everything frozen in time.

The living room had a television on a faux-wooden stand, a cable box inside. There was an open door to the side, leading to a bathroom with a closed door on the other side – her bedroom, I assumed.

There was nothing on the surface that made me think of Emmy. But there was something similar about the decor or lack thereof. It was the things that were missing. There were no pictures on the walls or propped up on the countertops. As I moved to her bedroom, the feeling only grew. There was a simple wardrobe in her closet. A small brown jewelry box on the center of an otherwise bare dresser. The surfaces all wiped clean.

The bathroom had a white shower curtain, a single toothbrush, the surfaces uncluttered. I pictured this woman in a prison cell, suddenly set loose into the world. I could understand the lack of possessions and mementos. She had been starting fresh from nothing.

The kitchen was just as clean except for the dishes in the sink. While I was standing on the laminate floor, I detected the faint scent of cleanser, as if Bethany was used to keeping things in order, in the habit of wiping down the counters after each meal.