Nate Burgess.
I stare at the name now, remembering his face, and the way his apartment smelled, until the letters blur and I have to look away. Remind myself that it’s been ten years, and I’m not that person anymore.
My therapist had been the one to suggest writing fiction as a tool in my recovery. “When you write a fictional account of something, you’re in control. You get to decide how it ends. I want you to write what happened to you that day, but I want you to change it so you have all the power.”
The first scene I wrote was short—me waiting in my car instead of the bar, watching Nate enter, and then driving away. The next one had me tossing my drink in Nate’s face. The one after that had me kneeing him in the groin and using his tie to yank him to the ground.
It was empowering, but it didn’t erase what had happened. It showed me that, like fiction, justice was an illusion for men like Nate.
But then I turned my attention to Meg and kept writing, giving her a backstory similar to the one I’d researched, wondering what her tipping point had been. The trigger that had sent her in the direction of Cory Dempsey, and then turning that into a career.
I gather my notes back into their folder and tuck it away. Long ago, when Scott moved in, we made the agreement that our workspace was sacrosanct. That neither of us would breach the other’s work documents unless invited. Even though I haven’t had a big story in over a year, I still put things away, on the off chance that Scott might see something unintentionally.
On the desk next to me, my phone buzzes with a text from Meg. It was nice getting to know you today. I do a yoga class every Wednesday morning in Santa Monica. Want to join? As I read the text, she sends a follow-up. This is me, trying to make a friend. She includes a laughing emoji to keep it light, but I feel a pulse of sympathy for her, which surprises me.
I’d love to, I type back. Then I add, This is me, trying to be a friend.
Meg
June
Nineteen Weeks before the Election
What are the most important traits a con artist might need? Many people would say charisma. Others might say intelligence, or the ability to lie and manipulate. Some might also talk about being able to think on one’s feet. To pivot quickly when something goes wrong.
Those aren’t wrong answers, but they’re not my answers.
The ingredients of any good con are patience and trust.
In every job, every identity I’ve inhabited, I always have to start with something true. Something real. Take Veronica and David’s transaction, for example. Ask either of them and they will swear up and down that I am exactly who I say I am. It took me forty-five days to earn that trust. Most con artists aren’t interested in—or able to—stick around for that long.
But this is how you embed yourself in someone’s life. How you become one of their people, a member of their innermost circle, which will open up all kinds of opportunities.
***
Today is my first outing with Ron, and I’m taking him to look at a beachfront duplex in Malibu. It’s been on the market for over two years due to significant structural issues. The listing agent is someone from over the hill in the valley, and he told me up front what to expect. “I’ll be thrilled if I can finally sell it,” he confided. “I’ve been sitting on this listing forever. But I’ve got to disclose that the pylons below the house have begun to erode. No matter what, those are going to have to be replaced. That’s why it’s priced so low at $5.5 million.”
“That might not matter to my buyer,” I told him. “He’s a developer, so something like that won’t scare him off.”
I chose the property for many reasons, not the least of which was its remote location, requiring a long drive from Beverly Hills, through Santa Monica, and up the coast highway. That time in the car with Ron will allow me to build my backstory, shading some of the Michigan transactions with just a hint of corruption. Letting Ron know my professional ethics are as soft as his.