The Lies I Tell(62)

Panic begins to rise inside of me as my mind leapfrogs back to Scott’s warning from a couple weeks ago. Be careful with Meg. Don’t leave your purse unattended. Don’t let her use your phone.

Is this Meg, still trying to keep me busy, a phishing expedition to get me to reveal information she can use against me, or is this something more? I look up and down the street, imagining Meg parked in a garage somewhere, pretending to be Natalie from Citibank.

“What’s your name again?” I ask, straining to hear her voice, to see if it sounds familiar.

“Natalie,” the woman says. It’s impossible to tell against the street noise.

“Give me the account number,” I say, scrambling in my purse for a pen and a scrap of paper. I use the brick wall behind me, my letters bumpy and misshapen. “I didn’t open this account,” I tell her again. “I’m not paying you $30,000.”

Natalie remains calm. “I understand, Ms. Roberts. I can make a note in the file,” she tells me. “But to clear it, you’ll need to file a police report and submit it to us. Until then, you’re responsible for the debt.”

Ms. Roberts. The use of my real last name finally slams into me, and I realize Scott’s been right all this time. This is Meg’s way of telling me she knows everything.

Just then, I feel a presence behind me. I turn to find Meg standing there, a concerned look on her face, and my stomach plummets. “Thanks for your call,” I say and hang up.

Pedestrians step around us as Meg says, “Are you okay?”

When I don’t answer, she takes my elbow and guides me away from the fancy restaurant where we’d planned to eat and instead leads me over to a taco truck parked at the curb. She orders two tacos, and we walk to a nearby park and sit on a bench.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she says. “Is it Scott?”

I press my lips together, a mixture of rage and shame flooding me. At my belief that I could befriend Meg and live alongside her as an ally. How close I let myself get to her. When I finally speak, my words are stiff and cold. “That was someone claiming to work at Citibank, telling me there’s a $30,000 debt in my name.” Even though she wasn’t the one on the phone, I’m certain Meg was behind the call somehow.

She sits back, shocked. “Oh my god.”

Ever the actress. Ever the concerned friend.

“You need to file a police report,” she says. I stare at her, trying to see her endgame. “Look,” she continues. “I don’t mean to stir up problems, but this, plus the bank breach and the unpaid bill…” She trails off.

I shake my head, disgusted with myself for telling her about Scott’s gambling, for handing her such an important piece of me. “It’s not Scott.”

I let the weight of my certainty wrap around me. I’m not naive. I know the statistics of a backslide. But since the night of the concert, when Meg tried to hack my bank account, I’ve been back to nightly checks on all his devices, and there hasn’t been anything. His work computer is out of my reach, but he’d be insane to try anything there, where every keystroke is recorded and monitored.

“I know that’s what you want to believe,” Meg says. “And I want that to be true too. But you have to protect yourself, even if that means facing some painful truths.”

Truth? Every word she says is a lie. “I don’t think that was a legitimate call,” I tell her. “I think it was a phishing scam. Someone trying to get me to hand over my social security number. It happens all the time.” Will she flinch? Look away?

But she pulls her phone out and opens her web browser, and I watch her Google Citibank, pulling up their website. She holds her phone up so I can see it. “Here’s the number; let’s call and check.”

Is this some kind of test? Does she think I won’t make the call in front of her? I dial and navigate through several automated options, until I’m placed on hold. While I wait, shrieks of laughter from the playground filter through my growing panic.

This time, I speak to someone named Paul. I read off the account number Natalie gave me and step away from Meg to give him the last four digits of my social security number. “The balance is $31,125,” he confirms.

I close my eyes, the sounds from the playground growing fuzzy. Not a phishing scam, but real debt—one so large, I have no hope of paying it off.

“Ask about recent transactions,” Meg says.

My eyes fly open, and I study the way she watches me, her eyes wide with compassion and worry. Why would she want me to ask this? What does she want me to hear?

In response to that question, Paul rattles off several large cash advances, all local to us, and a few charges at the supermarket. “Can you tell me what the billing address is?” I ask.

He gives me a PO box in Brentwood. I glance at Meg again, knowing how easy it is to set one up online.

Paul’s voice cuts in. “The statements are sent to an email.” He reads it slowly. “Calistasniece at Yahoo.”

My gaze cuts to Meg, the breeze blowing strands of her hair across her face, which is open and concerned. I remind myself she’s had years to perfect the expression. “Thank you,” I say to Paul, then disconnect the call. Meg places a hand on my arm and I jerk it away, desperate to go somewhere I can think. Figure out how she could have done this.