Just Plain Old Quinlyn

JUST PLAIN OLD QUINLYN

I’d realized that someone was watching me a few days ago. But, being human, I ignored my lizard brain, and convinced myself that I was imagining things.  

“Who’d be watching me?’ I’d asked, scolding myself for being paranoid and overly dramatic.

But I was wrong — someone was watching me.  

I was sitting in a cafe, reviewing my notes from my last psychology class, sipping a latte, when a man approached my table. I looked up. I recognized him as the man that I had seen a number of times over the last couple of days. The last time I’d caught him taking my picture, and as I approached his car, he’d driven away before I could ask him what the hell he thought he was doing.

“If you come one step closer, I’m calling the cops,” I said. 

I held up my phone with nine and one already entered, my thumb over the final one. “I’ve seen you watching me all week. I know a stalker when I see one.”

He stopped short of the table, looking at me.

“I suggest that you turn around, and walk away.” I tried looking determined and in control, but inside my heart pounded, my pulse raced.

He raised his hands in surrender.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken about my intentions, Ms. Robichaux.”

“Really? Showing up outside of my lecture hall? At the library? At my job in the bookstore? Taking my picture from a parked car? I know a stalker when I see one. I don’t think there’s been any mistake, creep. And how the hell do you know my name?”

He stood still, hands still out in a placating manner, and continued to talk, ignoring my question.

“I work for Mr. Ben Stolsky, who would like to have a word with you. He would appreciate it if you would meet with him in his car.”

He pointed out the front window of the cafe, where a shiny black limousine idled at the curb. The window lowered revealing a man sitting in profile.

“You’re kidding, right? I see you lurking around after me for days, and you want me to get in a car? With you and another man? I think not, sir! I think not!”

I pushed the number one on the keypad of my phone, my thumb hovering over the send button. I stood, shaking my phone towards Stalker Guy.

“I’m not getting in a car with you. I’m not going anywhere with you. Get away from me! Now!”

He turned on his heel and strode out of the coffee shop without another word. I sat back in my seat and watched as he walked to the back door of the limo, and bent to speak to the man in the back seat. The man in the car looked my way. His face was familiar, but I was positive I had never met him before. 

The two men talked for a moment, and Stalker Guy straightened to open the door of the limo so the man in the car could exit. 

The man from the car entered the cafe, and walked towards my table. He stopped and looked at me, confusion clouding his features.

“My God, he’s right!” was all he said.

I showed him my phone, my thumb still hovering over the send button.

“I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but I will call the police!” I stared at him. “Don’t test me. What do you want?”

He snapped out of his reverie.  

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said with a slight east coast accent. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Ben Stolsky.”

He extended his hand towards me.

I ignored it.

“So?”

He let his hand drop. “I was wondering if I could take a few moments of your time.”

“Why?”

“Well, Ms, Robichaux, I have a business proposition I hope you will be interested in.”  

He waited. I said nothing.

“May I join you?” he said gesturing at the empty chair in front of him.

I looked around the cafe. Some people were watching us, whispering. One person was surreptitiously filming us on their phone.  

“What do you want?” 

He looked around the cafe as well, noticing the growing interest in our conversation.

“I would appreciate it if we could have a conversation. In private.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t even know you.”

His lips twitched.

“Google me. It’s Ben Stolsky. I’m the creator and owner of Game Chain, the multi player internet game. Do you play?”

I shook my head, annoyed.  

“No, I don’t play. I’m a full-time university student with a full-time job. When would I have time to play? Now, for the last time, what do you want?”

He took his phone out of his pocket, leaned over and pushed it towards me.

“Please, just look me up. It’s open.”

I ignored his phone, and used my own phone while leaving the phone app open.

“First name B-E-N. Last name S-T-O-L-S-K-Y.” he said.

The screen filled up with articles and Wikipedia sites. I pushed “images,” and my screen showed dozens of pictures. I looked from the on-screen photos to the man standing in front of me. They were a match. I switched back to the articles. The guy was a gazillionaire. I quickly scanned an article from Business Week.

“Where’d you go to school?”

“Berkley undergrad, M.I.T. Masters.”

“Where do your parents live?”

“Trick question. I'm an orphan.”

I moved on to an article, unexpectedly, in Cosmo.

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“Edward. He was a rescue mutt. He died in March. Old age.”

He put his hand into his front pants pocket, and pulled out a wallet.

“Here,” he said. “Instead of playing twenty questions, have a look at my ID.”

He slid the wallet across the table. It stopped beside his phone.

I opened it up. There was a California driver’s licence, a bunch (and I mean a bunch) of credit cards in his name and in the name of his company. Health insurance information, and a picture of him and a woman.

I gasped, and looked up at him.

“What the fuck is that?” I said, throwing the photo towards him.

He glanced at the photo, then back to me.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

He took another step towards the table and sat down, looking at me. He placed the photo on the table between us.

I looked down at the picture, and back at him.

“How the hell did you get a picture of me with you? Are you some sort of delusional asshole? I never had my photo taken with you. I don’t even know you!” I backed my chair away from the table, and stood, ready to flee.

He looked at me. “That’s my wife, Cassandra. Cassie.” He paused and looked at me. “You are Cassie’s doppelgänger. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

He explained that his wife had OD’d, and was in a coma, and on life support in a private hospital.

“It was tragic. I had no idea she … she used drugs.” He wiped at his eyes.  

“That’s a very sad story,” I said, “but what’s it got to do with me?”

He glanced down at the photo before looking back at me.

“My company is set to go public in a couple of weeks. I can’t have a scandal about Cassie and drugs coming out right now. It would destroy my IPO. I need you to be Cassie for one month.”

“Wow!” I said, stunned. “That is cold! You’re more worried about the money your company could make, and how your wife’s legacy is going to negatively affect your stock price, than you are about her.”

His face shifted.  

“How dare you! You know nothing about Cassie. You know nothing about our marriage or our life together. I want her legacy to not be about drugs, but to be about the company we built together. Our success as a team. There are already whispers about the fact that she hasn’t been seen for weeks. I want all the excitement of the IPO to pass, and then, when I’m not in the spotlight, Cassie will pass. It will be determined to be natural causes. And then, I will be able to mourn her.”

I looked at Stolsky. He sat there unmoving, looking at me, waiting for me to speak.

I shook my head. “I can’t. I have classes.”

“Today was your last class, and you only have one exam, which you will write in two days. I can wait two days. Then I will hire you for one month.”

I cocked my eyebrow at him. 

“I have a job,” I said.

“You will make more money working for me for one month than you will make in ten years working at the bookstore.”

“How do you know so much about me?” I asked.

“Information is very easy to come by when you are wealthy.”

He reached into his jacket pocket, removed a folded piece of paper, and slid it over to me.

“I will pay off your student loans, as well as the rent on your apartment for one year, as well as pay you this sum—” he tapped the paper, “for working for me for one month.”

I unfolded the paper, and my eyes went wide. I looked from the paper to Stolsky.

“Wow!” was all I could say.

“I’ll have an e-transfer into your account an hour from now, if you say yes.”

I nodded yes.

*****

It had been an intense week. I wrote my final exam, handed in my resignation at the bookstore, and for all intents and purposes, moved into Stolsky’s mansion on a hill, or as he called it, his east coast place.

I didn’t bring anything from my other life. Instead I immersed myself into Cassie’s life. Stolsky quizzed me on his wife’s life. Where I was born — Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. Parents — estranged. School — same as Stolsky, that’s where they met. Cassie had also pursued a PhD at Sanford. They had no kids, just a cat, Lizzo, who loved Cassie, but instantly hated me. I got my hair cut to match Cassie’s style. I joined her yoga class, but declined his request that I continue her tennis lessons at a swanky indoor tennis club.

“I can’t play tennis. In fact, Ben, I’ve never played tennis. That is just not something I can pretend I know how to do.”

He acquiesced, but begrudgingly.  

The story was that Cassie had suffered a fall, which resulted in a severe concussion, which would explain her absence from public over the last month and a half. Along with the concussion, Cassie had also suffered some memory losses, which would explain any slip-ups I might make. Couldn’t remember the name of an investor? It’s the concussion. Don’t remember the fantastic weekend Cassie had with her gal pals in Cabo? Also the concussion.

“But,” cautioned Stolsky, “Do not — I repeat — do not go out with any of Cassie’s friends. Don’t even talk to them without me there. They’ll know you’re not her.”

He planned on my “coming out” party to happen in a couple of days. I memorized as many faces and names as I could. Because Cassie was a California girl, she had a perpetual tan, one that I did not possess.

“That’s fine,” said Stolsky, “It just makes you look like you’ve been sick for a while. In fact it’s perfect. We should get lots of sympathy.”

I looked at him. Did he realize how cruel his off-handed remark was? Probably not. I was beginning to realize that Stolsky’s favourite person in the world was Stolsky. Classic narcissist personality.

The night of the party arrived. I tucked myself into one of Cassie’s uber-stylish outfits, and prepared to meet my “friends.”

Ben came into my room — without knocking — and looked me up and down.

 “Hmmmm,” he said. “Pretty damn good. Yeah, good job, Cassie. Good job.”

Stolsky had never called me anything but Cassie. He said it was so that he could keep me in character. I think he never actually learned my name. But, that didn’t matter. I had a job to do.  

When I entered the party room, everyone stood up and clapped for me. I was stunned. And embarrassed. These people truly liked Cassie, and I was going to lie to them. My heart broke a bit. Deceiving people was not my forte.  

I muddled through as best I could. Stolsky stayed glued to my side. The one time he did leave me to get another drink, a woman I identified as Rachael, Cassie’s best friend, sidled up beside me.

“Sweetie! I was so worried! Bedlam Ben said you’d fallen.” She hugged me tightly.  

Grabbing me by the shoulders, she held her arms out straight and looked at me — really looked at me.

“Did Ben hurt you again?”

I was stunned, and it must have shown on my face.

“Why … why would say that?” I stammered.

She looked at me again. “Because that’s what he does. He’s an abuser.” Her expression changed to quizzical. “You don’t remember?”

Holy shit! Not only didn’t I “remember” but Ben had insisted that he and Cassie were soulmates, always simpatico, always in agreement. He insisted that they never fought.

“No. I don’t remember.”

“Bastard! If he hurt you again, I’m going to kill him—”

“Well, my two favourite women together again!” A shark’s smile spread across Stolsky’s face as he walked up.

Rachael fake smiled back at Stolsky.

“I’m glad you finally let Cassie out. We were beginning to worry about her.”

“She’s almost better. In no time, she’ll be back to her old self.” He hugged my shoulder, pulling me into him. “Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

I smiled wanly and nodded.

Later that night, after all of the guests had gone, Stolsky walked into my room, again without knocking.

“Hey!” I said, “I’m changing!”

“Not anything I haven’t seen before. Besides, it’s my house. I’ll go where I want to go.”

I covered up, and turned to face him.

“What did Rachael say to you?”

I played dumb. “Rachael, Cassie’s best friend?”

He looked annoyed. “Yes, Cassie’s best friend. Rachael. What did she say to you?”

I tried to look innocent. “She said that she missed me, and was worried. She commented how the fall must have been horrible. I told her that I didn’t remember anything about it.”

Almost true.

Stolsky looked skeptical.

“Is that all?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m pretty sure. I talked to a lot of people tonight. The conversations all seemed to run into one another. Besides, you were there.”

“Not when I went to get a drink. You two were alone.”

“Well, I don’t think she said anything else.”

He scrutinized my face, his features stoney.  

“You better be telling me the truth. I don’t want to find out you’ve been lying to me. Bad things happen when people lie to me.”

He turned and left the room.

Oh my God! Was he threatening me? My stomach did a slow roll. I could really use a drink. I put on a pair of track pants and a sweat shirt and padded down to the kitchen where I knew there was a lovely red wine collection, just waiting from me to peruse it’s offerings.

As I approached the kitchen, I heard Stolsky talking to Stalker Guy, whose name I had found out was Gregory. No last name, just Gregory.

“I think that bitch Rachael was talking to that woman.”

Nope, he didn’t know my name.

“I think she told her,”he continued

“Told her what, sir?”

“That Cassie and I sometimes disagreed on certain things. I’m fairly sure Cassie told Rachael that we, uh, didn’t always get along.”

Gregory was quiet.

“We have to keep them apart. At least until after the IPO. Then after, who knows? Maybe we can arrange for them both to have an accident at the same time? That woman has no family. If she disappears, no one will miss her. We’ll just substitute Cassie’s body for that woman’s.”

I fled back upstairs. I didn’t know what to do. I had to get out of here!

My bedroom door opened, and Gregory entered my room, closing the door behind himself.

I jumped up, and backed away.

“Get away from me! I heard you two talking! I know what you’re planning.”

He looked at me.  

“I loved Cassie. And she loved me. Ben didn’t know about us. She asked Ben for a divorce, and he said no. Then he beat her and pushed her down the stairs. There were no drugs. Just a beating. He needed to cover it up. I wasn’t here when it happened. Now he wants to kill you and Rachael. He has to be stopped.” He took a breath, and continued. “I am going to arrange for Ben to have an accident. Then I’m going to take care of Cassie. The only thing keeping her alive are the machines. I’m going to bury her. You’ll inherit. It will all be yours. I don’t want any of it. But I have to stop Ben.”

*****

I signed the last of the papers. Everything I owned as Cassie Stolsky, extremely rich widow, was now in trust. I sold my share of the business, and donated the proceeds to a number of women’s shelters across the country. I set up a fully-funded non-profit to provide counselling for victims of domestic violence. There were a myriad of causes and charities Cassie now supported. Then I went back to being Quinlyn Robichaux. No more Cassie Stolsky. Just plain old Quinlyn.