He shakes his head and hands me a piece of paper. It’s a small note, written on a page from the Bible in the nightstand.
We had to go.
It’s too dangerous to travel together.
See you later or in another life.
Thanks for everything, Mac.
I read the words over and over again. They're written in large letters and red ink.
“He's gone?” I ask.
I run over to the window. A wave of relief washes over me when I see that the car is still parked out front.
“They're gone,” Tyler says. “So is the money.”
22
Tyler
When we leave…
After we discover that Mac and Maggie have taken off with all of our money, leaving us with only the $200 that Isabelle had stashed away in her purse, we don't stick around long.
We head straight out onto the road. Isabelle keeps trying to talk to me, but I just need a few minutes, more like a few hours, to figure out how it all went so wrong.
They left us the car, but the car is compromised. I have to assume that there’s an All-Points Bulletin put out on it and every cop in the state is looking for us.
We would be incredibly lucky if this were not the case, but that's the assumption that we have to make.
“I just don't understand. How could he have gotten the money?” Isabelle keeps asking.
She's racking her brain, trying to figure out exactly when he got into her purse or how he even knew that she had kept the money in different envelopes around her bag.
“Mac is a thief,” I finally admit. “That's not why he was in prison, but that was how he had made his living for a long time. He was a professional thief.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don't know how else to say it.”
“Like he would break into liquor stores and rob them?”
I shake my head and say, “Like he would break into banks, steal thousands of dollars, and get away with it. Like he would steal paintings that are worth half a million dollars. Like he would get expensive jewels from high-end jewelry stores. He was an expert in that sort of thing. He told me all about it. For a long time, he worked with different guys. One of the best was this guy named Nicholas Crawford. They did the biggest jobs together out in New England, mostly around Cape Cod and the Hamptons, where all the rich people have their second homes. He’s the one who taught him everything that he knew.”
“Why did he have to steal from me?” she asks in that innocent, wide-eyed sort of way that breaks my fucking heart.
“He needed the money and that's what he does. Mac doesn't have allegiance to anyone but himself. Maybe that makes him cruel or egotistical, but that's also what makes him a survivor. I didn't realize that he knew that you had the money. Did you tell Maggie?”
She shakes her head vigorously from side to side.
“Then he must have searched your stuff when we weren’t looking. He probably assumed that you had some money and when he made the decision to split, that’s when he took it.”
“How could he just take off like that? He doesn't even have a car.”
“There was a truck stop right nearby. Nobody hitchhikes anymore, or so everyone says, except that truckers still pick up strangers and hitchhikers will gravitate toward truck stops to get where they need to go.”
“So, you think a trucker is giving them a ride?”
“Probably. They’re a nice-looking couple. Safe. Why not?”
She keeps asking me questions about Mac like it’s somehow going to change what he did.
I tell her as much as I know, which isn't really that much at all. I know that he had a past, but I never thought that he would cross me like this.
At one point, Isabelle gets so frustrated that she begins to cry. I want to pull over and put my arm around her, but when I put on my blinker to get off at the exit, she stops me. She wipes her eyes and says to keep going.
I know that we need to get rid of this car, but I'm not sure about trying to hitchhike. If the cops know about the car, then they also know what she looks like.
I ask her to look up stuff on Google and read any new reports. There's no guarantee that the cops aren't keeping the information private, but at least it would give us something.
Isabelle searches her phone for a while without saying much and I appreciate the silence. It's nice to be able to relax even when I probably shouldn't be.
I turn up the music of Nirvana’s “Heart Shaped Box” and I take myself mentally out of the moment to another place where things aren’t so fucked up.
“I couldn't find any articles about me in any of them,” she says, turning down the volume before the song is over.
“Well, that's a relief.”
“I guess,” she says.
“They could be lying. They could be keeping some information private.”
She gives me a nod.
“It could be the truth,” she says. “We have no way of knowing if that cop knew anything about who we really are. We have no idea why he was going to pull us over again.”
“It was probably nothing good.” I point out.
“Yeah, that's true, but it doesn't have to be about the truth. Who the hell knows? You might've had a broken taillight. Maybe he had another question. From what I've read and I've read a lot of stuff, there's no mention of me and there's no mention of this car.”
“That's good,” I say, trying to be more positive about the situation.
“Maybe we should take it at face value,” Isabelle suggests. “We have no evidence that this is not true. If we overreact and get rid of the car, if we try to hitchhike, that's just more of an opportunity for the cops to catch us.”
I agree with her and also say, “I think that it might be a good idea for you to change your appearance.”
It takes me a bit to convince her, but eventually she agrees.
Maggie and Mac know what she looks like and if they are caught, then they will give a certain description to the cops.
If her look doesn't fit that description, then there's a good chance that a random passerby won't be able to identify her.
23
Isabelle
When I change…
Tyler keeps urging me to color my hair and to chop it off, but the fact that I have to do this just makes me angry.
I know that he's right. I know that it's probably the safe thing to do, but every decision that I have been making is bringing me closer and closer to going to prison.
“How did I get here?” I ask myself as I wander through the aisles of the Rite Aid somewhere in Nevada.
I don't want to color my hair and I don't want to cut it. It doesn’t seem like a big deal, perhaps it wouldn’t be for anyone else, but for some reason it's almost devastating to me. It seems like this is the outward manifestation of every bad decision that I have made ever since I met him.
I look at the hair colors and go with a light blonde color. It reminds me of the Sun-In I used to put in my hair in high school. The dirty blonde, a few shades lighter than my natural mousy brown, is a better match for my skin color than the darker color that Tyler wants.
Along with the box, I also pick up a baseball hat, scissors, and some additional makeup. Mac and Maggie have only seen me in my travel, without makeup look. Something tells me that if I dress myself up a little bit, I will be a lot harder to recognize.
I walk past the aisle of lipsticks and debate whether I should go with a bright red. I buy it and another shade of light blush, a more neutral tone.
We only have $200 and I know that this is a major splurge, but I don't give a fuck. Tyler owes me big time for everything that I have gone through and I expect him to pay me back. He keeps promising me that he will.
That silent partner of his is supposed to make all of our problems go away, but something in the back of my head makes me think that maybe things aren’t going to be that rosy once we get to California either.
Tyler wa
nts to drive through the night and I'm fine with that as long as I can take a nap in the back seat. We stop briefly at a truck stop so that we can get some dinner and I can color my hair.
It takes about half an hour to process so I sit in the shower room and scroll through the news on my phone. I keep checking to see whether they have linked my name or face but find nothing.
So far, I'm good. If the cops are suspecting my involvement, then they are not saying so publicly.
My new hair turns out even nicer than I thought it would. It brings out the green in my eyes and actually makes me look quite pretty.
“You look awesome,” Tyler says back in the car. “Do you want to pull over on a dark road and let me do some bad things to you?”
I laugh.
“Do you think I'm kidding?” he asks. “I’m not.”
“Do you like it short?” I ask, pointing to the new hairline that falls right above my shoulders.
“It's probably not short enough, but yes, it looks really good.”
“Not short enough?” I gasp. “What are you talking about? That’s like two inches!”
“Exactly. I was thinking of something close to your ears.”
“No, no, no,” I say and shake my head.
“Okay, fine, I'm not going to make you. I just want to protect you.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say.
Tyler reaches over and places his hand on my knee. I put my hand on top of his and squeeze tightly.
Holding his hand in mine makes me feel very safe. I know that's probably a stupid thing to think, despite everything that has happened, but I like how he makes me feel.
Before I met Tyler, my life was fraught with anxieties. Somehow, they have all been supplanted by real fears, but still, with him by my side, I feel safe. Safer than I have in a long time.
“I'm kind of glad that Mac isn't here anymore,” I say after a long pause. “Maggie, too. It's nice just being here with you.”
“I know what you mean,” he says, giving me a smile as we drive further and further into the dark desert.
24
Tyler
When we get there…
It's early morning when we finally pull into Palm Desert, California. It's so early in fact that I feel like we have to waste some time before we can actually stop by for a visit. It has to be at least after six.
Tessa lives in a very unassuming development at the end of a cul-de-sac. Actually, it seems like the whole city is one development after another. Some are gated, most are sprawling and expansive.
The ones with golf courses have guards and little booths out front with large gates that slide in and out. Some have enormous fountains to welcome visitors and residents. Most are lined with tall palm trees.
Luckily, for me, Tessa’s house doesn’t have a guard or a gate. It’s just a cul-de-sac nestled among ten others, bordering a busy street.
The sky is blue, without a cloud for miles. The humidity is low and the sun is harsh. It's not even morning really and the sun feels stronger than it ever felt back home.
Without the cloud coverage, there isn't anything holding it back. That’s what’s appealing about this. Most residents are men and women in their 50s and 60s who start their days early by either jogging, cycling, or walking their pooches.
I glance over at Isabelle who is still curled up and asleep in the back. I decide that there is no reason to rouse her and instead park near a No Parking sign and wait until it becomes a more reasonable hour to accept uninvited guests.
Around seven a.m., I start to feel myself drift off under the warm California sun. My mouth is parched and I finish the last of the bottle of water I got in Nevada hours ago. I wish that I had pulled into a gas station or Starbucks for some coffee, but I was worried about being caught on camera.
“Are we here?” Isabelle asks, sitting up and stretching out in both directions.
She moves her head from side to side and then holds her neck up as if she has a crick in it.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I must've slept funny.”
“Honda Accords are not known for their comfortable sleeping arrangements,” I joke.
She peeks out of the window and looks up at the enormous palm tree.
“We're here,” she announces with a smile. “We're actually here?”
I give her a slight nod. “That's her house right over there.”
“Why didn't you wake me up earlier?”
“It’s still early. She is an early riser but I didn’t want to bother her at six.”
“Yeah. That’s probably a good thing,” Isabelle agrees, “since you are asking her to pay you a lot of money.”
“Hey, it's my money. She owes it to me.”
“I wasn’t saying that it wasn’t.” She smiles.
After climbing into the front seat, Isabelle looks around.
“Honestly, I never thought that someone that wealthy would live here.”
“You don't think this is a nice neighborhood?”
“Of course, it is. I mean, you can see that just by looking at it, but is it a very wealthy neighborhood? Like Kardashian wealthy? Like ten million-dollar homes wealthy? I don’t know.”
I agree with her. It looks like an upper middle class place with manicured lawns. There are no weeping willows or impressive oaks like we have back east, but the landscaping is well-maintained and pristine.
“How much longer do you want to wait?” Isabelle asks.
I look at my phone. It's half past.
Tessa is an early riser and she's probably getting her morning coffee. It's not the best time to visit an old friend, but I don't have the energy to wait any longer.
“Let's go,” I say, getting out of the car.
“You don't want to park in front of her house?” Isabelle asks.
I shake my head no.
I don't want any of her neighbors who all park their cars in their garages taking note of a strange car in their cul-de-sac. If it’s out here on the main street, then no one is going to pay attention to it.
Tessa Henderson lives at the end of a cul-de-sac, about five houses in. There are only twelve houses all around, but with their two or three car garages, it takes a good five minutes to walk to her place.
Her front door is hidden around the corner from her garage and is surrounded by lush green hedges and purple flowers spilling over the top. There is a grandiose Pepper tree, tall and magnificent, right up front.
The front door is surrounded by windows on both sides, the kind of luxury that only people who live in safe neighborhoods allow themselves.
I look for a knocker, but it's a modern door and it doesn't have one. There is a small doorbell to the right side, hidden in the wall.
Isabelle stands a little bit behind me.
When I press the buzzer, a loud piercing sound consumes the house. I see a tiny little dog fly out from the corner and bust ass toward the front door.
Fearless and full of venom the way that little dogs tend to be, she stands on her back legs and challenges me with all of her might.
A moment later, Tessa walks up to the door. She’s dressed in an embroidered bathrobe with her hair up in a turban. She reminds me of some sort of exotic widow from a fifties movie.
I have never seen her look this way. Usually, she is dressed in an unassuming and serious way.
Nothing too flashy. Nothing too opulent.
Yet here she is answering the door in a robe that you’d imagine a Vegas lounge singer would wear on her days off.
I can feel Isabelle’s body tense up behind me, but as soon as Tessa opens the door and throws her arms around me, we both let out a sigh of relief.
“Tyler? Is this really you?” she asks.
Before I can answer, she pulls me inside, along with Isabelle and shuts the door quickly behind us.
“Is this really you? You look great!”
“You, too,” I say, pointing to her attire.
“Well, you get bored wearing the same
exact bathrobe all the time, you know?” she asks casually.
“This is my friend, Isabelle,” I say, turning around.
25
Isabelle
When I meet her…
I can tell that Tyler was nervous coming here, but Tessa actually puts me at ease. She has a motherly type of demeanor even though I don't think she has kids.
I like her robe and her plush pink turban. I like the casual way in which she pops up her glasses and uses them to accentuate her sentences.
She doesn't seem annoyed that we’re here so early and gets busy making breakfast and coffee. I keep insisting that I don't want anything, but she practically bullies me into eating her pancakes.
“It's so nice to have guests,” she says. “Especially, a longtime friend who I haven’t seen in a while.”
“So, you have known each other for a while?” I ask.
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“A few lifetimes at least,” Tyler adds.
The two of them reminisce a bit about the past. Tessa tells me about getting her PhD at the University of Pittsburgh.
“I majored in organic chemistry,” she says. “I got offered a job at a lab but I wanted to continue going to school so I ended up going to grad school. After that, I worked in a lab for many years. It was rewarding. I wish that I’d tried teaching, but I didn't.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“I like to keep to myself. I don't like a lot of interactions and interruptions throughout the day.”
“Really?” I ask, finding that hard to believe given how nice she’s being now.
“Well, it's not every day that you see a ghost,” she says, leaning back against the kitchen counter and looking Tyler up and down.
I open my mouth to ask her more about that, but Tyler beats me to it.
The Perfect Cover (The Perfect Stranger Book 2) Page 11
