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Meg
September
Seven Weeks before the Election
I’m walking through a tiny house in Sunset Park, my fourth one of the morning, making sure I’ve been seen by enough agents from the Apex office before calling it quits for the day, when someone behind me says, “Hey, Meg.”
I turn from the closet I’d been peering into and see Guy Cicinelli, an older agent from the Apex office who’s poked his head into the tiny bedroom.
“Seems you’re following me,” I say, having seen him at the last three open houses I’d been to.
He grins. “Maybe we’ll be up against each other.” He peeks over my shoulder and into the closet. “My clients are going to love this house.”
“Mine too,” I say, referring to clients I’ve been pretending to have—the young couple looking for their starter home. The retired teacher looking to downsize into something that will better fit his crap pension. I’m weeks away from leaving town, but I have to appear to be hustling, looking for my next deal. Always be closing.
Guy sighs and says, “It never gets old—helping people find the place they’ll call home, and then making it happen for them.”
“I know what you mean,” I say, and for once it’s not bullshit. When I got confirmation that Celia’s lake house was officially hers, I felt the kind of joy you get when you’ve done something completely selfless and completely right. It was a moment of peace, as if all the problems and heartache in the world have suddenly paused their spinning chaos and it’s silent, for one blessed moment. I did that. I gave that to her.
We make our way back into the living room, and he gestures toward the street. “Is that your buyer sitting in his car? You know he can come inside. Even though it’s a broker’s open, buyers show up all the time.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, looking through the front window. “My buyer isn’t here.”
“Well, there’s a guy parked in front,” Guy says. “I assumed he was yours, since he’s been at the last three houses you’ve looked at.”
Fucking Scott. I roll my eyes and say, “Not a client. He’s my assistant’s fiancé.” I move back to the central hall and say, “Have you seen the kitchen yet? Amazing.”
Guy wanders into it, and I use the opportunity to peel away from him and head to the backyard, a concrete slab with a large crack that Guy’s buyers will need to repair. A path leads toward the back gate, and I follow it, pretending to be looking at the garage.
My phone buzzes with a text from Kat, and I pull up short. Thanks for giving me the space I needed to sort things out on my end. I’m ready to get back to work.
After weeks of silence, ignoring my calls and texts, now she wants to come back? I think of Scott parked in front, Kat asking to be let back in, and I want to laugh. If this is a coordinated effort, it’s pretty clumsy.
I slip through to the alley and head south, planning to circle back to the street and approach Scott’s car from behind. I imagine myself pounding on his window, startling him. You’re Kat’s boyfriend, I’d say. The gambler. Relishing the moment when he realizes he’s been caught. But before I round the corner and make my approach, I stop, common sense taking over.
It’ll be easier to keep track of him if he thinks what he’s doing is working.
I turn and walk back up the alley and through the back gate, making my way through the house, waving at Guy as I go. Out the front door, nice and relaxed.
***
The following day, I sit at my desk, the afternoon sun arcing across the surface, the house silent save for the quiet fizz of carbonation from the soda I just poured. I have one of my notebooks from Pennsylvania open to the notes I made about the DBA I set up there.
On my computer screen, I have several tabs open. One shows Southern California escrow companies and the counties they serve. Another explains the limitations placed on filing a DBA under a business name already in existence in California. A third shows a receipt for the plane ticket I just purchased, a quick trip to Las Vegas, leaving tomorrow morning and returning that same day.
In every job, there comes a tipping point. A moment when there is no exit other than allowing events to unfold, hoping the work you put into the setup was enough. With Cory, that moment came late. It wasn’t until I started withdrawing cash from his account that I had to keep my eyes forward. With Phillip, that moment was when I sold his furniture. If he’d changed his mind and asked to move it back, the whole scam would have been over.
This is the tipping point for Ron. I have a website to finish and a visit to a Las Vegas notary. Then a second stop at the county clerk’s office before my flight home, where I’ll be filing for another DBA, one of the last benchmarks I need to hit in order to meet my deadline, two weeks before the election. I had only thirty-five days left.
And then I’ll take him to see the Mandeville property. Five acres in the heart of Brentwood, on the market for over two years with only one set of buyers who’d backed out unexpectedly a year ago. Dead weight hanging around the listing agent’s neck, and on lockbox with a combination anyone can access.
Kat’s text remains unanswered on my phone. I’m not sure what to think about it—what she believes, or what she wants. I think back to the flame of worry I felt when she told me about the bank account breach and then later the credit card. How certain I’d been that it was Scott and how frustrated I was when she refused to see what was obvious to me.
But who am I to judge? Every relationship I’ve ever had has been a lie.
I stare at the website I’ve just created, nearly identical to the legitimate one, with the exception of an extra underscore at the end.
I close my computer, wondering if I should have kept my name off a flight manifest. If I should have taken the time to drive the nine hours to Nevada and back again. But I shake off my unease. I need this DBA—and the bank account affiliated with it—sooner rather than later. By tomorrow night, it’ll be done.
