The Lies I Tell(63)

“You need to file a police report,” she says again. “I can go with you if you want.”

I look at her, incredulous, imagining the two of us at a police station, Meg by my side helping to craft the narrative. At what point would she slip and share details of Scott’s gambling? A subtle mention that would skew an investigation away from her.

I’m going to have to tell Scott. I can’t conceal a $30,000 debt from him. A small voice floats up from deep inside of me. What if Meg is right? What if it’s Scott after all?

Not for the first time, I wonder what my life would be like if Scott weren’t an addict. Or if I’d left him instead of staying and working through the steps with him. Things would be so much clearer now, not having to navigate around the constant doubt, the voices that invade my sleep, always questioning what he says. Always wondering if it’ll happen again. Pushing me to look for the cracks, trying to figure out what’s real inside my own relationship.

Just then, Meg’s phone rings. She glances at the screen and says, “It’s the buyers for Ron’s house. I have to take this.”

She steps away, her back to me.

God, she just never stops. Even in the midst of stealing $30,000 I don’t have, she’s still trying to spin these mythical buyers. I wonder who’s really on the other end of that call. Veronica? Someone else? I strain to hear her side of it, but the sounds from the playground and the breeze carry her words away from me.

She hangs up and returns to the park bench. “Sorry about that.”

I stand and toss my mostly uneaten taco in the trash. “I need to go,” I tell her.

She gives me a hug, her expensive perfume enveloping me, but my body remains stiff, my arms at my side. “Call if you need anything.”

***

I wait until Scott gets home, needing to see his face when I tell him what’s happened. To reassure myself that my loyalty isn’t misplaced.

I’d driven home on autopilot, and by the time I arrived, the tiny seed of doubt had grown into a small stone sitting inside of me. The possibility that he might have done this. Because it is possible. Just because I can’t find the evidence doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.

When he arrives, he takes one look at me and says, “What’s wrong?”

He keeps his eyes on mine as I give him the details, reading from a page where I’d assembled all the information. The date in June when the credit card was opened, shortly after my first outing with Meg. The debt in my name. The most recent charges and cash advances and, finally, the email address associated with it.

“That fucking bitch,” he says when I’m finished.

I stare at him, searching for a hint of a lie. A flash of guilt before being shuttered behind the outrage building there.

My silence catches his attention, and he pulls back. “Wait a minute. You think it was me?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

He stands and begins to pace, his voice rising. “What more do you want from me, Kat? I’ve laid my life open for you to pick through whenever you want—my phone. My computer—which, two years out, you still search on a daily basis.” He turns to face me. “You’ve become best friends with a fucking con artist, and yet I’m the one you suspect? This woman has infiltrated your life. She’s got you wrapped around her finger, going to concerts and lunches and yoga. You’re her goddamn assistant,” he spits. “She’s tried several times to access our information—the stolen bank statements, the missing cable bill—and yet each time something’s happened, I’m the one you’ve looked at first.”

He sits next to me and takes my hands in his, his voice nearly breaking. “I don’t know what else I can do to prove that it’s not me.” Tears well in his eyes. “I’m beginning to believe this will never be okay. You will never trust me.”

“Scott,” I say.

But he holds up his hand, silencing me. “I won’t let her do this to us.” He grabs my page of notes and says, “I’m taking over. Tomorrow, I’m opening an investigation into Meg. Whatever she’s up to, it stops now.”

The pain I see on his face nearly breaks me. How hard he’s worked, and how much it must hurt that no matter what he does, I still doubt him.

No more.

“Okay,” I whisper.





Kat


August

I stop taking Meg’s calls, so she begins texting me.

Are you all right?

What’s going on?

Please just let me know you’re okay.

Finally, I text her back. I’m fine, just dealing with this credit card. I filed a police report. They’re taking over.

And Scott? she texts back.

I don’t respond.

***

Scott had printed the credit card statements and taken everything associated with it into the station, and I’m grateful not to have to look at it. But I’m unable to do anything else. My file on Meg remains in my desk, unopened, and I’ve missed several deadlines for content I couldn’t bring myself to write, even though I need the money more than ever.

Another week goes by. Veronica calls and leaves a message. Meg says you’ve been sick. We miss you. Hope you’re feeling better soon.

Sick. I shake my head, imagining Meg spinning a story to Veronica as they sit on their yoga mats waiting for class to start, about a trip to urgent care and antibiotics. Stories are what she does best.