Confessions on the 7:45(35)

She turned her head away from him, exposing the delicate flesh of her neck, where he promptly placed his lips. She shivered—he thought from pleasure.

What’s the game now? Pop wanted to know. You’ve gotten all you can from his wife.

Had she, though?

For Pop it was all about the money. Run the game, get away clean. Anne always wanted a little bit more. She reveled in her role as puppeteer.

And that’s where you get into trouble. You don’t need to turn the knife every time.

“I have to leave the city,” she said softly.

“What? Why?”

“My sister,” she said. “She’s really sick. There isn’t much time.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said. His hazel eyes glittered with concern. He was earnest, she’d give him that. He really did care about her, as much as someone like Hugh could care about anyone but himself. “What can I do?”

Didn’t he know that she was playing him?

The funny thing was that they almost never, ever did. And even after they figured it out, they doubted themselves. Wanted to believe they were wrong. Even when there was no denying that they’d been had, you could almost always go back for a second helping. Like the sweetheart scam. That was her favorite. So many very lonely people in the world. So many of them with money. They trawled online for love, knowing of course how easy it was to be scammed. But there they were, desperate enough to try. And try again.

There was a look. A kind of sweetness around the eyes. A sort of slouch to the aura. Something else. Hope. Without it, things were harder, if not impossible. Hugh was a different category: all ego, easy to flatter.

“I have to give up my place here,” she said. “I don’t know when I can come back. All the money I have—it’ll have to go for caring for her. She—doesn’t have anything. She has two small kids, my niece and nephew.”

“Husband?”

“Left,” she said. She sighed, going for sad, helpless. “Men. They’re not all like you.”

He kissed her again.

Cash—he had a grand in his wallet. He handed it over to her. The bracelet; the baby-blue box gaped on the nightstand. And his credit card number for flights and hotels. The one Kate didn’t know about. Oh, Hugh, how can I ever thank you?

She showered with him, pleasured him on her knees in the steamy tile bathroom, the scent of sage and mint heavy in the air.

She loved it when they were exposed, moaning and helpless.

Then Anne watched him dress, late for his afternoon meeting. Where did Kate think he was? If he was Anne’s husband, she’d be tailing him every second. But maybe Kate couldn’t be bothered. She knew she had him on a short leash. Or maybe she was just another mark, fooled again and again by her handsome, charming, and totally unfaithful husband.

Anne wrapped herself in the big plush robe and got back into bed as Hugh was fixing his tie. He watched her in the mirror.

“Keep the room if you want,” he said. “Go to the spa, relax while you can. I’ll call you later. Things have a way of working out, Annie.”

She nodded, going for uncertain, fragile. Yes, things had a way of working out if you were a wealthy white man.

He moved over to her, sat on the bed, and took her into his arms, then kissed her long. In the space of that kiss, she let herself be the woman he thought she was—someone who loved him, who wanted to marry him, who had to go care for her sick sister. She let herself imagine what it would be like to be tender, loving, someone’s mistress waiting for him to leave his wife. How vulnerable she might be, how hopeful. Would she cling? She would. Anne held on to him a second after he tried to pull away.

“I promise,” he said before he left. “We’ll figure this out.”

She walked him to the door, and when it closed there was something final about the click of the latch.

The con is a method actor, Pop always said. Become the lie.

And she was good at that, disappearing into the person she was pretending to be. She was Anne Porter—young, ambitious, a mind for numbers, from New Jersey, a Rutgers grad. She had a sister, someone she loved. That part was true-ish, that she had a sister. Kind of. But her sister wasn’t dying of some unnamed disease. There was no niece or nephew. There were pieces of her in every character, little handles that helped her keep things authentic. She was authentically uncomfortable with heights; she loved sushi. Her mother was dead. She never really knew her father. These things recurred in all of her characters.

Before Anne, she was Ellie Martin, young widow wondering if she could ever love again. Before that there was Marlie Croft, an orphan looking for her lost family. Before that. Before that. She was a Russian doll, every shell a different face, a different color. Right now, her hair was black—but she’d been a blonde, a redhead, a mousy brunette. She’d gained weight, lost it. She was good at becoming. The only problem was that the real person was buried deep, so tiny and formless that Anne could barely remember her.

Who you were is gone. Who you will be—she doesn’t exist. The only thing that matters is who are you are right now. Pop. Con artist. Zen master.

Did you get what you wanted? He would surely ask. Are you done?

Not quite.

She finished the lunch they’d ordered but hadn’t touched—a beautiful lobster Cobb, whole grain bread with truffle butter, cut strawberries. She poured herself another glass of champagne, watched the darkening clouds drift over the treetops, the city streets far below.