She hands me a plastic cup of wine and says, “I need to run to the bathroom.”
She grabs her phone and hooks her purse over her shoulder, and I watch it bounce against her hip as she walks away.
***
The band is phenomenal, energizing the crowd with hits by Blondie, the GoGo’s, Fleetwood Mac, and Joan Jett. Soon, we’re on our feet dancing, singing at the top of our lungs along with everyone around us.
For a few hours I let myself drop my questions. I forget about Scott’s concerns and missteps, and set aside my growing unease that I’ve acclimated so much to who Meg is as a person that I’m no longer able to see her clearly. At one point, I catch Meg watching me with a smile, and I wonder who she sees when she looks at me. A wealthy woman at loose ends, trying to figure out her next step, or a journalist who let herself get too close?
I close my eyes and decide I don’t care.
***
When the concert ends, my voice is hoarse and my body aches. “That was great,” I tell her.
She hooks her arm through mine and says, “Thanks for coming with me.” She squeezes my arm and says, “Want to get some pie?”
“Yes, please.” We’ve reached the parking lot, where overhead lights give off a dim glow, headlights of exiting cars sweeping across the ground.
“Follow me,” she says. “There’s a great place in Santa Monica that’s open all night.”
When I climb into my car, I pull my phone from my pocket, setting it on the center console, and notice a text from my bank.
A new device is trying to access your account. If this is not you, contact an account manager.
I look toward Meg’s car and see her pulling her seat belt across her body and then down at my phone again. The time stamp shows the attempt was made just after I’d searched her car and tucked my phone away. Right about when Meg made her quick trip to the bathroom.
A car horn toots, pulling my attention back. Meg, gesturing me to follow her.
I drop my phone back into the center console and fall in behind her.
***
I follow her to Main Street in Santa Monica, anger bubbling inside of me—not just at Meg, but at myself, for letting my guard down. All the stories Meg told me about her past, tiny threads of empathy weaving between us, pulling me close. Keeping me distracted. Investing me in her heart instead of her mind.
Scott tried to warn me. You’re actively trying to expose her. A con artist isn’t going to just let you walk away. She’s going to want to make you pay.
I pull into a parking spot and remind myself that the attempt had failed. And now I’ve been warned.
There’s a twenty-minute wait despite the fact that it’s nearing midnight. We stand outside with everyone else and make small talk, but my mind is far away, imagining Meg huddled in one of the bathroom stalls at the park, the cold concrete forever wet and murky. The sounds of the concert floating through the windows and echoing through the barren space, staring at her phone, using my stolen bank statement to try to log in to my account. Knowing it would be at least two hours before I’d get the notification. Believing her proximity to me would rule her out as a potential suspect.
“What will you do next with your life?” she asks. “I mean, besides your exciting career as a real estate assistant.” Her cheeks are still flushed from the concert, and she buzzes with energy.
Fed up with the endless lies, I decide to tell her something true. “I’ve actually been working on a novel.”
She looks surprised and is about to ask a question when her name is called. We’re led through the center of the restaurant, the room stuffy after we’d been standing outside. We slide across from each other as the server hands us menus.