Page 4 of Circle of Strangers
“I’m so sorry. I just remembered I have something in the oven that I need to check on. It was lovely meeting you.” I offer an apologetic half smile and trek backward, up the driveway. Since she has yet to budge, I’ll have to close the gate remotely once she’s finally gone. “I’m sure I’ll see you around again.”
“Of course. Don’t be a stranger, okay?” Sozi’s shoulders fall, discouraged. Regardless, she manages to perk herself up before giving a wave and jogging to the sidewalk.
There’s something about her that reminds me of a neighbor we had growing up—Lisa Grable. On the outside, she was an extreme extrovert. A people pleaser to the nth degree. There was something both happy and sad about her, a quality I noticed even as a child of seven. I’d never known someone who could smile so warmly but project an aura of desperation at the same time. Lucinda saw through it immediately and wasted no time using that woman’s weaknesses to her advantage, parasite-ing onto Lisa until she milked all the free babysitting, clothes, connections, and meals the woman could give.
I’m halfway to the house when I hear some sort of commotion from the tan stucco ranch on the other side of mine. Something shatters. A woman screams a slew of profanities. A door slams hard enough to rattle windows.
At the end of the driveway, Sozi stops in her tracks.
We exchange looks.
Curiosity getting the better of me, I head back to Sozi, ready to fire off a line of questions. Only I’m interrupted when a blond woman with mascara running down her cheeks steps out onto her front steps, a skinny unlit cigarette positioned between trembling fingers. Most of the driveway gates on this street are solid but hers is slatted, allowing for anyone to see through it at any time.
Maybe they’re the type of people who like for their world to be on display. Some people feed off attention, good or bad.
“Everything okay, Mara?” Sozi shouts over.
The blonde dabs her wet cheeks on the back of her hand, scratches her nose, then tucks the cigarette in the pocket of her jean shorts, behaving as if she had no idea she wasn’t alone.
“Hope so,” Mara shouts back before disappearing inside without further explanation.
“Told you,” Sozi says with a haughty smirk. “We’re just one big, happy, dysfunctional family.”
“But is she okay?” I keep a close watch on her door, though I doubt she’s going to show her face again anytime soon. If there’s any kind of domestic violence going on next door, I’d like to know so I can at least shield my kids from any potential interactions with them.
Growing up under Lucinda’s reign of terror, I’ve made it my life’s mission as a mother to be the antithesis of ... that. I don’t trust most people to be who they say they are, and protecting my children from those types is paramount. Their little minds are ripe for manipulation by design.
“No,” Sozi says. “But she will be. She always is. She’s like a cat. Always lands on her feet. Interesting woman. Complex. Funny, too—when she’s not dealing with stuff. Get a few drinks in her and she’ll have you laughing until your stomach hurts.”
I can’t remember the last time I laughed at anything, let alone laughed so hard I physically ached. That’s the thing about sociopathy—it robs you of the ability to feel a lot of things. Sometimes it’s a blessing, sometimes it’s a curse. But most of the time, it is what it is.
“Bet you’d love her,” Sozi says with misplaced confidence. She doesn’t know me. She couldn’t possibly know whom I’d love—or that I’m incapable of feeling emotions like love. “I’m telling you, let me throw together a little cookout for the neighbors. It could be small. Low-key. Maybe this weekend? You guys have a couple hours to spare Friday night?”
She’s not wasting any time with this.
A cookout full of strangers is the last thing I’d willingly do with my free time, but now I’m curious. Besides, if we’re going to be sandwiched between Sozi and Mara for the foreseeable future, I probably should get to know them, even if it’s on a superficial level. Plus, you never know when you might need a favor.
“Actually, yes.” I perk up. “Now that I think about it, it just so happens we’re free this Friday evening.”
After everything I’ve been through lately, what’s the worst that could happen?
2
Boredom isn’t something I thought I’d ever complain about, but things have been too quiet since moving here. It’s a good thing. But with the kids safely away at their private schools, Will pouring his days into his new career in medical academia, and no new Lucinda letters to deal with, it’s just me all by my lonesome for nearly nine hours a day, every day.
By the time I’m caught up on housework and errand running, I’m still left with entirely too much time on my hands, which is how I stumbled into my latest “hobby,” if one can call it that: catfishing married men on dating sites—something I’m particularly good at if I do say so myself.
Years ago, my therapist told me people with antisocial personality disorders—especially sociopathy—are highly skilled at reading, influencing, and manipulating others. Some use it to their own advantage, for their own personal gain. Others use it to help those who can’t help themselves. She said if I could fall into the latter category, it would be a way to use my sociopathy as a sort of superpower.
I’d hardly call myself a superhero, but in the three weeks I’ve had the True Spark app on my phone, I’ve already caught one married man. His name was John, and while it was wise on his part not to share his last name early on, he not-so-wisely let it slip that he was an English teacher at a local private all-girls school. When he wasn’t trying to steer the conversation down a dark and dirty aisle, he mentioned he waschaperoning the school play this coming Saturday. I enthusiastically told him I was a drama nerd back in the day and asked the name of the play, not expecting him to answer.
But the idiot did.
I suppose that’s what happens when you’re thinking with yourotherhead.
It took me all of five seconds on Google to find the name of the school, which led me to their website, which then took me to their employee directory, which was sectioned off by department. Sure enough, there was a John Bailey who worked for the English department at Cedar Mountain Girls Academy. His work photo, which I assumed was more recent, showed him to be a bit chubbier than the images on his dating profile. Less hair, too. His profile pictures had to have been at least ten years old, but that was neither here nor there because the point was never to meet.
With his identity in hand, I abandoned our conversation and browsed every social media platform until I found his profile—which was linked to a wholesome-looking brunette who shared his last name and who happened to also be a teacher. Clicking through her public photos, I came across one posted within the past week—a professional family snapshot of John, his wife, and their two adorable little daughters.
