The Perfect Lie (The Perfect Stranger)

by Charlotte Byrd

  Now it's five on the dot.

  I get out of the car.

  I still haven't decided.

  I walk past the dumpster and look inside. It has recently been emptied. If I throw this bag in there, it's going to be the only thing at the bottom.

  I pace back and forth nervously. I bury my hands in my jacket and start picking my nails, trying to make my anxiety go away, but it only makes it worse.

  What the hell do I do?

  How do I make this decision?

  Suddenly, I realize that I have made a mistake.

  If I had told Tyler about this, he could have come with me and been a lookout. If we were both here, then we would stand a better chance of making them live up to their end of the deal.

  I am filled with regret and it feels like the heaviness of a wet blanket is wrapped around me, chilling me to my bones.

  My phone goes off. I look down at the screen and see that it's Trisha, my boss. I don't answer and then she sends a text message.

  I've been trying to reach you for a while, Isabelle. Please call me back. If I don't hear from you tonight, then you should look for another job.

  My heart skips a beat and I shake my head, saying, “No. No. No.”

  I've had a lot of days off, but I also haven't been particularly responsive.

  I can’t deal with this now. I can't even think about this now. I look in back of the dumpster.

  Do I throw the money in there or not?

  It's now 5:15.

  No one is here.

  Maybe they’re just waiting for me to do it. They don't want to see me.

  The dumpster is so deep and empty, it will be quite difficult to climb in there and retrieve the money if I need to. I decide to wait for their call instead.

  A white van pulls up next to me. The door slides open and three men jump out and pull me inside.

  When I try to scream, someone covers my mouth with their hands and blindfolds me.

  Then everything goes black.

  17

  Tyler

  I walk along the lake for a while. My shoulder starts to throb along with my arm, but the exercise feels good.

  I need to do this more.

  Physical activity is important to any recovery even though it's probably the last thing that you want to do.

  I pick up a few pebbles that look interesting and slip them into my pocket. They’re smooth, soft, and wide.

  As I walk back, they remind me of being here. They are little souvenirs of the cabin and a time that I will never forget.

  The sun starts to set and I watch the explosion of fuchsia and reds all across the sky. It paints the world and makes everything sparkle.

  Suddenly, I realize that everything can be so much simpler than I’m making it out to be.

  I love Isabelle and she loves me. I should buy a ring and ask her to marry me.

  When things were at their worst with Sarah, I promised myself that I would never marry again. Being with Isabelle, I know that she deserves that kind of commitment.

  I want her to be my family and I want to be hers.

  I feel myself getting giddy thinking about it. Even if I am wavering, maybe I should ask her anyway.

  I want to show her how committed I am to her. I want to show her that if she were to give up her life and start a new one with me, then it wouldn’t be for nothing.

  A smile appears on my face and I can't make it go away until the sun disappears over the horizon.

  I force myself to walk back to the cabin. She's waiting for me there and I can't wait to take her into my arms.

  When I get home, Isabelle is not there.

  I see the note that she left on the coffee table and I close the curtains to keep the night out.

  I go to the kitchen and try to figure out what to make for dinner when she gets back.

  I haven't opened the refrigerator all day and much to my surprise, I realize that it's full.

  I wonder why she decided to go to the store. Maybe she's getting takeout?

  I text her, but she doesn't respond. I decide to put the food aside for a while and not make any decisions until she gets back.

  I turn on the television and sit down on the couch, taking another aspirin to relieve some of the pain shooting up my leg.

  There's a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” I say, not wanting to get up.

  The door opens and an unfamiliar voice says, “Hi.”

  “Oh, hello,” I say, jumping up from the couch and immediately regretting it as I start to limp.

  “Hello, is Samantha here?” the older woman asks from the doorstep. I don't invite her in, but she takes a few steps into the foyer anyway.

  I guess Isabelle said that her name is Samantha so I go with it.

  “She's just getting some food at the grocery store,” I say. “My name is…”

  My mind goes blank for moment, making it impossible to come up with a plausible name, but eventually I say, “Alex.”

  We shake hands and she introduces herself as Mrs. Bowden.

  “Are you a friend of… hers?”

  “Yes, we've been friends for a while,” I say, trying to be as vague as possible but still giving her some details.

  I have no idea what Isabelle has told her about herself, but I do know that she said that she was going to be staying here alone.

  “We were just texting and I thought that I would come here and surprise her,” I say, trying to explain my sudden appearance in the cabin.

  This seems to put Mrs. Bowden a bit at ease. Her body language changes quite a lot and she relaxes.

  We stand in the foyer for a few moments, not saying anything. I should invite her in, but I don't want to. It's poorly lit here and the less that she can look at my face, the better.

  I'm not wearing my baseball hat and I just pray to God that she doesn't watch too many crime shows or the news.

  “Well, I don't want to bother you two. I just wanted to pop in and invite Samantha for drinks sometime at my house. I hope that you can both join me later tonight.”

  I'm tempted to say no, but I don't want to be rude. It would be better to just cancel later on.

  “Yes, I'll let her know. Of course. That would be wonderful.”

  “Great,” Mrs. Bowden says and I let out a sigh of relief. “If you change your mind, just let me know,” she adds. “You must've had a long drive here.”

  “Yeah, somewhat. I came from LA. So not too far. That's where we are from.”

  I realize that I have made a mistake. Mrs. Bowden stops for a moment and narrows her eyes. Isabelle must've told her something different and I should have just kept my mouth shut, but I didn't and now it's too late.

  She leans toward me, getting a good look at my face and then pulls away as if she suddenly realized something.

  “I'll be going now,” she says abruptly and rushes toward the door.

  I'm tempted to stop her, but that would just make everything worse. I have no idea what she knows, but my blood runs cold with fear.

  If I were anyone else, if I were Mac for instance, I’d probably be hitting her in the head with something hard and leaving her bleeding.

  That's what people do to protect themselves and to get out of bad situations.

  I'm not like that.

  I'm not a killer.

  That's why this mistake is so fatal.

  Mrs. Bowden is now running toward her house, locking all the doors and windows, and reaching for the phone to call 911.

  My mind and my imagination are going out of control.

  What the hell do I do?

  Where is Isabelle?

  18

  Tyler

  I pace around the room trying to make a plan. I have no idea if Mrs. Bowden recognized me, but I can’t take any chances.

  I call Isabelle's phone over and over, but she doesn't pick up. I don't say anything in the text messages, not anything specific. I just tell her to get back to me as soon as possible.

  What
the hell do I do now?

  I rush over to the bedroom and grab my bag. I throw in some clothes and toiletries as well as my phone. I then run over to the kitchen cabinet where we stashed the money and pull out all of the empty grocery bags that we put in the front.

  The money is supposed to be in a bag all the way in the back. I reach over there, feel around for it, but I don't get anything. I grab my phone, turn on the flashlight, and look again. The cabinet is empty.

  Isabelle took it; the hair on the back of my arms stands up as I take a few steps back in utter shock.

  How did this happen?

  Why did she do this?

  My head starts to spin. My chest tightens and I can't breathe.

  What do I do now?

  Why would she take $92,000? Did she leave me?

  Did she just take the money and run?

  Did she know that Mrs. Bowden was going to find me here?

  Then another thought occurs to me which I try to push away, but I can't.

  What if this is a set-up? What if she already called the cops and they're on their way here?

  I try to swallow, but my mouth is parched.

  It's as dry as a desert and I start to cough.

  I feel my legs go weak and I want to sit down, but I force myself to remain rigid.

  Upright.

  I have wasted enough time. If they're coming for me, I'm not just going to be sitting here waiting to be found.

  I open my wallet and see that I have a couple grand that Tessa had given me earlier and that puts my mind at ease.

  I still need to get a car. I have my phone, but I don't want to leave an electronic trail of evidence so I can't call Uber or Lyft. Instead I open the yellow pages and call the first cab company I see.

  I pack the rest of my stuff. I am tempted to leave a lot here, but I know that it will be difficult to buy anything on the road.

  Preferably, I won’t stop for hours, if not days. So, I take the big camping backpack and pack it with all of my stuff and then whatever groceries fit on top of it.

  I place my phone in the front pocket and hesitate for a moment. I need to get rid of it. Isabelle knows the number and if she's compromised and working with the authorities, it's just going to lead them to me.

  Still I hesitate.

  It's my only connection to her. Things have changed so quickly and I can't quite get my mind around it.

  Someone honks outside the door. It's not the cops, they don't honk. I look out the window and see that it's my cab.

  Just in time.

  I take one last look around the cabin to make sure that I didn't forget anything. Then I grab the charger out of the wall and stuff it into my pocket. When I get rid of this phone, I'm going to get another one and I'll need this.

  “I need to go to the car dealership in San Bernardino,” I say.

  The driver starts to protest because it's all the way down the hill, but I tell him that I'll pay him extra.

  As soon as we get on the main road and turn right at the light, three police cars with sirens blaring drive down the road heading to my cabin.

  My heart clenches.

  I pull my baseball cap over my eyebrows and bury my eyes in my phone. It's not on, but I want to look occupied. The driver doesn't seem to notice and the further we get from the cabin, the easier my breathing gets. Still, I know that it's not over.

  We get to a used car dealership at the bottom of the hill and I give the driver a good tip and let him go.

  If this place doesn't work out, then I can always call another cab to take me to another one, but the fewer people that interact with me in the meantime, the better.

  The guy in charge of the car lot is bored and not particularly alert. He sells old cars to people with poor credit and I hope that he doesn't look at my ID too closely.

  I tell him that I have cash and that seems to perk him up a little bit. Eventually we settle on a price of $700 for a 2002 Dodge Neon.

  It's bright red and red cars are more likely to be stopped than any other color, but I don't really have much of a choice.

  I give him cash and he takes my fake ID and writes down my name to transfer the title. I stay on my phone the whole time, careful to avert my eyes, but that doesn't seem to bother him.

  He barely looks up at me more than once, too preoccupied with filling out the paperwork and watching a recording of an old Super Bowl game behind me.

  I'm tempted to ask why he's re-watching a game that he probably already watched, but I want to make myself the least memorable as possible.

  So I keep my mouth shut and grab my phone to pretend to read something there.

  Half an hour later, I have a car and I pull out of the dealership. The weight of the world is slowly lifting with each move that I make, but I'm too focused and nervous still to do anything that remotely looks like a celebration.

  When I get on the freeway, I deliberately drive south for ten minutes. I pull into a gas station. I park for a moment to look at my phone.

  I need to throw it in the dumpster. I can’t take it with me because they’ll use it to trace my location.

  Still, it feels impossible to throw out the only connection that I have to Isabelle as if nothing happened.

  Just earlier today, I thought that I was going to ask her to marry me. I thought that I had someone to spend the rest of my life with and then suddenly I discovered that she took all of the money and I have the cops knocking on my door.

  I still don't know whether she was the one who sent the cops or was it Mrs. Bowden?

  The answer to that question will haunt me forever.

  Will I ever know?

  My chest tightens again. I miss her.

  I want to talk to her.

  I look at the phone and wait for her to reply, but she still doesn't. She took the money, which means that she has no intentions of going anywhere with me.

  How much of our relationship was a lie?

  They must have something on her. They must've been pressuring her.

  That's why she was acting so weird all morning. I had a hunch about it, but I didn't push it.

  I thought that she just needed space. I wish more than anything that I’d gotten her to tell me the truth. Maybe we could be going somewhere together now.

  “No, no, no,” I say to myself, shaking my head. “You can't think like that. You got out of there and now you just have to keep going. She betrayed you and that's unforgivable.”

  Still, I can't force myself to cut the cord completely. I write down her phone number, wipe the phone of fingerprints, take out the chip with all my personal info, and then toss it in the garbage.

  19

  Tyler

  I get back on the freeway and drive north. I have no idea where I'm going, but I need to get as far away from here as possible.

  Now that I'm no longer connected to that phone, no one will be able to track me. No one knows what car I am driving.

  This car is registered in the name that Isabelle knows, but as soon as I get to where I’m going, I'll change that registration or maybe I'll get rid of the car entirely.

  This ID needs to go.

  When I first left prison, I thought that maybe I could start my life with someone who knew me after all. She helped me, she mended me, and then ultimately, she saved my life.

  Now? She betrayed me. She took the money and she disappeared. I got out in the nick of time and if I had hesitated for a few more minutes, I’d probably be sitting in the back of a police car, handcuffed, or maybe worse, shot dead on sight.

  Cops don't usually hesitate to kill people like me, anyone that they see as a threat.

  As I put miles between me and Isabelle, my thoughts return to simpler times.

  All the fun we had.

  All of our hopes and dreams.

  I start to tear up. This is the first time that I have actually been able to think about her and miss her. I know that she did a terrible and unforgivable thing, but it was just this morning when everything
was so right.

  I start to sob. I can't seem to wipe my eyes fast enough to clear my vision.

  I should probably pull over, but the flow of traffic is going eighty miles an hour and there isn't an exit anywhere in sight.

  I take a few deep breaths and try to calm myself down. I have days and months to process all of this, but now I have to keep my mind focused.

  I can't let myself disappear into my disappointments. That's not how I'm going to survive and I have been through too much to not make it.

  I drive for hours. I avoid most of the traffic in LA by going north on Interstate 5.

  I go for the Grapevine in the rolling hills and then enter the flatlands, the fertile crescent of Central California. There's farmland as far as the eye can see.

  The cultivated and tamed earth stretches all the way to the horizon and meets the bright blue sky.

  I don't have my phone anymore and there isn’t much for reception around here. I go through static trying to find a radio station. I stumble on three Christian ones, but none of them are playing music, just preaching. When I see an exit, I scroll through again and surprisingly stumble on one that's playing Bruce Springsteen. I catch half of the song, “The River,” and he keeps me going for another two hours.

  I’m not a huge fan of music, but I like people who have good lyrics and generally gravitate toward folk rock. Bruce Springsteen and Bob Dylan are some of my standbys, the kind of music that I always like to drive to.

  When I worked all the time, I had no time to listen to anything and when I did listen to something, I preferred that it be people talking.

  I liked putting on a podcast and just letting the voices fill the room, not making me feel so alone. For a long time, work was all I had. Maybe I should've reached out to Sarah more, maybe I should've agreed to weekly date nights, but I knew that we were drifting apart and spending any more time with her would confirm that fact.

  I don't know why I keep thinking back to her and what happened to her, except that I know that she deserved a lot better than she got in her life.

  She deserved a much better husband and she did not deserve for her life to end like that.