It might help if I can see everything in order, starting with Cory Dempsey, moving through Phillip, and then adding what I’ve got so far with Ron. I also want to take another look at the few victims I’d been able to find shortly after Meg left Los Angeles the first time. Dig a little deeper to see whether they, too, deserved Meg’s attention the way Cory did. The way Phillip did. The way Ron does now.
I pull the file from my desk drawer and open it. A blank piece of paper sits on top of the stack. I set it aside and am faced with another blank sheet. My hands begin to shake as I start flipping through the pages, blank page after blank page, my mind finally catching up to what’s happened.
Scott.
While I sat in my car waiting for him to clear out, he was stealing my notes and replacing them with a fat stack of printer paper.
Everything I’ve gathered about Meg—names, dates, former addresses, and family information—is gone. Ten years’ worth of work has vanished, and any chance I might have had to sell the story and pay the debt. Rage pounds through me, and I grab my soda can and throw it against the wall, where it explodes in a cascade of brown bubbles, puddling on the hardwood floor.
Meg
September
Seven Weeks before the Election
I’m walking through a tiny house in Sunset Park, my fourth one of the morning, making sure I’ve been seen by enough agents from the Apex office before calling it quits for the day, when someone behind me says, “Hey, Meg.”
I turn from the closet I’d been peering into and see Guy Cicinelli, an older agent from the Apex office who’s poked his head into the tiny bedroom.
“Seems you’re following me,” I say, having seen him at the last three open houses I’d been to.
He grins. “Maybe we’ll be up against each other.” He peeks over my shoulder and into the closet. “My clients are going to love this house.”
“Mine too,” I say, referring to clients I’ve been pretending to have—the young couple looking for their starter home. The retired teacher looking to downsize into something that will better fit his crap pension. I’m weeks away from leaving town, but I have to appear to be hustling, looking for my next deal. Always be closing.
Guy sighs and says, “It never gets old—helping people find the place they’ll call home, and then making it happen for them.”
“I know what you mean,” I say, and for once it’s not bullshit. When I got confirmation that Celia’s lake house was officially hers, I felt the kind of joy you get when you’ve done something completely selfless and completely right. It was a moment of peace, as if all the problems and heartache in the world have suddenly paused their spinning chaos and it’s silent, for one blessed moment. I did that. I gave that to her.
We make our way back into the living room, and he gestures toward the street. “Is that your buyer sitting in his car? You know he can come inside. Even though it’s a broker’s open, buyers show up all the time.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, looking through the front window. “My buyer isn’t here.”
“Well, there’s a guy parked in front,” Guy says. “I assumed he was yours, since he’s been at the last three houses you’ve looked at.”
Fucking Scott. I roll my eyes and say, “Not a client. He’s my assistant’s fiancé.” I move back to the central hall and say, “Have you seen the kitchen yet? Amazing.”
Guy wanders into it, and I use the opportunity to peel away from him and head to the backyard, a concrete slab with a large crack that Guy’s buyers will need to repair. A path leads toward the back gate, and I follow it, pretending to be looking at the garage.
My phone buzzes with a text from Kat, and I pull up short. Thanks for giving me the space I needed to sort things out on my end. I’m ready to get back to work.