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My story was that I’d moved home to Los Angeles after a successful career selling real estate in Ann Arbor. My new website links to another one in Michigan, featuring listings pilfered from Zillow and Redfin.
Veronica had set her chopsticks down and said, “She was great when we purchased the Malibu house, but maybe this price point is beneath her.” I took a sip of my lemon water and let Veronica spin this out in her mind. Finally, she’d said, “I’d love to throw you the business. Maybe you can put your feelers out, see what you can find.”
I’d found them something almost immediately. A single-story traditional in Westchester on a tree-lined street. Hardwood floors, a bay window, and a fully remodeled kitchen. When I handed Veronica the listing setup, outlining the house’s features and price, she’d balked. “This is nearly $500,000 above our maximum budget.”
In another lifetime, I’d once taken classes toward a digital design degree. I still have the certificate of completion tucked in a box, somewhere in storage. Granted, it’s a forgery, but I’d learned enough to get by in the beginning, and even more in the years since.
“I think I can get them down significantly. Let’s just take a look and see what we think. It’s on lockbox, so we can go now if we want.”
The listing I’d handed her was mostly accurate—bedrooms, square footage, HVAC; I’d only inflated the price. From there, I’d proceeded to “negotiate down” to just over $200,000 above the actual list price.
This only worked because apps like Zillow and Redfin don’t exist for people like Veronica and David. In their tax bracket, no one does anything that can be outsourced. Accountants and bookkeepers who pay their bills. Maids and housekeepers to do their grocery shopping and cook their meals. And a trusted real estate agent to do the searches, coordinate with the listing agent to preview properties, set up private showings, and manage the transaction for them.
David and Veronica signed paperwork when I asked them to, wired the funds where I told them to, and if they ever noticed they’d never met the listing agent or sellers, it was a fleeting thought and then it was gone again.
In the end, David had proclaimed it the easiest transaction he’d ever done. Why wouldn’t it be, when everyone got exactly what they wanted? The sellers got $200,000 over the real asking price. Veronica and David felt like they got the deal of the century, thanks to the one I’d fabricated. And I got a shiny—and ironclad—reputation within their circle of friends.
The main element of a good con is a strong thread of legitimacy. Of almost being who you say you are. Just like on a movie set, I’m real. My actions are real. It’s only the background that’s fake.
David joins us now, wrapping his arm around Veronica’s waist. “Meg, you look gorgeous,” he says. “I hope my wife hasn’t been boring you with details of the remodel?”
I force a smile. “Not at all,” I say. “We were actually just talking about Ron. I hear the election is going to be close?”
David nods. “Our internal polls show them nearly tied. Tonight’s fundraising will go a long way toward our final push.”
“You must be exhausted,” I say. “Veronica tells me you’re never home.”
David winks at Veronica. “Sounds like the two of you have been getting into some good trouble in my absence. Thanks for keeping her busy.”
“It’s been my pleasure.”
When the conversation turns toward their annual winter vacation to the Caribbean, I tune them out and watch the crowd of people mingle and mix, small clusters forming and then re-forming into new configurations as the quartet in the corner launches into a new rhythm. Los Angeles is so different from Pennsylvania, where I’d been last. I’ve had to make a steep adjustment, softening my approach, making sure all my edges match who I say I am. Here, people are naturally wary, looking for the angle, the hitch, the trick. It’s expected that no one you meet is exactly who they say they are.
I work hard to embed myself into other people’s circle of friends, so that no one notices that I don’t have any of my own. I haven’t had a true friend in years, not since before I left Los Angeles. I try not to think of Cal, or wonder where he is, whether he’s still with Robert. I have very few regrets in my life, but how things ended with Cal is one of them.
A tendril of anxiety winds its way through me as I think through my timeline once more. Unlike my past jobs, this one has an expiration date—fourteen days before Election Day. Which leaves me twenty weeks. One hundred forty days. It sounds like a lot, but there will be very little room for mistakes or delays. There are specific benchmarks I’ll need to meet along the way in order for everything to work. The first of which is an introduction to Ron, and that has to happen tonight.
As part of my background research, I’ve dipped into Ron’s real estate portfolio, searching public records to get a feel for how much he’s got in equity and how much he’s leveraged. Thanks to his run for office, I’ve been able to look through his taxes as well. One thing that stood out was how many financial risks he’s taken and how many of them played out to his advantage. I think back to how he tricked my mother, robbed us both of what was rightfully ours, and I wonder how many others Ron has used and then discarded on his path to state senator.
“Meg, help us out. Saint John or Saint Croix?” Veronica’s eyes are pleading.
I know she’s been angling for Saint Croix, so I say, “The last time I was in Saint John was about three years ago.” I shake my head as if saddened by the memory. “As much as I love that island, I was really disappointed. You stay at the Villas, right?”
David nods. “They’ve always taken really good care of us.”
I wrinkle my nose in distaste. “I think they’ve unionized. Definitely not the experience I was hoping for.”
“Jesus,” he says. “Saint Croix it is then.”
Veronica gives a tiny clap and says, “I don’t know why you never listen to me.”
A voice from behind cuts into our conversation. “I hope you three are discussing my victory party.” I turn and find myself face-to-face with Ron Ashton, the man who tore my life apart, sending my mother into a downward spiral she never recovered from and leaving me to live alone in a car for my final year of high school and beyond.
I smile. “The man of the hour,” I say, holding out my hand. “Meg Williams.” A small part of me thrills, knowing that what I’m offering him is the absolute truth. I’ve spent years imagining this moment, wondering if he’d recognize me or my last name. See the shadow of my mother’s features in mine. Wondering if I’d have to pivot and turn our meeting into a happy reunion, a coincidence of naivete and sexual innuendo. Enough to glide over the bump of our prior connection and convince him I knew nothing then, and know even less now. But his expression is blank, and I’m relieved to remain anonymous.
His grip is warm and firm, and I hold it just a fraction of a second longer than is typical, until I see a flash of interest behind his eyes. He will remember this moment. Come back to it again in his mind, and ask himself if he could have made a different decision. My job is to make sure the answer to that question is no.
“Meg has just moved to Los Angeles from Michigan,” Veronica offers. “She was the one who got us that stellar deal on the Westchester property.”
