I had a compelling premise: woman betrayed by her children uses her wits to exact her revenge. I was a fascinating protagonist—physically fragile but with a brilliant mind and nerves of steel. My antagonists were indisputably vile—selfish, entitled do-nothings who stole the best years of their mother’s life, then abandoned her in her hour of need. And the setting was divine—spooky old house with a secret history no one knew but the owner herself.
The particulars of my situation were unique, but there was no need to reinvent the genre. My ingenious con would invoke some tried-and-true tricks but also take advantage of the technology at hand. With the help of a Google number, I could make anonymous texts right from my laptop, no additional hardware needed. As for how I would watch my hapless victims tear each other apart, I had a full complement of cameras—in all the downstairs rooms and outside. They weren’t miked, of course, but I was a seasoned casting director—my subjects’ body language would tell me everything I needed to know.
“I am absolutely sure,” I said, for the third time. Getting the technology working was important, but it wasn’t the only thing I had to work out. Just as important as the how was the who. Technology is predictable. People are not. And it is not always easy to get them to do what you want them to do. I couldn’t do this by myself; I needed a coconspirator. Yes, mine was unwitting, but she’d walked right into it. I didn’t feel bad for tricking her, because if watching their presumed inheritance go to a stranger didn’t compel my selfish children to finally give me that damn kidney, she’d get her reward: all $10 million of it. If I had to throw her a few pennies to fend off a lawsuit, I would; I had enough to make her go away if my children came around. Which of course was the hope.
I gave my plan a fifty-fifty chance of success. Of course I was rooting against this sad little actress remaining my benefactor. I was tired of my medical purgatory. I wanted to see the great pyramids of Egypt, the northern lights in Finnish Lapland, Der Rosenkavalier in Vienna while I still had teeth and could wipe my own behind. I hadn’t hustled my whole life to slow rot in a chair. So this was my last-ditch effort. I’d done something similar when they were children, with jars of marbles. Telling them “You’re not getting your allowance unless . . .” was a lot less effective than “These marbles represent your allowance. I’m taking them away if you don’t . . .” It worked particularly well with Winnie: she got into Stanford because of those marbles. So perhaps a hearty dose of negative reinforcement was once again the ticket. If not, at least I’d get a good show. Not quite Der Rosenkavalier, but high drama nonetheless.
“OK,” my lawyer said, somewhat glumly, as if he had a vested interest in me being a pushover. “I’ll draft these changes and send them over for your review next week.”
“No,” I said. “I need it done today. Come to the house. How’s one o’clock? I’ll prepare lunch.”
There was a long pause. I knew what was coming.
“Is everything OK, Louisa?”
And I smiled to myself. “Never better.” Because my coconspirator was on her way over to give the performance that could change her life, and pretend-end mine.
CHAPTER 44
* * *
ASHLEY
“Can you do it sadder?” Louisa asked, from her perch on the high-back sofa in her parlor. I’d been at her house all morning, recording takes for this mysterious “crime procedural” she’d offered to submit me for, stupidly letting myself believe—yet again!—that I had a chance of booking it.
“Yes, of course,” I said. Conjuring sadness was not a problem for me. I could just think about how long it had been since I’d had a boyfriend （forever）， my financial situation （dire）， my inability to make something of myself after seven years of trying （pathetic）。 If that didn’t get me there, I could conjure the all-too-fresh memory of making a jackass of myself by proposing marriage to Jordan. What kind of idiot proposes marriage to a man she’s not even in love with? I mean, how desperate can a girl get? Of course he （literally!） turned his back on me—I was a big fat loser on every front. I had a lot to cry about these days. On the bright side, at least Louisa was giving me an opportunity to—as we actors say—“use it.”
“OK, let me know when you’re ready.”
I closed my eyes and let the sad thoughts roll in. I’m a failure. I’m a disappointment. I wasted the best years of my life.