The Lies I Tell(78)

Kat studies me, and I wonder if she’s finally going to break, asking questions I know she’s dying to ask. How do you do it? Who do you target? What’s your plan with Ron?

But the moment passes.

“You’re one of those people who can’t ever settle,” Kat says instead. “The ones who move around, always looking for home and never finding it.”

What a gift it’s been, to know that Kat sees me as I really am. “Home disappeared for me the day my mother died. And ever since, I’ve been chasing the ghost of a feeling. Looking for a reset that would put my life back in order. But at some point, a person has to stop chasing something that doesn’t exist and just move on.”

I wonder if she can hear what lives between my words. I’m done with the lies, ready to find a place—a community where I can build something for myself—and I wish for just one moment of honesty between the two of us. That I could start from the beginning and tell her all of it. Go back to that rainy afternoon in the internet café when I saw a familiar face and an opportunity.

Before I say something I’ll regret, I turn the conversation back to her. “Any updates? Have you heard from Scott?”

Her gaze cuts sideways. “No, and I’m relieved, to be honest.”

I take a sip of my lemon water and watch her fiddle with her cutlery, looking everywhere but at me. She’s lying. But it doesn’t matter. After tomorrow, this will all be over.

I have just a few things left to do—pack, book my flight, make sure everything is set so that tomorrow, I’ll be ready to act.

In the morning, Ron’s business manager, Steve, will get directions to wire the rest of the money, never suspecting that the smooth sale of Canyon Drive set this one up so perfectly. It isn’t a phishing scam if the person on the other end is expecting the link.

Earlier this week, I posed as Ron’s assistant and made several phone calls. Confirming details. Setting the timeline. Drafting a press release, Ron’s words from that long ago outing with Kat coming back to haunt him. Once the media gets ahold of something, it’s impossible to walk it back.

I feel as if I’m a dancer onstage, giving her final performance. My body aches, and I yearn for days where I won’t have to twist myself into knots. I’ve tried on enough identities to know exactly who I want to be. Who I want to remain.

But I’m proud of the work I’ve done. The creative thinking that has allowed me to get to this moment. It takes a village to raise a first-rate grifter, and the world has no shortage of teachers willing to help me build my skills. To learn how to lie convincingly. To manipulate and obfuscate. To use the power of reflecting their best selves back to them, using their egos as vehicles to take back what they’ve stolen from others.

Kat throws her napkin on top of her plate and stands. “I’d better get going. I need to run a few errands this afternoon. Buy a new toaster oven, since Scott took ours with him.”

I look up, my mind crowded with all the things I cannot say, making it difficult for me to think. My eyes fill with tears, and I quickly drop my sunglasses from the top of my head to hide them.

Kat rummages in her purse for her keys, and when she finds them, she gives me a quick look and says, “Talk tomorrow?”

“Sure thing,” I say. I keep my eyes on her as she weaves through the empty tables, and then she’s gone. “Goodbye,” I say, to no one. The way it always goes. The way it always has to be.





Kat


October

Meg texts me just after lunch. Can you come over? I need your help with a new transaction I have open with Ron. Another text follows with her address.

I set my half-eaten yogurt on the counter, still in my pajamas even though it’s after noon. I’d come home from seeing Scott at the beach the other day and looked up properties in Mandeville Canyon, but nothing popped out at me, and nothing’s gone under contract in the area since then.

I can be there in an hour, I text back, but she doesn’t respond.

I scramble to throw on clean clothes, forgoing the shower I’ve been putting off, grab my keys and purse, and am in my car within fifteen minutes.

***

Sun casts the facade of Meg’s house almost golden as I approach the front door. This is the first time I’ve been here, and I’m wondering if I can break away from our conversation to use the bathroom or get a drink of water, just to take a quick look around.

I knock, but there’s no sound of footsteps, so I ring the doorbell and wait.

Still nothing.

I try the knob, which is unlocked, and step into a bright and airy living room filled with a white sectional couch, a low glass and chrome coffee table, and a beautiful ceramic-tiled fireplace. “Meg,” I call, but my voice echoes back to me.

I wander into the kitchen, the counters bare and sparkling, and open the fridge, only to see its shelves scrubbed clean, a lone bottle of water in the very back. It’s as if I’ve stepped into a model home, staged to appear as if people live there, but the cupboards and closets are empty.

“Meg?” I peek into the backyard, but there’s no sign of her.

Where are you? I text.

In the dining room there’s a table with eight chairs tucked around it. In the center is a stack of about twenty spiral-bound notebooks, and on top, an envelope with my name on it.

Inside is a letter and a cashier’s check made out to Citibank for $31,125. I stare at it for at least a minute, dumbfounded, before starting to read.