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Meg
Present—June
Twenty-Two Weeks before the Election
It starts how it always starts.
With me, quietly slipping alongside you—no sudden moves, no loud fanfare. As if I’ve always been there. Always belonged.
This time, it’s a $10,000-a-plate fundraiser. After nearly ten years, I feel right at home among the extravagant trappings of the rich—the original artwork on the walls, the antiques that cost more than most people make in a year, and the hired help I pretend not to notice, quietly moving through homes like this one, perched high on a hill with all of Los Angeles glittering below us.
If you’re one of my targets, know that I’ve chosen you carefully. It’s likely you’re in the midst of a major life change—a lost job, a divorce, the death of a close family member. Or a heated run for elected office that you’re on the verge of losing. Emotional people take risks. They don’t think clearly, and they’re eager to believe whatever fantasy I feed them.
Social media has become my primary research tool, with its check-ins, geo-tags, and shameless self-promotion. And those quizzes some of your friends take and share? Dogs or cats? Number of brothers and sisters? Most of the questions seem harmless, but the next time you see one, take a closer look. Name five places you’ve lived or Four names you go by—both of which allow me to approach you. John? It’s me, Meg! From Boise, remember? I knew your sister.
It’s so easy, it’s criminal.
I spend hundreds of hours on observation and research. Profiling the different people in your life, finding the one I can befriend, the one who will lead me to you. When I’m done, I know everything I possibly can about you, and most of the people around you. By the time you’re saying nice to meet you, I’ve already known you for months.
Does this worry you? It should.
***
“Have you tried the crab cakes?” Veronica appears at my elbow, a cocktail napkin in hand. We’ve become close in the six months I’ve been back in Los Angeles, having met in a yoga class in Santa Monica, our mats positioned next to each other in the back. What started as a friendly greeting with a stranger at the beginning of class was a budding friendship by the end. It’s amazing how easy Instagram stories make it to put yourself in the right place at the right time, next to the right person.
“I haven’t,” I tell her. “I heard they’re serving filet mignon for dinner, so I’m saving myself for that.”
There’s a heat inside my chest, the slow burn of excitement I always get when I start a new job. I enjoy this part the most I think, the setting of the hook. Savoring the delicious anticipation of what’s about to happen. No matter how many times I do this, I never tire of the thrill this moment always brings.
Veronica crumples her napkin. “You’re missing out, Meg.”
It’s still a shock to hear people use my real name. I’ve gone by many over the years, mostly variations of my own—Margaret, Melody, Maggie. Backstories that range from college student to freelance photographer and most recently interior decorator and life coach to celebrities, all of them elaborate fabrications. Roles I played to near perfection. But tonight, I’m here as myself, someone I haven’t been for a very long time.
I’d had no choice in the matter. My entry into this job required me to get my real estate license, and there was no getting around the social security number and fingerprinting. But that’s okay, because this time I want my name to be known. For Ron Ashton—developer, local politician, and candidate for state senator—to know it was me who took everything from him. Not just his money, but the reputation he’s spent years cultivating.
I see him across the room, his broad shoulders a few inches above everyone else’s, his gray hair neatly combed, talking to Veronica’s husband, his campaign manager.
Veronica follows my gaze and says, “David says the election is going to be close. That Ron can’t afford a single misstep in these last few months.”
“What’s he like?” I ask. “Between us.”
Veronica thinks for a moment and says, “Your typical politician. Closet womanizer. Fancies himself to be Reagan reincarnated. David says he’s obsessed with him. ‘He won’t shut up about fucking Reagan.’” She gives a small laugh and shakes her head.
“But what do you think?”
She looks at me with an amused expression. “I think he’s like every other politician out there—pathologically ambitious. But he pays David well, and the fringe benefits are great.” Then she nudges my shoulder. “I’m glad you could come. I think there’ll be quite a few people here who will be good for you to meet. Possibly some new clients.”
I take another sip of wine. My whole reason for being here tonight is to snag one client in particular. “I could use the business,” I say. “It’s been hard starting over.”
“You’ll get there. You’ve got years of experience in Michigan behind you. I mean, the way you handled our purchase of the Eightieth Street property. I still don’t know how you got the sellers to drop their price like that.”
I suppress a smile. Shortly after we’d met, Veronica had mentioned over post-yoga sushi that they were looking for an investment property, but the agent they were using wasn’t finding them anything in their price range.
“Did she show you that property on Kelton?” I had riffed, knowing exactly what they were hoping to find. “The one-story traditional that was on the market for $1.7 million?”
Veronica’s eyes had widened. “No, and that would have been perfect. I should ask her about it.”
“It sold in multiples the day it hit the market, so it’s too late,” I said. “Your agent works out of Apex Realty in Brentwood, right? We’re always getting internal email alerts announcing her deals—ten million, twenty million.” I took a piece of sushi and held it between my chopsticks. “I can tell you, managing escrows at that price point can be consuming.”
