by Lisa Unger
Are you married?
Do you have children?
A dog?
Nope. Nope. Nope.
Do you get lonely? Living all by yourself?
Geneva was serving them grilled cheese sandwiches with apple slices. She put a plate in front of each of them. Oliver liked the way she cut the sandwich diagonal just like his mom did. Dad cut them in rectangle halves, or not at all. Just a big square on the plate. Sometimes he didn’t melt the cheese all the way. Or he burned one side because he got distracted by his phone.
How could I get lonely when I have you? she said.
Stephen was satisfied with this. But Oliver liked to watch faces. He could see that her eyes were sad.
I think you do live in a castle, he said to cheer her up. Because you’re as pretty as a princess.
She touched a soft hand to his cheek, smiled. And you’re a very sweet boy.
He didn’t remember what happened next, because they were on to something else. But every night when she left, he watched her go, wondering where she went. And why she was sad.
The last time, he’d watched her all the way to her car. When she got to her car, she stopped and turned around, as if something had gotten her attention. She clutched her bag to the front of her body and frowned. Said something—her mouth was moving. Then she walked out of sight, away from her car. There was someone else on the street, but he couldn’t really see; the big oak in his yard mostly blocked his view. He tried to get a better look.
Then Stephen tackled him because he was hiding the remote, and his mom broke it up again, and they were punished for a while. His iPad, which he’d left recording in the windowsill, was shut off and taken away from him. He forgot all about Geneva.
But when he looked out his window later, her car was still there. At bedtime, he’d tried to tell his mom, but she wouldn’t let him talk.
The car was there all weekend. Which he thought was strange. But grown-ups did lots of strange things that they didn’t always bother to explain. And he forgot about that, too.
Now, he had the uneasy sense that he’d done something wrong, something that would result in having his iPad taken away from him.
As he stood outside the doorway and listened to his parents lie to the strangers, he wondered if maybe he should say something—about how he’d recorded Geneva leaving. But then he just didn’t.
Words didn’t always come out right. And he’d gotten in trouble for saying things he shouldn’t say—like the time he told Mom that Dad slept in his underwear on the couch, in the daytime when she was working. Or that Dad had let them eat toaster waffles for dinner or watch a movie that gave Stephen nightmares. Hey, buddy, his dad said. There’s a bro code. Don’t rat out your old man to your mom. It’s not cool.
Not cool.
That, according to Eli, was the worst thing you could be.
So he just stayed quiet. And when the strangers were finally gone, he was glad. He hoped that they wouldn’t come back. And that tomorrow Geneva would return from her castle and everything would go back to normal.
THIRTEEN
Selena
Lies are a virus. They spread, replicate. One lie breeds more. Selena’s mother always said that, usually when talking about Selena’s father. You have to keep lying to protect the original lie. The idea bounced around Selena’s head now as she watched from the walkway, knowing she should go back inside but frozen.
The detectives crossed the street, wind tossing leaves across the lawn, sun dipping behind clouds. Feeling eyes on her, she turned to see Graham standing in the window, his form dark, face in shadows. Once the cops had left, he’d dropped that genial facade he put on so well. He’d turned sullen, wouldn’t look at her, returned inside.
Who are you? she thought.
He was a stranger inside her house, her bed, her heart.
And where is Geneva?
There were always little things, Selena’s mother said when she came clean about Dad’s many affairs. A phone call at a strange hour. Once an earring clasp—something cheap and insubstantial—found while she was cleaning the car. A receipt in his pocket from a restaurant in a city she wasn’t aware he’d visited. He traveled for work; there were women in his life—clients and colleagues. Everything was easily pushed away. She wanted to push things away; she’d admitted this. If she acknowledged what she knew in her heart to be true, she’d have to do something about it. Incurious, that was the word she used. Willfully incurious.
Selena’s father became bolder, almost flagrant. Her mother became blinder, developed migraines. Selena remembered the closed door, how she’d push inside to the dark room and see her mother lying on the bed with a cool cloth over her eyes. Selena would slip in beside her and her mother would wrap her up in her slender arms without a word. How unhappy Cora must have been. How had she borne it?
Selena hadn’t understood, not really, when her mother finally confided to Marisol and her about the affairs—years after their divorce. She pretended to understand. But secretly she wondered—how could you, Mom? How could you let him treat you that way? She understood now, how you turned away until you couldn’t. Until the pain of knowing and doing nothing was greater than the fear of what might come next.
She should have turned Graham away on Friday night. She should have told the police he was sleeping with Geneva. But what about the boys?
Now what would happen?
Don’t you wish your problems would just go away?
Geneva wasn’t the problem. The problem was Graham.
She went inside, closed the door. The house felt hushed, as if everyone were holding their breaths. The boys were quiet; the television droned upstairs.
“I don’t have to say it, right?”
She startled. Graham was standing in the arch between the living room and the hallway. “What?”
“That whatever this is, it has nothing to do with me.”
He stood there watching her. And for a moment it was as if she was seeing him for the first time. Her husband. The adulterer. The liar. What else?
“Selena,” he said. His voice was almost stern. “Say something.”
The world spun.
Then the doorbell rang, startling them both. When she opened it, Detective Crowe stood waiting there.
“Mrs. Murphy,” he said. “I think we’ve found Geneva Markson’s vehicle parked on your street. Did you know she’d left it?”
Selena shook her head, felt something catch in her throat. “No.”
She wasn’t even sure what kind of car Geneva drove; the other woman never parked in their driveway and she always used their second car, a late-model Subaru, to drive the boys around.
She followed the detective’s gaze and saw a white Toyota parked across the street. People had started to gather. A squad car arrived.
“Were you planning on going anywhere today?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’ll work from home.”
“Your husband.”
Something about the way he said it made her stomach bottom out. “He’s—between jobs at the moment.”
Between jobs? That sounded shady. But the detective only nodded, polite, neutral.
“So, yeah, he’ll be here, I mean.” Graham stood in the dark of the hallway, stiff, frozen.
“We may come back with more questions,” said the detective. Was there something in his tone? “We’d appreciate it if you could both be around.”
“Of course. We’ll be here.”
She closed the front door as he walked down the path.
“Selena,” said Graham.
In the kitchen, her phone was buzzing. She walked away from her husband, slipping instantly into crisis management mode. She’d call her mother and ask her to take the boys for a few days until this all worked itself out. Then, she’d call Beth and tell her what was going
on—as little as possible. Will was a lawyer; he would be her next call. Not that they needed a lawyer. But they might. William was famous for saying that if the police show up at your door and you don’t call your lawyer, you’re basically handing over your rights. It sounded dramatic, very lawyerly. Until it sounded like solid advice.
When she picked up the phone, there were a string of texts from yet another unknown number.
Hey, girl.
How’s your day going? Time for a drink after work tonight?
It’s Martha, by the way.
From the train.
FOURTEEN
Anne
Anne let her finger drift over the diamond bracelet on her slim wrist. A Tiffany Victoria line bracelet. Small, the lowest carat count. But still. More than ten thousand, for sure. Closer to fifteen. The sun coming in from the windows caught on the gems and cast rainbow shards of light on the walls, on the ceiling. It should have been enough, the payout from Kate. The look on her face. But somehow it just wasn’t.
“Do you like it, darling?” said Hugh. She loved that even though he’d been caught, that surely his whole life with Kate hung in the balance now, he still couldn’t resist her. The power of that was delicious.
“I love it,” she gushed. “It’s beautiful.”
The grift. The con. It was almost an old-fashioned idea, the stuff of noir novels and black-and-white movies.
The Nigerian prince seeking help from afar: Give me your bank account and I’ll transfer my wealth, pay you handsomely for the favor! The shell game: Next time you’ll get it! The pigeon drop: Hey, buddy! Did you drop your wallet? Whoa—look at all this cash. There were a hundred ways to separate a fool from his money. Except it was never about the money. It was about the thrill, the intimacy of being taken into someone’s trust, of extracting from them a thing they didn’t even know they wanted to give. And they did want to give it.
You can’t con an honest man. That’s what Pop always said.
That was true without being the whole truth. Anne had a bit of revision. You can’t con someone who doesn’t want something, who wasn’t willing to wade into a gray area to get it. You can’t con someone who is a stranger to desire, to need.
Take Hugh for example. He thought that he’d seduced Anne. But in a way, hadn’t she led him to it, gently, delicately? Even though she’d come to the firm, ostensibly, to work, to go straight, as Pop liked to say. Hadn’t she seen an opportunity pretty quickly, maybe even subconsciously? She knew immediately what kind of man Hugh was. A flat come-on would not have worked. He needed to think it was his idea.
A little flattery: I’m learning so much from you! A little vulnerability; she’d let him catch her crying over a breakup. (Except there wasn’t a breakup. And she’d never actually cry. Especially not over a man.) Standing a little too close in the elevator. One or two accidental brushes of her hand against his. It was so subtle. She was subtle. Maybe too subtle. After a while, she thought maybe she had him wrong. That he was a faithful husband, in love with his wife.
Then the hand on her knee. Right there, her plan to go straight went right out the window.
See what I’m saying, kitten? A tiger can’t change her stripes.
What did Hugh want? He wanted to be wanted. He wanted to be young again. He wanted to have something, anything, that didn’t belong to Kate. There was a thrill in knowing that, in giving that—and in taking it away.
Anne and Hugh lay entangled on the king bed, their hotel room looking out over Central Park. She luxuriated in the exquisite sheets, watched the bubbles in her champagne glass.
She’d let him text her for days.
I’m so sorry, Anne. Forgive me.
I can’t leave her. She needs me. She’s—not well.
I can’t stop thinking about you. Oh, god. Please meet me.
Anne.
I’m desperate.
She rather enjoyed it. In fact, she kind of liked Hugh, which was not always the case. He was an acrobatic lover, in great shape, generous, gentle. He could be funny. Anne could see why Kate held on tight; most men were monsters deep down. Not Hugh. Deep down he was a little boy.
He moved a strand of hair from her eyes, touched her cheek.
“I was drowning without this. Without you.”
“This is the last time, Hugh,” she said, trying to look bravely hurt. “I’m not a mistress. I thought we’d be together someday. Really together.”
“I know.” He sighed, kissed her deeply. “I know. It’s not fair to you.”
The game. It was so sweet.
It was Pop who taught her that her beauty was a weapon. Her lean, strong body—not too thin. Her flawless olive skin. Her long, (currently) blue-black hair that hung blade-straight down to the middle of her back. She groomed—waxed, plucked, exfoliated, manicured, moisturized, exercised religiously. She took care of herself. Her beauty was a commodity, a thing that people wanted. It could be used to manipulate men and women. Men wanted to possess it, control it. Women wanted to believe that it was a thing within their reach, a weapon that they too could wield. Who does your hair? What’s your secret?
She turned her head away from him, exposing the delicate flesh of her neck, where he promptly placed his lips. She shivered—he thought from pleasure.
What’s the game now? Pop wanted to know. You’ve gotten all you can from his wife.
Had she, though?
For Pop it was all about the money. Run the game, get away clean. Anne always wanted a little bit more. She reveled in her role as puppeteer.
And that’s where you get into trouble. You don’t need to turn the knife every time.
“I have to leave the city,” she said softly.
“What? Why?”
“My sister,” she said. “She’s really sick. There isn’t much time.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said. His hazel eyes glittered with concern. He was earnest, she’d give him that. He really did care about her, as much as someone like Hugh could care about anyone but himself. “What can I do?”
Didn’t he know that she was playing him?
The funny thing was that they almost never, ever did. And even after they figured it out, they doubted themselves. Wanted to believe they were wrong. Even when there was no denying that they’d been had, you could almost always go back for a second helping. Like the sweetheart scam. That was her favorite. So many very lonely people in the world. So many of them with money. They trawled online for love, knowing of course how easy it was to be scammed. But there they were, desperate enough to try. And try again.
There was a look. A kind of sweetness around the eyes. A sort of slouch to the aura. Something else. Hope. Without it, things were harder, if not impossible. Hugh was a different category: all ego, easy to flatter.
“I have to give up my place here,” she said. “I don’t know when I can come back. All the money I have—it’ll have to go for caring for her. She—doesn’t have anything. She has two small kids, my niece and nephew.”
“Husband?”
“Left,” she said. She sighed, going for sad, helpless. “Men. They’re not all like you.”
He kissed her again.
Cash—he had a grand in his wallet. He handed it over to her. The bracelet; the baby-blue box gaped on the nightstand. And his credit card number for flights and hotels. The one Kate didn’t know about. Oh, Hugh, how can I ever thank you?
She showered with him, pleasured him on her knees in the steamy tile bathroom, the scent of sage and mint heavy in the air.
She loved it when they were exposed, moaning and helpless.
Then Anne watched him dress, late for his afternoon meeting. Where did Kate think he was? If he was Anne’s husband, she’d be tailing him every second. But maybe Kate couldn’t be bothered. She knew she had him on a short leash. Or maybe she was just another mark, fooled again an
d again by her handsome, charming, and totally unfaithful husband.
Anne wrapped herself in the big plush robe and got back into bed as Hugh was fixing his tie. He watched her in the mirror.
“Keep the room if you want,” he said. “Go to the spa, relax while you can. I’ll call you later. Things have a way of working out, Annie.”
She nodded, going for uncertain, fragile. Yes, things had a way of working out if you were a wealthy white man.
He moved over to her, sat on the bed, and took her into his arms, then kissed her long. In the space of that kiss, she let herself be the woman he thought she was—someone who loved him, who wanted to marry him, who had to go care for her sick sister. She let herself imagine what it would be like to be tender, loving, someone’s mistress waiting for him to leave his wife. How vulnerable she might be, how hopeful. Would she cling? She would. Anne held on to him a second after he tried to pull away.
“I promise,” he said before he left. “We’ll figure this out.”
She walked him to the door, and when it closed there was something final about the click of the latch.
The con is a method actor, Pop always said. Become the lie.
And she was good at that, disappearing into the person she was pretending to be. She was Anne Porter—young, ambitious, a mind for numbers, from New Jersey, a Rutgers grad. She had a sister, someone she loved. That part was true-ish, that she had a sister. Kind of. But her sister wasn’t dying of some unnamed disease. There was no niece or nephew. There were pieces of her in every character, little handles that helped her keep things authentic. She was authentically uncomfortable with heights; she loved sushi. Her mother was dead. She never really knew her father. These things recurred in all of her characters.
Before Anne, she was Ellie Martin, young widow wondering if she could ever love again. Before that there was Marlie Croft, an orphan looking for her lost family. Before that. Before that. She was a Russian doll, every shell a different face, a different color. Right now, her hair was black—but she’d been a blonde, a redhead, a mousy brunette. She’d gained weight, lost it. She was good at becoming. The only problem was that the real person was buried deep, so tiny and formless that Anne could barely remember her.
