The Perfect Stranger

I’ve got to get her out of here.

Under ordinary circumstances Landry wouldn’t dream of walking uninvited into a room occupied by a houseguest. But in this case it’s for Kay’s own good.

She pushes the door open, crosses the threshold . . . and screams.

Kay is lying on the floor in a pool of blood, a knife protruding from her abdomen.

The Los Angeles press conference is airing live on the cable entertainment network.

Sitting in front of the television, waiting for it to start, Crystal is focused on her computer. In the past hour the search engine has exploded with fresh hits in response to the name Je

In about ten minutes she’s going to be stepping in front of the cameras with Wesley Bauma

“This is bound to be the comeback of the decade,” a blond reporter is excitedly telling the television audience. “Maybe even the comeback of the century!”

According to online rumors, Bauma

“The whole world is waiting to get a look at Je

The scene cuts from the milling crowd of press and lineup of microphones to a montage of flashback photos and film clips: scenes from Je

Well, not yet. But according to the press, she landed at LAX about an hour ago and is at this moment behind the scenes with Wesley Bauma

Obviously, Kay Collier was wrong about having spotted her in Atlanta.

Maybe she was wrong, too, about having seen her at Meredith’s funeral.

Maybe that was someone else.

Someone who bolted the moment she saw me looking at her?

And what about Jaycee the blogger?

Frustrated, Crystal gets up to pace again, keeping an eye on the television screen.

Maybe Jaycee’s someone else, too. Some ordinary blogger trying to protect her anonymity on the Internet.

Someone who had absolutely nothing to do with Meredith Heywood’s fate at the hands of someone who either loved her—or hated her—enough to kill her.

Which—and who—was it?

“Nine-one-one, what is your—”

“My friend! She’s been stabbed! Please—”

“All right, ma’am, calm down. You say your friend has been stabbed?”

“Yes! Oh, Kay . . . No . . .”

“Is your friend breathing?”

“I think so . . .” Landry reaches out and touches Kay’s neck, feeling for a pulse below her ear. It’s there, but faint.

“Ma’am—”

“She’s breathing,” she tells the operator. “Hurry. Please hurry.”

“They’ve already been dispatched, ma’am. Who stabbed your friend?”

“I don’t know,” she says helplessly, staring down at the tortoiseshell knife handle protruding from Kay’s abdomen. “I honestly don’t.”

As the flamboyant movie director Wesley Bauma

“Thank you very much for being here, and good afternoon,” Bauma

Dramatic pause.

Rolling her eyes, Crystal half expects him to thrust a lit pipe between his lips.

He refrains, going on to talk a bit about the film, and it turns out to be a biopic about the life of Ingrid Bergman.

Okay, now it makes more sense. Je

“The script calls for a versatile actress with the range to depict Bergman from her early years in Stockholm through Hollywood’s golden era to middle age and her valiant seven-year battle with breast cancer.”

Those two words hit Crystal like a punch in the gut.

Coincidence? Or . . .

“And now,” Bauma

As she steps up to the podium, her head is bowed. Her shoulders rise with one deep breath, as if to steel her nerves, and then she looks up, directly into the cameras.

It’s her.

Not just Je

“Hang on, Kay . . . just hang on . . . help is coming . . .”

Kay can’t see Landry and she can’t answer her but she hears her voice loud and clear.

The hearing is the last sense to go, she recalls the hospice nurse saying years ago, when Mother lay dying. Go ahead and talk to her. She’ll hear you.

Perhaps. But Mother was listening to someone else.

You came back for me, Paul! I knew you would. . . . yes, I’m ready. I’m ready. Let’s go.

That was when Kay realized that death would not be the dark, lonely moment she’d feared ever since that long-ago day her doctor’s receptionist, Janine, had called to tell her the test results were back.

Life—it was life that had been dark and lonely.

Not death.

When you die, there’s light—bright, beautiful light. Mother talked about that. And there are people there, waiting; people you love, and they’ll never leave you. You’ll never have to say good-bye again.

Kay’s parents found each other again on the other side, this time forever, and Meredith . . .

She knows Meredith’s beloved mother had to be waiting for her when she crossed over.

And now it’s my turn, and Meredith is already there.

She’ll be waiting for me.

She’ll be coming to find me, any second now . . .

“And you’re sure your husband wouldn’t have picked this up somewhere else—” The homicide detective studies the plastic-wrapped guitar pick. “—maybe not from the sidewalk that morning, but the day before? Maybe he bought it, or someone gave it to him, or—”

“No.” Sheri shakes her head firmly. “That’s impossible.”

“Impossible is a strong word, Mrs.—”

“But it is impossible. Trust me.” She’d already told him about Roger’s germaphobia; how he would never in a million years pick up a filthy guitar pick from the sidewalk.

Now she explains, “He would have taken those jeans, clean, out of his drawer that morning. He never wore something two days in a row. That’s just how he was. Everything went into the hamper at night when he took it off.”

Sitting back in his chair, the detective—in his quintessential rumpled shirt—nods thoughtfully.

“I do all the laundry,” she goes on, “and I always check the pockets, so it wasn’t there when I washed the jeans. It got there that morning. Someone else put it there. Not Richard.”

“Okay.” The detective leans forward, looking again at the guitar pick. “I don’t know what this means, but for starters, we’re going to look for prints, and I’m going to see if I can use it to link any other recent murders here in Indianapolis.”