“I’m thinking apple,” Meg says, flipping the menu over. “With a decaf latte.”
“I’ll have the same, except cherry pie instead.”
We hand our menus back and look at each other across the table. “So, a novel! What’s it about?” she asks.
A recklessness possesses me, and I’m suddenly curious to see just how clever she is, how quickly she can pivot and conceal who she really is and what she’s doing. “It’s a thriller about a female con artist.”
Meg’s eyes widen, and her laugh lifts above the noise of the restaurant. “That sounds amazing. What’s the big twist? Or do you not want to say?”
My smile matches hers. “I haven’t figured it out yet, but I’ll let you know when I do.”
If what I’ve just said worries her, she doesn’t show it. Her arms rest on the table, completely relaxed, as late-night diners at the tables surrounding us eat, their conversations coming to us in pieces and snatches of words.
And then she said to me…
I’m telling you, you need to quit that job.
I miss Jenna with a near physical ache, and I imagine what it would be like if she were here instead of Meg. To be able to let my guard down and enjoy a concert and a piece of pie without needing to secure all my edges. Without needing to think through how much or how little to say.
Instead, Meg sits across from me. A woman who looks like a friend. Acts like a friend, but is not a friend.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “You seem quieter than usual.”
I look at the giant chalkboard hanging above the counter with menu items and prices written in giant, colorful letters, then back at her and say, “Someone is trying to hack into my bank account.”
I study her expression, keeping my eyes locked on her face, but only see surprise and concern register there. “You’d better change your password immediately.” She gestures toward my phone on the table. “Do you want to do it now?”
I shake my head. “They can’t get in. I have two-step verification. But I’ll call tomorrow, just to make sure.”
She lifts her glass of water and takes a sip before saying, “Why do you still look so worried?”
“We’ve had some mail go missing. Bank statements. Paid bills that never got to where they needed to go. Scott thinks someone is targeting us.”
Her eyes widen. “Have you called the police?”
“Not yet,” I say. “But Scott’s going to want to, after tonight.” I let the threat hang in the air, searching her face for a reaction. A flash of worry. A flinch. Something that might betray her. Again I see that jotted note. Aunt Calista—$$—unclear how much.
Our pie arrives and we begin to eat in silence. Finally, Meg says, “I don’t want to overstep, but do you think Scott might be gambling again?”
I look up from my plate, a dark realization washing over me. The secret I shared, the truth I revealed so long ago, has now come back to haunt me. This is what con artists do—squirrel away information and use it when you’re at your most vulnerable. As if to say, It’s not me you should be worrying about.
I could have made up any reason why Scott and I might be prolonging our engagement. But I’d settled on offering up the truth, never knowing how expertly she might use it against me.
Meg gestures toward my ring. “How often do you take that off?” she asks. I must look confused because she clarifies. “I’m just wondering if it’s possible he could have swapped out the stone without you noticing.” She holds her hands up and says, “I’m sorry, but if he’s gambling again, that’s exactly the kind of thing he’d try to do.”