In Her Skin(56)

If Wolf doesn’t get my call, he’ll see her.

“Vivi, we’re going to be late!” Mr. Lovecraft calls, his voice booming.

“Coming, Dad!” I call, shutting the window.

*

To my earlier point: cons are never focused on the right thing.

In their minds, this night is about what happens next. The Lovecrafts will spend the evening working toward this future-thing, the moment when they get rid of me—later tonight, tomorrow, two months from now—because I became something dangerous rather than something helpful.

They ought to be living in the moment.

If they were living in the moment, they would have seen that my beaded clutch bag is bursting at the seams because of the black tights and a white shirt I have stuffed in there to change into. They would have noticed that I stole Mrs. Lovecraft’s credit card and downloaded an Uber app on my phone linked to the credit card. They would have discovered the duffel bag under my bed containing rubber gloves, a half-face respirator, and an ax.

They would have seen the lime-green sweater tied to the railing of the fire escape, rippling in the wind.

But I choose to live in this moment, and for this and other reasons, I wonder who the con really is. I am enjoying the mini tartes flambées and salmon tartare and cucumber cups with vichyssoise, French hors d’oeuvres that I cannot spell, passed in my honor. The room looks magical, with white lights and short candles on tall tables and gauze and glass. And flowers, so many flowers, all white, because there’s something virginal about being adopted: a fresh start. The guests’ faces are pretty, or else frozen, and sometimes that can be pretty, too. They congratulate me and hold my hands when they do. There is a band playing a mix of old-timey and current music, but I am finding I like the old-timey better, because it suits this fancy place. Gerry is my constant companion, and he would look dashing in his tux if he were not so dour.

You linger at the edges of my vision.

You think of killing as art; on the opposite end of the spectrum is creation. The party is the finishing touch. At least that’s how it seemed earlier. But now something is bothering you; even across the room, I have witnessed a swing from manic socializing to dark lurking. I suspect it is me enjoying myself. I suspect you see me relaxed. I no longer act trapped, because I know I am leaving soon.

The good con feeds on other people’s mistakes.

I have no room for mistakes. I extract myself from a dull conversation with a horse-faced couple and cross the room to you drinking a third glass of champagne after Mr. Lovecraft took the first and then the second from your hand. Around us, people laugh and talk.

“This is the worst night of my life,” I say.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” you say accusingly.

“It’s hard—” I start.

“Being Vivi?” you ask. “Because of Mrs. Weir’s relatives being here? Yes, I imagine it is. Of course, you’re lucky they live abroad and never saw Vivi much. There’s that.”

I nod. I will let you fill in the rest, what you think my discomforts are. What you want them to be.

“I imagine it’s hard for you to fake stuff like this. Basic etiquette stuff, like how many hors d’oeuvres to take, returning glasses to trays. How to politely leave a conversation.”

You needed so little to figure me out. But I needed so much from you.

“You don’t even know who’s important in this room. Like over there: that’s Dick and Anne Marie Connolly.” She nods at a handsome couple surrounded by other couples across the room. “The Boston Symphony Orchestra couldn’t operate without them. That guy? John Fish, Fish Construction? Dad’s closest competitor. Keep your enemies close, right?”

I look for Gerry, recessive Gerry, who is standing on a high level behind a railing now, watching us. That’s the kind of distance I’ve been waiting for all night, and now I’m caught in a conversation with you. I check my watch, which I insisted on wearing with my dress, though Mrs. Lovecraft gave me the stink-eye, calling it “indelicate.”

“I usually do,” I say.

You like that, when I admit to my con tricks, and you soften, wrapping your arm around mine. “I’m sorry, Vivi. I know things have been strange between us lately. It will get better.”

Until it doesn’t. Until you decide that killing me is a good way to make your parents sweat it out like they have for the last seven years, or until you convince them that my knowledge, the knowledge you gave me, makes me too dangerous. Or maybe it’s just until you have to answer to your bloodlust. Your parents know that one of these things may happen, will happen, and they’ve set it up once again for you to get off, free. It doesn’t matter. I am not waiting around for one of these motives to take hold; I will not find myself rattling bells inside your wall.

You lean into my ear and say, with predictable kinkiness, “After all, we’re sisters now.”

Mr. Lovecraft approaches. He wears a pink pocket square that matches my dress, and Mrs. Lovecraft, in tasteful silver-gray, waits a few feet behind, talking with a woman responsible for making sure things run smoothly. “It’s time, girls.”

He holds out both his arms, and you take one and I take the other and we float to the stage, and this shouldn’t feel as nice as it does. My face is hot, and I wish you had been especially cruel this time, because I need fresh pain to remind me why I am running. Momma said if wishes were horses, beggars would ride, and she was right, wishing is for the common and the hopeless. I need to stop wishing and make things happen.