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“I don’t know,” I hedge. I’d been thinking about Vanity Fair or Esquire. This is exactly the kind of big, splashy story they would love—a beautiful, mysterious female con artist—but all I have are some ten-year-old claims and a lot of empty space. “I need to know where she’s been and what she’d done to get an idea of what she’s doing now.”
“Where does she say she’s been?”
“Michigan. Selling real estate,” I say. “She’s got a website, with photos of houses she’s sold and client testimonials.”
“Fake?”
“Almost certainly. But it’s a dead end.” In the weeks since Meg’s return, I haven’t been able to find any company in Michigan operating under the name Ann Arbor Realty. An image search of the listings from her website were all traced back to Zillow or Redfin with other agents’ names attached. “I’m stuck,” I admit. “None of the databases I have access to are going to turn up what Meg wants to keep hidden.”
“Let me put one of my researchers on it, off the books. See what we can turn up.”
I’d been hoping she’d offer. “Really?” I say. “That would be amazing. All I need is a lead—a name, a location. I can do the rest.”
“Your mom must be loving this,” she says.
I sigh into the phone and stare out the window. “She’s constantly at me, texting suggestions, and offers to read pages. When I told her I was going undercover, she practically had kittens.”
Jenna laughs. “She means well.”
I know Jenna is right, but it runs deeper than that with my mother. The expectations I always seem to fall short of, the disappointment that my big break at the LA Times resulted in a career writing piecework while my grad school friends have gone on to write for major outlets. When Jenna got hired by the New York Times, instead of being happy for Jenna, the first thing my mother said was Why didn’t you go for that job yourself?
“Other than worrying about you, how’s Scott?” Jenna asks.
“He’s doing well,” I say.
“When are you guys going to set a date?” she asks. “I want to make sure I put in for time off.”
“I don’t know. We’re both so busy. Maybe after I sell this Meg story, we can sit down and get something calendared.”
“You make it sound like you’re booking a gynecologist appointment. Try to be a little excited.”
I laugh. “I’m excited. I just have a lot to do. I’m basically working two jobs.”
Jenna’s silent for a minute, as if she’s weighing my words. “Just make sure that’s all it is. I know I’ve said it before, but there’s no shame in changing your mind.”
“Scott’s been doing great,” I tell her. “Working the program. All is well, I promise.”
Jenna waits a beat before saying, “I gotta run. Call me this weekend?”
“Will do.”
After we hang up, I stare at the phone. I miss having a friend. Someone to meet for lunch or a quick coffee. Someone I don’t have to always be on guard around, looking for lies and manipulation slipped into conversations. All the pretending, all the role-playing takes an emotional toll. I think back again to Scott’s undercover friend, to what he’d always say. After a while, if you’re not careful, you can lose sight of the line. You no longer think in terms of me or them and only in terms of us.
