The Lies I Tell(67)

Instead, I bypassed all of it. The questions about what triggered it. How it started, and why. The recriminations, telling him that if he’d only told me he was struggling, we could have worked together to get him through the rough patch. The words floated out of my mind, there and then gone. I had nothing left to give.

I slipped off my engagement ring and placed it on top of the dark cell phone, and I wondered how much I could get for it. Was it even real? I should have taken Meg up on that appraisal when she offered it.

Scott lifted his head and said, “Kat, no.”

“Thirty thousand dollars,” I whispered, and he flinched.

“I was going to pay it back, I swear.”

The script was exactly as I remembered it. “You worked so hard to make me believe I was the one who fucked up, that I led Meg here because I was careless. Too trusting. But you were the one who took the statements. Who didn’t pay the bill, and then blamed Meg for that as well.”

“I’ll go back into treatment,” he said. “Five days a week. We’ll get through this together. I need you.”

I gave a sharp laugh. “You need my credit score. You need the very little money I’ve got left in my savings account. But you don’t need me.”

“That’s not true.”

“I don’t think you know what true is,” I told him. All his lies, his fake outrage over Meg came rushing back, juxtaposed against Meg’s quiet concern. How she’d tried to help me see what was right in front of me.

It says something when the con artist is more trustworthy than your fiancé.

“I need you to get out,” I said. “Tonight. You have two hours to get packed. Anything left will be sold and put toward the debt you’ve accrued.”

Scott’s remorse flashed to anger. “What happened to I love you? What happened to I’ll support you in your recovery?”

I looked at him in disbelief. “I’d hardly call running up a five-figure debt ‘recovery,’ would you?”

“Where the hell am I supposed to go?”

I shrugged. “Call your sponsor. Find a friend. Sleep on someone’s couch. I don’t care.”

“And if I don’t?” he asked.

“I’ll call the police. One of your colleagues will show up, and I’ll explain what you’ve done. Then I’ll hand over the cell phone which has evidence of you trying to breach my bank account and the email linked to the credit card. I’m sure they can sort it out with you at the station.”

“You wouldn’t.”

I felt pieces of my old self falling away. Chipped edges, brittle fears and suspicions. Worries that kept me up at night, imagining years of constant monitoring. Years of doubting and following up, the endless cycle of wondering, questioning, confirming—they all slipped off me, leaving behind nothing but a polished resolution.

“Clock starts now,” I said.

While he packed, I stepped out, taking his burner phone with me. I waited in my car, making sure all the doors were locked, and hunched down in my seat, checking my mirrors to make sure no one could see the woman sitting alone in her car on a dark street.

I imagined him emptying his dresser, the closet, clearing out his desk in the office. Shoving his clothes into a duffel bag, taking everything he’d brought into the relationship. The framed artwork in the living room. The lamp on his desk that once belonged to his father. The fancy toaster oven he just had to have.

Finally, he left, his car piled high with his belongings, and I waited until he turned the corner and vanished before going back into the apartment. I walked through the living room and into our bedroom—my bedroom now—climbed into bed fully dressed, and fell asleep.

***

My phone rings, yanking me back to the present. It’s a number I don’t recognize, and my stomach twists. Another collection agency? Another credit card opened up in my name? “This is Kat,” I say.

“Kat Roberts?”

I close my eyes, bracing myself. “Speaking.”

“This is Renata Davies, returning your call.”

My eyes fly open, all thoughts of Scott vanishing as I scramble to find a pen and a fresh piece of paper. “Yes,” I say. “Thanks so much for getting back to me. I was hoping you could tell me about a woman named Melody Wilde.”

There’s a long pause. Finally, Renata speaks, her voice low and angry. “I can tell you that she’s a fraud and a fake. I can tell you that she came into town spinning lies about who she was as a way to ingratiate herself into my circle of friends. And I can tell you she stole $350,000 from my brother and convinced him to sign over a house to her. Is that the kind of information you’re looking for?”

Maybe I’ll get my story after all.

***

I spend an hour on the phone with Renata, who told me about a woman posing as an interior decorator and life coach to New York City celebrities and how she convinced Renata’s brother, Phillip, to let Meg—or Melody—“coach” him through his divorce, collecting huge sums of money she promised to hold on to until after the settlement.

“Tell me about the house,” I said, the one piece that could tie together what Meg was doing now.

“The lake house,” Renata said. “I told him to let Celia have it, but my brother is stubborn and the house was in his name. It was his asset.”