Two women working together are a force to be reckoned with.
I locate my gate—a flight to Houston, connecting from there to Costa Rica—and find a place to sit. Across from me, an old woman knits, her yarn spooling out of a bag at her feet. I watch as her needles click, her fingers deftly winding and tucking, the length of whatever she’s making growing, row by row.
But then she ties a knot. Slips the needles out, the square piece complete, and she tucks it all away. I think about the last ten years—row after row, city after city, mark after mark. Ron was the knot, and now it’s time to put that part of my life away.
I have a rental house waiting for me—a small bungalow on a hill overlooking the beach. I imagine warm sun, soft sand, and sea salt drying on my skin. Maybe I’ll learn to surf, or work in a bar selling drinks to tourists. Or maybe I’ll spend my time reading on my porch. Perhaps one day, I’ll read a novel about a female con artist traveling the country, dreaming of the day when she will finally mend her mother’s greatest heartache.
Kat
October
By the following morning, every local news outlet is reporting on Ron’s enormous and unexpected donation to the Los Angeles Homeless Cooperative. I woke up early, just so I could see newscasters puzzling over it at the top of every hour. I look up from Meg’s notebooks to catch the latest update.
“With only two weeks until the election, it’s an odd choice for a candidate whose tough position on the homeless was so well publicized,” Kent Buckley, Channel Five Morning News anchor says.
“I can’t imagine his base is very happy about it,” his female co-anchor responds. “What do you make of the statement Mr. Ashton made? Any information on the family he’s referring to? Has anyone come forward?”
“Nothing as of yet. Mr. Ashton’s campaign has declined to comment, and Mr. Ashton himself couldn’t be reached.” Kent shifts to a different camera, ending the segment. “Stay with News Five for this developing story. Now let’s check in with Kristy and the weather.”
I lower the volume and turn back to Meg’s notebooks. I spent most of the night going through them, reading about cons in cities all across the United States, more detailed than my own missing notes ever could have been. I’ve got names, locations, old websites that no longer exist. The few calls I’ve made have been to people happy to discuss Meg, Megan, Melody, or Maggie, depending on where she was and what she was calling herself at the time. I’m so engrossed in what I’m learning that I jump when my phone buzzes with a text from Veronica.
Have you heard from Meg? Do you know where she is?
I think about what must be happening inside Ron’s campaign. Three million dollars, donations from supporters all over the state, gone. The chaos when they discovered along with the rest of the world where it landed.
Another text. Let me know ASAP if you hear from her.
A line from Meg’s letter comes back to me. One of the hardest things about what I do is the burden of always carrying other people’s trust. I feel sorry for Veronica, who never had any idea how Meg had manipulated and used her. Who will probably always wonder what happened to her friend.
I don’t know where she is, I text back. I went to her house yesterday, but it was empty. She’s gone.
Then I pull another notebook from Meg’s stack and keep reading.
***
Two hours later, my mother calls. “Tell me you’re writing about this.”
I set aside the notebook I’ve been reading, grateful for a break, though I’ve been dreading this call. “I’m writing about it,” I parrot.
“Was Meg involved? Surely Ron Ashton wouldn’t make that donation on his own. Was he coerced? Blackmailed? You have a unique angle here. No one else can write from the perspective you’ve got.”