The Stranger Inside

by Laura Benedict

  Kimber thinks Brianna is anything but hopeless. As the sales staff admin assistant, she keeps all the sales staff together and half the radio station. She’s been with the group for four months and is only twenty-eight, but she keeps her eyes open and doesn’t play politics. From the beginning Kimber has made sure to be nice to her. “Treat support people better than you treat your boss,” her father used to tell her and Michelle. “They’re the ones who know everybody’s secrets.”

  “Wait! Oh my God. Everybody is freaking out about what happened to you. But I swear I haven’t said anything. I think Leeza told everyone. Did that guy leave your house?”

  “Not yet. We’re working on it.”

  “That’s super awful.”

  Today Brianna’s jet-black hair is slicked back with a bright blue papier-mâché flower stuck on one side. Her lipstick is the same hue as the flower, her blue-gray eyes rimmed in black. She looks a bit like a toy doll in her white Peter Pan–collar blouse. A pink shirt or sweater hangs over the back of the driver’s seat.

  “Are you going to be gone all week, do you think? I’ll keep you posted on what’s going on.” She leans toward Kimber. “There’s some weird stuff with Leeza and the corporate types. Be sure to see me if you come by, okay?”

  “I have to say, work is the last thing on my mind right now.”

  Troy, her ex’s partner, opens the door before Kimber can ring the bell of the sage-green and gray Victorian townhouse. Once she had her own keys to the house, which is in Lafayette Square, on the park. When she and Shaun bought it years ago, ivory paint was peeling from the brick, and she painted the front door brilliant red because she read somewhere that red doors were tasteful and traditional. She was looking for stability back then and thought she could find it in things like red front doors and a husband who was a really nice guy.

  Troy speaks quietly, his words carefully clipped, as always. “Shaun’s sleeping. He came home early to take a nap.” The loose lavender crew neck he wears over flawless white jeans makes his blue eyes look even bluer. Or perhaps it’s a combination of the lavender shirt and the subtle liner around his eyes. He owns a men’s clothing store he inherited from his father, and studied design at university. It’s oddly comforting to her that while Troy is not bad looking, his mouth is a little too wide, his lips just a bit too full, to let him be considered truly handsome. Still, he’s smart and compassionate, and she has to admit he’s been very good for Shaun.

  “I talked to him five minutes ago.” Beyond Troy, Shaun makes his way down the staircase. His face is scruffy with a late-day beard, and his wavy black and silver hair is tousled from sleep. For years that handsome, vulnerable look had caused an ache of want in her. Now she’s just glad to see him. The ten pounds of middle-age contentment he’s put on suit him.

  He lifts his hand in a wave as he heads to the kitchen. “Hey, you. Come on in.”

  “Ah, I didn’t know you called already.” There’s no rancor in Troy’s voice. Shaun made it clear from the beginning that they had to get along because he loved them both. They had been careful with each other during the first year after he and Shaun became a couple. Now he kisses her warmly on the cheek before standing aside so she can come in. “The old man gets so tired, sometimes I have to blow him just to get him out of bed.”

  “Hey, I heard that.”

  She hands Troy the box with the cookies. “Price of admission. But I’ll probably eat most of them.”

  “Shaun brought some brownies home yesterday too. You want some decaf?”

  “Sounds great.” Following him into the kitchen, she thinks it likely that she’ll gain ten pounds of her own before she gets back into her house.

  “How are you doing? Any word on getting rid of the creeper?” Troy turns around to put a hand on her arm. “Hey, I’ve never touched someone who spent the night in jail before.”

  “Not that you know of.”

  He laughs. “Good point.” Troy loves to tell stories of his promiscuous days, something Shaun doesn’t seem to mind. That’s how laid-back Shaun is. Sometimes she wonders if—because Troy is only thirty-two to Shaun’s forty-six—Shaun doesn’t indulge him as he would a son. It wasn’t like she’d been very helpful in the child department.

  She’s suddenly exhausted. Maybe it’s being in her old house. Even during the years when their marriage was coming apart, she could relax here. Now the walls are painted different colors and most of the furniture has changed, but there’s still an air of safety and calm.

  “It sounds goddamn impossible.” Troy pops a decaf coffee pod into the machine. “Like something out of a movie. Does anybody know anything about the guy? I saw you haven’t put anything up online since Saturday. Maybe somebody knows who he is. I say expose the asshat. Call up one of your reporter friends. You’ve got reporters at the station, right?”

  “I tried to find him online, and this particular Lance Wilson doesn’t exist. Nothing.”

  Troy indicates Shaun with a tilt of his head. “If there’s anything to be found out about him, Shaun will find it.”

  It’s exactly what she’s been thinking. “Right. The absence of something must mean there’s something to find.”

  “We’ll find it, but I need to eat first.” Shaun opens the refrigerator and takes out eggs and Gouda and an avocado.

  “That’s my cue.” Troy pockets his phone and keys. “You know how allergic I am to food preparation. I’m due at the store in twenty for a late appointment. Modern clothes for the modern man, even if he’s eighty. Especially if he’s eighty.” He kisses Shaun on his whiskered cheek and squeezes his blue-jeaned ass. “No touching below the waist, you two. And definitely no tongue.”

  Kimber smiles, knowing he’s a tiny bit serious. He has nothing to worry about except for her getting some tears on Shaun’s broad shoulders.

  Shaun cuts off a bite of omelet, and the melted, smoky Gouda stretches as he lifts the fork away. He offers it to her. “You sure you don’t want any eggs?”

  “Diana’s been stuffing me with muffins and eggs, and, you know…” She holds up her half-eaten cookie.

  “The jail thing was rough. I wish you’d called me. Maybe I could’ve gotten you out sooner. Why do you always have to do things the hard way?”

  She bristles at the criticism. “He pissed me off, and I lost it. I don’t have any excuse if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “How’s Claudia taking it?” Shaun and Kimber’s mother had been close until the divorce. Claudia liked Shaun so much that she probably would have preferred to get him in the divorce rather than her own daughter. But then she learned that Shaun was bisexual and dating a man. That she let her disapproval of “the gays”—as she put it—overcome her affection for Shaun had deeply disappointed both Shaun and Kimber.

  “She doesn’t know yet.”

  Shaun nods. He knows her mother well enough that he wouldn’t disagree with the decision to keep her ignorant as long as possible.

  “Listen. I spent some time online, and I can’t find anything about this guy,” she says. “There were about ten Lance Wilsons on Facebook, but none of them look like him. Jenny, the old lady next door, says he does some kind of computer work and that he’s from Arizona. Still, nothing.” A knife rattles as she slams a hand onto the table for emphasis. “Before I left Jenny’s I snuck into the garage to check out his license plate. It said Arizona, but it’s a rental.”

  “Tell me you’re joking.” Shaun’s eyes narrow.

  From his exasperated tone, Kimber knows he doesn’t actually think she’s joking. “Come on. I need your support. Please. Right now you just need to listen, okay?” With his county connections, he’s one of the few people who can make a difference for her in this nightmare.

  His chair creaks as he leans back, putting up his hands. “Fine. But then you need to listen to me too. Deal?”

  They understand each other. They couldn’t stay married, but they’d always have that.

  “So Jenny says he rides his bik
e most of the time when he leaves the house, but he doesn’t look like he’s a granola cruncher. He looks—I don’t know—ordinary. But scary at the same time. I mean he’s a criminal, right? He’s scamming me, scamming everybody, telling us he’s got this lease. It’s total bullshit.” Getting up, she starts pacing. “What do I do next?” It’s a question that’s gotten way more complicated since she found the photograph in her car. If she doesn’t continue to fight for her house, there will be questions. No sane person would give up her home to a total stranger. Even though in the end she might have to let him stay. The photograph in the car wasn’t a coincidence. No way.

  “Could he be a client you had a bad experience with? Somebody you dated?”

  She has to take the chance. If she can’t trust Shaun, she can’t trust anyone. “Here’s the thing. I can’t get over the idea that I should know him. It’s frustrating as hell that I’m not sure why.” This much is true. Lance Wilson’s voice, his silhouette, the way he stands, is familiar, but her connection to him feels out of reach. He has to be someone she knew—or who knew her—back when Michelle died.

  “That’s not a hell of a lot to go on, but it’s interesting. It’s interesting, too, that the house belonged to your dad. The title was clear when he left it to you. Gabriel and I double-checked everything.” Shaun’s been in the county tax office for fifteen years and is the best researcher she knows. He knows everyone in county government and is networked all over the country.

  “It’s not like he’s saying he owns the house or anything like that.” Kimber sits down again. “He just seems to want to be there. Which is weird.”

  “Maybe it has something to do with whoever owned the house before your dad. Or even with your dad.” Shaun squeezes her shoulder. “Hey, we will figure this out. I’ll do whatever I can to get the son of a bitch out.”

  “SWAT maybe? I’d be all for that.” She attempts a smile. Even if Lance Wilson starts screaming that she’s a murderer, it doesn’t give him the right to take her house.

  Shaun’s laughter reminds her of all the times they sat here in this kitchen making plans, and how those plans had slipped away so easily.

  “You want to stay here with Troy and me? I found a robin’s nest with broken shells in it knocked out of a tree, and he redid the whole guest room around it. You’re welcome to roost for the duration.”

  “Har, har.” Shaun has a weakness for bad puns.

  Part of her wants to say yes, to snuggle into their cozy guest room and cover herself with a comforter that was surely handmade by French nuns or a textile designer Troy met in Belize. Lance Wilson couldn’t touch her here.

  “Thanks, but Diana’s feelings would be hurt. She’d worry she was a shitty hostess.”

  “Fair enough. Shoot me everything you and Gabriel have on this guy. You didn’t happen to get the license plate number, did you?”

  “No, but I know the name of the rental company.”

  “Okay. Stay away from your house, Kimber. I mean it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  September 199_

  Michelle watched her father carefully over dinner. As usual, Kimber was showing off, telling some long sob story about how she would’ve gotten the best grade on her history test if the girl next to her hadn’t cheated off her paper.

  “So then, after class, the teacher makes me talk to him and says, ‘You know the policy. It’s clearly spelled out in the student handbook. You automatically lose fifty percent of your grade if another student is caught copying off your paper.’” She mimicked the older man’s bass voice, trying to sound like the guy from the 7UP commercials that were on when they were little.

  Their father couldn’t stop the grin playing at his lips, but their mother looked unimpressed.

  “He doesn’t sound like that,” Michelle said. “Are you sure you didn’t know she was cheating off you?”

  Kimber gave her a scathing look. “What would you know? I studied for it. I would’ve gotten an A.”

  Michelle didn’t take the bait. Sometime in the last two years Kimber had grown vindictive and less trustworthy. She blackmailed Michelle over little things, like being on the phone too late at night, and frequently threatened to reveal the modest pot stash Michelle kept in the hidden drawer in the antique rolltop desk in her bedroom. They’d never been very close, but there was even more distance between them now that Kimber was at the high school. Between worrying about Kimber spying on her and the increasingly disturbing notes showing up in her locker, both home and school were feeling like very unfriendly places. And it was still only September. She was taking as many shifts at the steakhouse as her mother would allow. If only she were going to college the next year instead of in two years. At least her mother occasionally let her drive the Audi to work. If she sometimes said she was going to work but actually went driving on her own, or to a party, she wasn’t hurting anybody. The trick was to not let Kimber find out.

  Sometimes she missed hanging out with Kimber. She’d been a fun little kid, talking Michelle into adventures, like riding roller coasters and building forts in the woods behind their house, which they stocked with food sneaked out of their pantry. Kimber had been the one to convince their father to buy illegal fireworks and set them up by the pond at the back of Mimi and Granddad’s place in the country. That had been the best Fourth of July in Michelle’s memory. Even her grandparents—who didn’t care much for their son-in-law—had been amused, if not a little impressed.

  That night, after she was sure Kimber was asleep, Michelle wrote in her diary about the two most recent notes, then carefully folded them so they would fit in the diary’s back pocket. Then she quietly put a chair against the closet door and climbed up to open the long, narrow cabinet above it, hiding the diary within arm’s reach.

  She was no prude, and God knew her friends’ and sister’s language wasn’t exactly clean when there were no adults around, but the vulgarity in the second two notes made her stomach turn.

  Your father sleeps with his dick in his hand.

  The words forced her to think about her father in a way she couldn’t bear. For a brief time she’d wondered if Kimber had written the notes, just because Kimber could be weird. But Kimber adored their father and lived for every minute he spent with her. It didn’t mean that Kimber was their father’s favorite, but it was clear Kimber thought so.

  Because of the notes, Michelle had begun watching his movements closely.

  “Why doesn’t Daddy ever leave us the phone numbers for the hotels he stays in?” she asked her mother.

  “Because he always calls us, silly.” Her mother laughed. “I can’t think of one time when I’ve needed to reach him. Our lives aren’t that exciting. Plus, he’s thoughtful about his traveling expenses. He knows Don likes to keep expenses down. Especially now.”

  Don Cameron—or “Uncle Don,” as the girls knew him—had had a rough couple of years. His wife had died of cancer, and their father had taken over as many company functions as he could. Don was back in the office regularly now and a guest at their dinner table every few weeks. He and their mother talked for hours while their father got bored and went to watch television or play Yahtzee with Kimber. Sometimes Michelle wondered why her mother had married charming and unambitious Ike Hannon instead of someone like Don. Don was gentle and serious, and, like her mother, had grown up with wealthy parents.

  It was her father’s relaxed attitude about the world that made Michelle worry there was someone out there who had good reason not to like him. Someone who had access to her locker. Her private life.

  Your dad is screwing someone who isn’t your mom. Do you want to know who?

  Of course she wanted to know.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As Kimber leaves the en suite bathroom, fresh from the shower, she hears the bedroom door click shut.

  “Hello?” She can’t help but be tense, even though she’s in Diana’s perfectly safe house and there’s morning sunshine outside. At first, she couldn’t imagin
e Lance Wilson following her here, but there’s something remote and lonesome about the big house that makes her nervous.

  No one answers. Diana often opens the windows in fall and spring, but now they’re shut tight against the oppressive August heat, and there is only the whispering of cooled air emerging from the vents. She peeks out the bedroom door. The rows of framed watercolors on the walls and vase full of fresh-cut zinnias sit in serene silence.

  It’s only when the door is closed again that she notices three shopping bags sitting on the upholstered bench at the end of her bed.

  Slipping on a pair of laundered shorts and a T-shirt, she wraps her wet hair in a towel and opens one of the bags.

  “Seriously?”

  It’s filled with tissue-wrapped clothes. As she takes out the pieces one by one, she gasps in disbelief. There are two carefully folded summer dresses, both V-neck and in patterns she might have chosen for herself, one more tailored than the other. Beneath them is a pair of white Capri pants and two pairs of soft linen shorts. Then several linen shirts in pastel colors, one a loose button-down. As she takes the clothes from the bag, she lays them out on the bed. The tags say Nordstrom, and the linen pieces are marked as having been on sale. She smiles when she opens the two shoeboxes to find a pair of buff kitten-heel slides that go with the dresses and a pair of flat Tory Burch sandals. It’s as though she’s been visited by a fairy, but she knows the fairy was surely Diana.

  Opening the third bag, she laughs. There’s more tissue, but it’s wrapped around a clutch of panties, which spill out like silky water over her hand and onto the bed. At the bottom of the bag is a diaphanous pink cotton nightgown with satin ties at the shoulders. While everything else is very close to what she’d wear, the nightgown strikes her as bridal and girlish. Still, what a surprise it all is. She realizes she hasn’t really smiled in days.