The Lies I Tell(32)
“What happened to Dean?” I asked.
“Oh, it was tragic. He died in a car accident right after Rose graduated high school, I think. All those years, all that money they spent trying to help him, and that’s how it ended.”
I took a sip of the lemonade she’d offered, imagining the kind of heartbreak that would cause. “Is that when Rose inherited the Canyon Drive house?”
Mrs. Nelson shook her head. “Not until her grandmother, Emily, finally passed away in 2001.”
Meg would have been thirteen. “When I knew Meg, they didn’t live in this neighborhood, that’s for sure.”
“After Emily died, Rose and Meg lived there off and on, in between renters. I got the impression they couldn’t afford the mortgage, and I imagine there was a sizable estate tax as well,” Mrs. Nelson said. “They left in 2004 or 2005, though I don’t think it was on good terms.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked.
“I was in my garden, and I heard Rose yelling through the back hedge. ‘You lied to me!’ She was screaming it, over and over again.”
“Who was she screaming at?” I asked.
“The man who lives there now. Ron Something-or-other.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “He’s a fancy fellow, with his sports car and slicked-back hair. He said, ‘You have seven days to clear out or the sheriff will do it for you.’ Well, it just about broke my heart. Rose loved that house.” Mrs. Nelson gave an indignant sniff. “Every now and then I’ll see him. He’ll say hello, but I just ignore him. I never say it back.”
“Do you know where they went?” I hadn’t been able to dig anything up on them beyond 2004. No address, no utilities. I knew they hadn’t left the area because Meg finished high school. But where had they lived?
Mrs. Nelson shook her head, her rheumy eyes sad. “No idea.”
***
I never could fill in those blank years. But for $12 a month and Meg’s mother’s maiden name, I was able to track her for a short while after she left Los Angeles. First to Seattle, where she lived for six months. From there, she went to Salem, Oregon, and after that, Phoenix. The people she’d conned described a woman who’d fallen on hard times, or a woman coming out of a bad relationship. And she always seemed to leave with something that didn’t belong to her.
She stole $50,000 and my mother’s engagement ring.
She sold my Harley, right out from under me. She kept the cash too.
Meg Williams seemed to be whoever she wanted you to think she was, twisting and turning in your mind like a hologram, never solid, never fully clear. In Seattle she’d been a college student. In Oregon a photographer. In Phoenix she’d been a dog walker. And after Phoenix, she simply vanished. No new locations, no new cell numbers, no death or marriage certificates, no court records. I’ve learned over the years that if a person doesn’t show up in one of those paid databases, it’s because they’re working very hard not to.
In addition to setting that Google Alert for Meg, I also continued to keep tabs on Ron Ashton. Watching him grow his construction business into one of the largest in Los Angeles County, his successful bid for city council, and most recently, a run for state senate.
Con artists don’t like to be conned. The loss of her childhood home is Meg’s core wound. Every criminal has one, a beacon calling them home. Of course, it’s possible Meg grew up, got therapy, and moved on. But I don’t think so.
***
At home, I unlock the door as quietly as I can, my shoes dangling from my other hand. The apartment is dark, save for the table lamp Scott left on for me. I drop my keys on the table and veer into my office, not even bothering to take off my dress. I want to get my impressions down as soon as I can. What Meg was wearing. Who she talked to. How long she spoke with Ron. When it comes time to write the piece, I want my readers to be able to taste the canapés, to hear the music, to feel the soft breeze from the open french doors.
Another text from my mother. Happy to read anything you have so far!
“Jesus, go to bed, Mom,” I say into the quiet room, regretting my earlier text.
I’m a visual thinker, which is why I work on paper and not a computer. My notes are like a complicated map with arrows connecting ideas to names and dates. I’ve got over a hundred pages—handwritten jots, outlines, interviews—but ten years out, it’s all old news.
I ease open the bottom drawer and pull out what I do have—fifty-three pages, double spaced, Times New Roman—the start of a novel I haven’t had time to work on in over a year.
What would my mother think to know this is all I’ve got? I’m a cliché, a frustrated journalist taking her useless research and turning it into fiction. A story about a female con artist traveling the country, the different ways I imagined she targeted people. The things she stole. If I can’t expose her in the New York Times, maybe I can expose her on their bestseller list instead.
I shove it all back in the drawer. It’s a ridiculous dream and one I can’t afford to pursue.
I creep into the bedroom, where Scott is just a dark lump under the covers. I change quickly and slide in, fitting myself up against him. I’d met Scott five years ago, when an online data breach had compromised my bank account, the thieves stealing nearly $1,000. Scott had been the detective to work my case.