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Kat
August
Meg is late again.
I stand outside Le Jardin, midday traffic rushing by, waiting for her to show up for lunch. The exhaust fumes from a passing bus make me hold my breath, and I’m just about to step inside to wait when my cell phone buzzes with an unfamiliar number.
“May I please speak to Kat Roberts?” A woman’s voice with a hint of a Midwestern accent, and my heart races. Renata.
I glance around, making sure Meg is nowhere in sight. “Speaking.”
“Good afternoon, Ms. Roberts, this is Natalie with Citibank Card Services. I’m calling to inquire about your payment, which is past due.”
I plug my finger into my other ear and turn away from the busy street. “I’m sorry, what?”
“This is Natalie, from Citibank,” she repeats. “We haven’t received a payment for two months. If you don’t make one soon, we’re going to have to send this debt to collections.”
“I don’t have a Citibank card,” I tell her. “You’ve got the wrong person.”
“Would you please confirm the last four digits of your social?”
I nearly laugh. “I’m not giving that to you because I didn’t open an account.”
But Natalie will not be deterred from her script. “The balance currently sits at $31,125, with a minimum payment of $500. You can make one right now if you like.”
Panic begins to rise inside of me as my mind leapfrogs back to Scott’s warning from a couple weeks ago. Be careful with Meg. Don’t leave your purse unattended. Don’t let her use your phone.
Is this Meg, still trying to keep me busy, a phishing expedition to get me to reveal information she can use against me, or is this something more? I look up and down the street, imagining Meg parked in a garage somewhere, pretending to be Natalie from Citibank.
“What’s your name again?” I ask, straining to hear her voice, to see if it sounds familiar.
“Natalie,” the woman says. It’s impossible to tell against the street noise.
“Give me the account number,” I say, scrambling in my purse for a pen and a scrap of paper. I use the brick wall behind me, my letters bumpy and misshapen. “I didn’t open this account,” I tell her again. “I’m not paying you $30,000.”
Natalie remains calm. “I understand, Ms. Roberts. I can make a note in the file,” she tells me. “But to clear it, you’ll need to file a police report and submit it to us. Until then, you’re responsible for the debt.”
Ms. Roberts.The use of my real last name finally slams into me, and I realize Scott’s been right all this time. This is Meg’s way of telling me she knows everything.
Just then, I feel a presence behind me. I turn to find Meg standing there, a concerned look on her face, and my stomach plummets. “Thanks for your call,” I say and hang up.
Pedestrians step around us as Meg says, “Are you okay?”
When I don’t answer, she takes my elbow and guides me away from the fancy restaurant where we’d planned to eat and instead leads me over to a taco truck parked at the curb. She orders two tacos, and we walk to a nearby park and sit on a bench.
“Tell me what’s going on,” she says. “Is it Scott?”
I press my lips together, a mixture of rage and shame flooding me. At my belief that I could befriend Meg and live alongside her as an ally. How close I let myself get to her. When I finally speak, my words are stiff and cold. “That was someone claiming to work at Citibank, telling me there’s a $30,000 debt in my name.” Even though she wasn’t the one on the phone, I’m certain Meg was behind the call somehow.
She sits back, shocked. “Oh my god.”
Ever the actress. Ever the concerned friend.
“You need to file a police report,” she says. I stare at her, trying to see her endgame. “Look,” she continues. “I don’t mean to stir up problems, but this, plus the bank breach and the unpaid bill…” She trails off.
I shake my head, disgusted with myself for telling her about Scott’s gambling, for handing her such an important piece of me. “It’s not Scott.”
I let the weight of my certainty wrap around me. I’m not naive. I know the statistics of a backslide. But since the night of the concert, when Meg tried to hack my bank account, I’ve been back to nightly checks on all his devices, and there hasn’t been anything. His work computer is out of my reach, but he’d be insane to try anything there, where every keystroke is recorded and monitored.
