The Stranger Inside Page 2

  To Kimber’s dismay, Jenny doubles down on her story. Her fantasy.

  “Well, he told me he did,” Jenny says. “He told me Saturday when I took young Mr. Tuttle outside to have a piddle.”

  Officer Maby starts to speak, but Kimber interrupts. “The dog,” she says, pointing to the Yorkie sitting patiently at Jenny’s feet. “He’s named after her late husband.”

  “Ah, okay,” the officer says. Jenny nods, obviously unaware of the skepticism in the woman’s voice.

  “The man’s name is Lance Wilson, and he said he rented the house for six months. That you were going to move in with your boyfriend until you decided whether to sell the house or keep it. He’s very nice. Works in computers, I think.” She crosses her arms and rubs them with her hands. Whatever the weather, she complains that she’s cold. “As I said, he’s very nice. I took him some zucchini bread.”

  “Jesus, Jenny. How could you believe him? Don’t you think I would’ve mentioned it to you if I were going to move—or sell the house?”

  Jenny lifts her nose in an offended manner. “Well, it did hurt my feelings. I thought we were friends.”

  “I don’t even have a boyfriend—”

  The officer raises a hand. “Ms. Hannon, I need to see some identification. Does your driver’s license list this address?”

  “Why? She knows I live here.” Kimber points to Jenny. “You’re not listening, are you? I didn’t rent anyone my house! Why haven’t you gone to the door yet? I’m the one who called you people.”

  “If you could just give me your driver’s license, ma’am.”

  The ma’am gets under Kimber’s skin, as she’s sure it’s meant to. “Fine.” Fumbling in her purse, she takes out her wallet and hands over the license. “I just want you to know that I’ve been down at Lake of the Ozarks all weekend. Witnesses. There are lots of witnesses.” This is almost the truth. She spent most of her time in the cabin, reading, eating and drinking wine in the evenings, taking walks in the mornings. But there were other people staying at the lodge and in the other cabins. Surely she doesn’t need some kind of alibi. Or does she?

  Chapter Four

  Kimber and Jenny stand watching the officer, only just visible in the red light filling the interior of her car.

  “We haven’t had police stopping here since…” Jenny pauses a long moment to think, and Kimber wonders if she has dementia or has begun to hallucinate. She knows Jenny spends most of her waking hours watching soap operas. Maybe she’s slipped into some soap opera universe and taken Kimber with her. “Not since 2005, and that girl up the street had a wild party while her parents were out of town. Those teenagers did ten thousand dollars’ damage.”

  Kimber’s reminded of the things in her house the intruder could steal. I should tell the police about the gun. I don’t want to forget. Along with the gun, there’s the desktop computer and all her financial papers. He could steal her identity. Her entire life.

  “Why would you think I rented my house, Jenny? I don’t care what this Lance Wilson person told you. And if you thought it was me with him, why didn’t you come over and ask what was going on? You show up almost every time there’s a strange car in my driveway.”

  Jenny’s face crumples, making her look like a very old, sad child. Her small hands fidget with the wide elastic strip at the bottom of her jacket. “So you’re saying it wasn’t you? You didn’t rent him your house?”

  “Of course I didn’t!”

  “But how could I know that? It’s not my fault. You know my eyes are weak.”

  Being angry with Jenny isn’t doing anyone any good, and Kimber tries to sound less harsh. The problem is that the person she’s really mad at is unreachable. “We’ll see what the police do. They have to get him out. They have to.”

  Jenny says something about going inside to turn her television off and make some coffee, but Kimber suspects what she’s really planning to do is alert the other neighbors, who are surely already peering from behind their curtains. The house is still dark, except for that one upstairs window. Lance Wilson is watching from the darkness too. She can feel it.

  Every minute that passes with the officer still working in her car makes Kimber more worried that she’s going to have bigger problems than just evicting a random stranger from her house.

  There’s a lawyer who might help her. A good one. Does she dare call him? He might hang up on her.

  Why couldn’t Gabriel be there?

  You know why not, she tells herself.

  But maybe. Just maybe he’ll come.

  Her heart beats faster. He could only say no. What if she does something on her own that screws everything up?

  He’ll come.

  His number is still on the favorites list in her phone.

  You’re such a bitch for asking him.

  I am.

  Gabriel answers on the first ring, as though he’s been waiting for her call.

  Don’t be an idiot.

  “Hello?”

  It’s been months since she heard his even, clear voice. There’s a small change, though. An edge. Caution.

  Of course he’s cautious.

  “Kimber?”

  “It’s me. I’m really sorry to bother you. Is it okay?”

  “It’s okay. What’s up?”

  She tries to analyze his words. His tone. The What’s up? sounds casual enough, like he’s expecting her to ask about some trivial point of traffic law or get the recipe for the tandoori chicken and rice he used to make for her. He’s a far better cook than she could ever be.

  “It’s a legal thing, and the police are here. I don’t even know what you can do or really why I called.”

  “Are you under arrest?” Now he sounds concerned, but not upset. Just concerned. Surely lawyers get concerned whenever someone they know is arrested.

  “Don’t call me again,” he’d said. “Leave me alone.”

  “No. If you want to give me a number for another lawyer, that’s fine too. I just don’t want to screw this up.”

  “Damn it, Kimber. Tell me what’s going on.”

  She glances at the officer, who is still in the car. She hasn’t even gone to the house yet.

  “I got home tonight from a long weekend at Lake of the Ozarks. Kind of a retreat. And when I got home, the locks were changed, and Jenny—You remember Jenny, from next door?—said that some guy showed up with a woman who looked like me and supposedly rented my house. For six months! The cop—she took my license and she’s sitting in the car and she hasn’t even gone up to knock on the door. What’s she doing?” She’s breathless when she finishes.

  “Your locks were changed? That’s bizarre. You’re sure no one else has a key?” Gabriel sounds as calm as the cop.

  “Never mind,” Kimber says. “I’ll handle it. You don’t have to believe me.”

  “Wait a minute. Do you want my help or not?”

  Her irritation deflates, and she’s left feeling foolish for calling him. “Yes. But I’m sure the cop will get him out.”

  Gabriel is quiet a moment. Then he says, “If the guy’s got a lease—forged or not—it could be a problem. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Keep yourself together and don’t answer any questions she doesn’t ask.”

  As soon as she’s off the phone, it buzzes with a text. Diana, her best friend, wants to know if she’s back from the retreat. Before she can type out an answer, the officer gets out of the car. Kimber sends a thumbs-up emoji to Diana to let her know all is well and she’ll be in touch. All isn’t well. All really sucks. But it will do for now. A smiley face pops up on the screen in response.

  Kimber takes a tentative step toward the young officer. “Are you done? Will you please see if this guy will answer the door?”

  “I needed to run your information. There’s some maintenance going on in the system, so it took a while.”

  “And?” A tightness around the officer’s mouth makes Kimber wary.

  The woman looks at her tablet. “You were arrested
for shoplifting, and cited for purchasing alcohol for a minor as well?”

  Blood rushes to Kimber’s face. “What does that have to do with anything? I was in college. And I didn’t have to go to court for either of them. So no convictions.”

  “There’s no problem, Ms. Hannon. We need to have all the facts before we get involved in a dispute.” She gives Kimber a limp smile. Behind her another set of flashing red and blue lights appears, spackling the trees. More police. But are they here for the man in her house or is everything about to get even more complicated?

  As if that’s even possible.

  “A dispute? This is nothing like a dispute!”

  The second police car parks at the curb. Officer Maby says, “My colleague and I are going up to the house. Please stay out here on the sidewalk.” With that, she turns around and goes to meet the other officer, and Kimber is left alone and furious.

  Nothing is happening the way she thinks it should. What could a couple of stupid decisions she made at ages nineteen and twenty-one have to do with someone breaking into her house and forging a lease?

  Two minutes later, Officer Maby and a rangy, Lincolnesque man, with the slightest of stoops to his narrow shoulders, cautiously approach the dark porch with their flashlights leading the way. It’s then that she remembers she didn’t mention the gun. She could shout after them but tells herself it’s already too late. They’re armed and careful. Whoever is inside might have brought his own gun and not even found hers.

  Please don’t let anyone be killed.

  Half an hour earlier she was getting home, ready to grab a bite to eat, pour a glass of wine, and spend a sleepy evening on her couch watching Netflix. Now she’s thinking about people dying on her doorstep.

  The cops place themselves on either side of the front door. Officer Maby presses the bell twice in the span of a minute, and Kimber imagines she can hear its soft chimes. She unconsciously holds her breath and only inhales deeply when the overhead light comes on in her living room. Then the front porch lamps blink on, and, finally, the door opens a few inches.

  It’s happening. It’s real. He is real.

  From what she can see of Lance Wilson from the sidewalk, he looks disappointingly ordinary. She imagined someone slick and sinister, but he’s dressed in a dark T-shirt and blue jeans, and looks at least as old as she is. His hair is perhaps brown or black, and he wears eyeglasses with heavy black frames. When he leans out to talk to the officers, she sees he’s muscular—probably from serious cycling. His body language is confident, not nervous or defensive.

  Who are you?

  Is it her imagination or have both officers relaxed some? If only she could go up there.

  Mr. Tuttle appears at her feet again, and Jenny isn’t far behind. The front door closes, but the officers don’t leave the porch or turn around. When Lance Wilson reappears, he hands Officer Maby some papers. As she and the other officer examine them, the man smiles at Kimber and raises one hand in a brief wave. As though he knows her, as though they are friends.

  Chapter Five

  Kimber stares at the signature on the lease in the light of Officer Maby’s flashlight. It’s identical to the one on every check and note she’s written in her adult life.

  “I didn’t sign this.”

  A car pulls up, this time in front of Jenny’s house. Kimber doesn’t recognize the BMW, but when the driver’s side door opens, Gabriel gets out.

  “Do you know who this is?” Officer Maby asks, sounding tense.

  “My lawyer.” Kimber can’t keep the pleasure out of her voice. It’s a combination of giddy, complex emotions from suddenly seeing him after so many months and gladness that she now has someone here who will be on her side. Mr. Tuttle barks his interest in the newcomer, and Jenny picks him up to shush him.

  Kimber hurries over to Gabriel. “Thanks for coming.” Does she sound as shy as she feels? She swallows hard. There hasn’t been time to think about actually seeing him again, and memories threaten to flood her already stressed-out mind.

  Gabriel wears khakis and a Brooks Brothers polo shirt, the prosperous St. Louis male lawyer’s light-duty uniform. Though his shirt is long-sleeved, despite the August heat. She tries not to think about why he covers his arms. His tight black Renaissance curls are an inch longer than she remembers them being, and he wears a closely trimmed beard and mustache. The sight of his new beard gives her a pang as she recalls him shaving, naked, in the bathroom of his Skinker Boulevard apartment overlooking the park, the filtered sunlight buttery on his olive skin.

  Why him? Why did I think I could handle him being here?

  Because you know he’ll help. No matter what.

  “No problem. What’s happening now? And where did you say you were after Thursday?”

  Professional.

  “Lake of the Ozarks. In a cabin. Listen. She just showed me a lease. Someone’s forged my signature.”

  He shakes his head. “Yeah. That’s not cool, but we’ll handle it.” Nodding toward the house, he whispers, “Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

  She takes a step back. “No. Of course not.” He doesn’t trust her. All right.

  “Good. Let’s get this jerk out of your house.”

  Officer Maby doesn’t offer her hand to Gabriel either and only gives her name in response to his introduction.

  “And the other officer?” Gabriel asks.

  “He’s running a check on Mr. Wilson.”

  “Great. Ms. Hannon says Mr. Wilson showed you a lease?”

  She holds it out to him. “I’ll make sure your client gets a copy, but we’ll have to return the original to the occupant.”

  Kimber scoffs. “Occupant? You’re kidding me, right?”

  Gabriel studies the paper in the light from his phone. “Not notarized, but that’s not a Missouri requirement. All the signatures are in the right places.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Kimber says. “Anybody could find a copy of my signature and forge it—”

  The officer interrupts Kimber. “Mr. Wilson said he found the listing on a rental website a week ago and that he rented the house sight unseen. He said you told him you were moving in with your boyfriend and that you would appreciate it if he took care of the yard as well.”

  “Ms. Hannon was out of town and could not have met with Mr. Wilson.” Gabriel hands the lease back. “I would suggest that someone is playing a nasty trick. You can see that, can’t you? The house belongs to Ms. Hannon, and she doesn’t know anything about this man.”

  “But she could have had someone acting as her agent, and it appears that Mr. Wilson signed the lease in good faith. He’s established residence. We can ask him to leave, and he seems like a reasonable sort of person, but we can’t force him out unless the results of an investigation show some kind of fraud on his part.” Her swift glance insinuates that Kimber’s somehow at fault, and Kimber erupts.

  “What do you mean, you can’t make him leave?”

  “Ms. Hannon, I understand this is very upsetting.”

  “Damn straight it’s upsetting! God only knows what he’s doing with my things. He could’ve taken all the money out of my bank accounts by now. What are you going to do about that?”

  “Kimber…” Gabriel pulls her gently backward to give the officer some breathing room. “She can’t do anything right now. We’ll get it straightened out as soon as possible.”

  Officer Maby is impassive. Beyond her Kimber can see into her living room: the Tiffany-style lamp she’d bought to carry the theme of the house’s stained-glass windows, her shelves filled with books and the regional pottery she began investing in when she got her first real job. But it’s like looking into someone else’s house. She pulls away from Gabriel, realizing that as soon as possible won’t be very soon at all.

  “I’d like you and Mr. Wilson to meet, Ms. Hannon, as soon as my colleague is finished. Mr. Silva, please step down off the porch. You’ll be able to hear everything from there.”

&nbs
p; Lance Wilson’s Pink Floyd T-shirt and chemically faded blue jeans scream his desperate need to declare how young and hip he is. But they only make it obvious he’s vain about getting older. The lines on his tanned face indicate that he’s probably in his forties. Kimber thinks of her sister, Michelle, who would’ve turned forty that July. Mom’s firecracker baby.

  Patches of silver at his temples shine in the porch light and fade into his mostly brown, wavy hair. He’s not handsome but seems fit enough. The snugness of his jeans around his thighs reminds Kimber about the bike out back. Frequent cycling would explain the tan. And if the sturdy black frames of his glasses are meant to make him look smart and trustworthy, they miss the mark. Behind the lenses, his eyes are slightly magnified, giving him a curious owlish look.

  Officer Maby clears her throat before introducing Kimber as “the person who says she owns the house, sir.” The pointed says she owns the house irks Kimber, but she keeps her mouth shut.

  Her neck warms as Lance Wilson pulls back an inch or two to look at her. Aren’t squatters usually druggies or sharper-than-average con artists who are good at finding empty houses? He appears to be just an average—albeit slightly strange—guy. His eyes rest briefly on the V of her white shirt and flicker to her hair. She doesn’t flinch or turn away as they linger on her face.

  You’re not going to get to me.

  She’s not going to let him freak her out, even though he’s standing on the wrong side of her front door, smack in the middle of her life. His gaze is mild and quizzical, as though he’s trying to see if he knows her. He might have the others fooled, but she knows he’s acting. She didn’t give him any lease to sign.

  Why am I the only one who sees?

  “Could be her. She wore sunglasses. The light’s bad out here.” When he turns to the male officer, he presses his lips together like a prissy old woman. His voice, whiny and high, doesn’t match his muscular build and primed stance, active and balanced like a boxer’s. Kimber’s mind reaches for the image of the kind of man it should belong to, but all she can think of is sunshine and heat and—weirdly—bug bites on her legs. The elusive image slips away, leaving her heart beating a little faster.