Flashes of the Citibank call keep returning to me. The dirty street, the smell of the bus as it passed, the scratch of the wooden park bench. And the call Meg took, right before I left. Meg’s mystery buyers.
I grab my phone and open the text thread with Meg, scrolling back three weeks until I find what I’m looking for. Veronica came through! We just opened escrow at $4.5 million. Buyers are over the moon happy and we close in 30 days.
While I’ve been busy putting locks on my social security number, talking to the credit reporting agencies, I haven’t had the time to give much thought to the fact that Meg is about to take her house back. She probably doesn’t even want my $30,000; she just needs me out of her way while the deal closes. I’ve accommodated her by doing just that.
I imagine Ron packing up his belongings, directing furniture into storage, never suspecting that Meg has orchestrated the quick sale of his house, the removal of him from her childhood home. And what will she do next? Will she quietly sell it, this time at market value, and pocket the difference before slipping out of town? Perhaps Veronica will show up to yoga and wonder why the space next to hers is empty. Wonder why Meg’s number has been disconnected.
Ten years ago, Meg made a phone call that derailed my life. I lost my career and my place in the world. She stole my sense of safety and self-worth, and every day since then, I’ve had to live with the consequences of that call. I’ve had to accept fear as a daily part of my life.
And now she’s returned and taken even more. Because Meg is a con artist, and con artists steal—however and whenever they can.
I’m done feeling sorry for myself. Done with the second-guessing and hand-wringing. I may have missed what she did while it was happening, but that doesn’t mean I can’t figure it out now.
Scott had filed the police report yesterday, bringing the paperwork home for me to sign—Kat Roberts vs. Meg Williams. Now that the police are involved, there will be a formal investigation, and Scott has promised I’ll have access to everything they dig up on her.
Meg will not destroy my life twice.
Kat
September
“Were you able to connect with Phillip Montgomery, or his sister Renata?” I ask Scott as he arrives home after work.
“You need to take a break,” he says, kissing the top of my head.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m fine.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re going to burn out.” He stands behind me and rubs my shoulders. “I think you need to give it some space. Let us run the investigation, and I promise, if anything turns up, you’ll be the first to know.”
His fingers knead the tight muscles in my neck, but I pull away. “And do what?” I ask. “Wait for her to open up another credit card in my name? Run up more debt?”
Scott pulls his office chair over and sits, turning me away from my notes. “You’re not eating, not sleeping. All I’m suggesting is that you take a break—a day, a week—to clear your head. Work on something else, then come back with fresh eyes. You know better than anyone that sometimes patience and time are the only things that will crack a story.”
“I have a $30,000 debt. I don’t have the luxury of being patient.”
What I can’t bring myself to admit is that if I’m not working on Meg’s story, all that’s left is crap content about home decorating, gardening, and relationships. Is Your New Friend a Con Artist? Five Signs to Look For. The thought makes me want to weep.
“Well, you’re taking a break tonight. Go get showered and put on something nice. I made a reservation at Magnolia for 6:30. Traffic is crazy, so we need to leave in forty-five minutes.”
I glance at my cell phone, silent on the desk, and wonder where Meg is, imagining her out there thinking she got away with it. Not knowing that we’ve named her in a police report, and that Scott and his colleagues are hard at work building a case against her. Not knowing that I’m slowly building the story that will finally expose her.