Genuine Fraud(12)

Patti’s eyes welled and she touched Jule’s hand. “She was lucky to have you, too. I thought so when she first took up with you at Greenbriar freshman year. I know she adored you more than anyone in her life, Jule, because— Well. This is what I wanted to meet with you about. Our family lawyer tells me Immie left you her money.”

Jule felt dizzy. She put down her fork.

Immie’s money. Millions.

It was safety and power. It was plane tickets and keys to cars, but more importantly, it was tuition payments, food in the larder, medical care. It meant that no one could say no. No one could stop her anymore, and no one could hurt her. Jule wouldn’t need help from anyone, ever again.

“I don’t understand finance,” Patti went on. “I should, I know. But I trusted Gil and I was glad he took care of all that. It bores me out of my skin. But Immie understood it, and she left a will. She sent it to the lawyer before she died. She had a lot of money from her father and me, once she turned eighteen. It was in trust till then, and after her birthday, Gil did the paperwork to shift it over to her.”

“She got the money when she was still in high school?”

“The May before college started. Maybe that was a mistake. Anyway, it’s done.” Patti went on, “She was good with finances. She lived off the interest and never touched the capital except to buy the London flat. That’s why she didn’t have to work. And in her will, she left it all to you. She made small bequests to the National Kidney Foundation—because of Gil’s illness—and to the North Shore Animal League, but she made a will and left you the bulk of the money. She sent the lawyer an email that specifically says she wanted to help you go back to college.”

Jule was touched. It didn’t make sense, but she was.

Patti smiled. “She left this world sending you back to school. That’s the bright side I’m trying to see.”

“When did she write the will?”

“A few months before she died. She had it notarized in San Francisco. There are just a few things to sign.” Patti shoved an envelope across the table. “They’ll transfer the money directly into your account, and in September you’ll be a sophomore at Stanford.”

—

When the money arrived in her bank, Jule withdrew it all and opened a new checking account somewhere else. She started several new credit card accounts and arranged for the bills to be paid automatically every month.

Then she went shopping. She bought false eyelashes, foundation, liner, blush, powder, brushes, three different lipsticks, two shadows, and a small but expensive makeup box. A red wig, a black dress, and a pair of high heels. More would have been nice, but she needed to travel light.

She used her computer to purchase a plane ticket to Los Angeles, booked an LA hotel, and researched used car dealers in the Las Vegas area. London to LA, then LA by bus to Vegas. From Vegas by car to Mexico. That was the plan.

Jule paged through documents on her laptop. She made sure she knew all the bank numbers, customer service numbers, passwords, credit card numbers, and codes. She memorized passport and driver’s license numbers. Then one night, long after dark, she tossed the laptop and her phone into the Thames.

Back at the youth hostel, she wrote a sincere letter of thanks to Patti Sokoloff on an old-fashioned piece of airmail paper and posted it. She cleaned out her storage locker and packed her suitcase. Her identification and papers were neatly organized. She made sure to place all her lotions and hair products in travel-size bottles in sealable plastic bags.





Jule had never been to Vegas. She changed her clothes in the bathroom at the bus station. The sink area was inhabited by a white woman in her fifties with a granny cart. She was sitting on the counter, eating a sandwich wrapped in greasy white paper. She wore dirty black leggings on narrow thighs. Her hair was teased up high, gray and blond. It was matted. Her shoes were on the floor—pale pink vinyl stilettos. Her bare feet, with Band-Aids on the heels, swung in the air.

Jule went into the biggest stall and dug through her case. She put on her hoop earrings for the first time in nearly a year. She wiggled into the dress she’d bought—short and black, paired with leather platform heels. She got out the red wig. It was unnaturally sleek, but the color looked good with her freckles. Jule took out the makeup box, closed her bag, and went to the sink.

The woman sitting on the counter didn’t remark on the change of hair color. She crumpled her sandwich wrapper and lit a cigarette.

Jule’s makeup skills came from watching online tutorials. For most of the last year she’d been wearing what she thought of as college-girl makeup: natural skin, blush, sheer lips, mascara. Now she brought out fake eyelashes, green shadow, black liner, base, contouring brushes, eyebrow pencil, coral gloss.

It wasn’t really necessary. She didn’t need the cosmetics, the dress, or the shoes. The wig was probably enough. Still, the transformation was good practice—that was how she thought of it. And she liked becoming someone else.

The other woman spoke as Jule finished her eyes. “You a working girl?”

Jule answered, just for fun, in her Scottish accent. “No.”

“I mean, you selling yourself?”

“No.”

“Don’t sell yourself. So sad, you girls.”

“I’m not.”

“It’s a shame, that’s all I’m saying.”