The Lies I Tell(33)
“These are becoming more and more common,” he’d told me when he took my statement. “Everyone says their website is secure, but that’s really an impossible thing to promise.”
“I’ll be paper-only from now on,” I told him.
He’d laughed, and I loved the way his eyes crinkled around the corners, like happiness enveloped his entire face. “I’m not sure that’s any more secure,” he said. “I’ll keep you posted on any developments, but don’t hold your breath.”
We never caught the thief, but Scott and I became friends, eventually even working on a few cases together. I’d worked hard over the years to deal with the trauma of what Nate had done, but trusting men was still difficult. When Scott invited me to go to the LA County Fair, my therapist encouraged me to give it a try. And when I told Scott I’d go if I could buy my own food, he only shrugged and said, “I don’t care if you go behind the counter and make it yourself. I’m just happy you said yes.”
I thought he’d last a few months and then grow weary of my insistence on sleeping at home—alone—every night. How sometimes dark places like movie theaters or dive bars made me nervous.
“Take your time,” Scott had said, over and over again. “You’re worth it.”
And after a while, I began to trust him, telling him a little bit about what happened to me. Not specifics, just enough for him to know that I’d suffered an assault. “Did you report it?” he’d asked, as I knew he would.
“It’s complicated,” I said. “It was part of a larger story I’d been working on. I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be, talking to someone I wasn’t supposed to be talking to. I was young and scared, and I only wanted it to be over.”
But the truth was, I had no proof. I’d gone to work the following day and pretended nothing had happened. There were no witnesses. No rape kit or police report. If it really happened, why did she wait so long to tell someone? It would have been my word against Nate’s, and I never wanted to see Nate again.
Scott’s voice softened. “Statistically, only 35 percent of women report an assault. Even fewer get a conviction.” He looked grim. “I always think it’s worth trying to prosecute, but I acknowledge that I’m not a woman or a victim, so I don’t get to have an opinion.”
I never told him that I felt Meg was partly to blame. Instead, I concealed my anger beneath a determination to find her. To tell her story and take back a little bit of the agency I’d lost.
I fell in love with Scott’s calm demeanor, his steadiness, his sense of humor. And while my mother wasn’t thrilled to see me tie myself down—just remember how quickly a career can end before it even starts—I didn’t care. Scott allowed me to finally start healing.
Which is why, when he ran into his own trouble a couple years ago, I didn’t think twice about supporting him. After everything he’d done for me—giving me the occasional lead on a story, helping me come out of my shell and trust again—I wasn’t going to walk away when he needed me.
But lately, Scott’s been pushing me to start planning our wedding. Wanting to talk about things like name changes and joint bank accounts. The more he pushes, the slower I want to go. I feel safe in this space we’ve created. Committed to each other, but still separate. And I can’t tell if it’s because I don’t trust him, or I don’t trust myself.
I snuggle in close to him and close my eyes, but my mind keeps working. He isn’t going to be happy to hear I’m back on the Meg story, reluctant to lose me down this rabbit hole again—one he thinks is a dead end.
“She didn’t break any laws,” he’s always happy to remind me.
“She took $30,000 and a car.”
“He gave her access to the money. It would be impossible to prosecute, which is why he never did. She’s not a con artist; she’s just a pissed-off woman. And for good reason.”
I can’t explain to Scott that it’s more than a story to me. I want to climb inside Meg’s mind, inside her life, and piece it all together, dot by dot. Figure out how she manipulates people, infiltrates their lives, getting them to trust her. I want to know where she’s been for the last ten years, and why she’s returned. And then I want to tell everyone about it. Take something from her, the way she took everything from me.
Kat
June
As I guessed, Scott isn’t thrilled. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” he asks over breakfast the following morning.
I pick apart the muffin in front of me and say, “What do you mean? This is a real story, not one of those content-mill pieces I’ve been churning out for the past two years.”
But I feel a prickle of irritation, because what he’s really asking is whether we can afford for me to step away from the piecework and copyediting jobs that have replaced the investigative stories that sometimes take months to write and sell.
Two years ago, shortly after we got engaged, Scott got into some trouble gambling. He’d managed to accrue over $15,000 in credit card bills, and together we’ve been slowly paying it off.
“Meg’s story would put us within spitting distance of wiping the debt out completely.” I’ve mastered the nuances of this topic, hiding my resentment that a percentage of my income goes toward it as well. Money I earn, not by researching and pitching real stories to real publications, but by writing crappy content that pops up at the bottom of websites. How to Make a Backyard Butterfly Garden or Ten Genius Hacks for Your Next Trip Abroad.