caring for her. She—doesn’t have anything. She has two small kids, my niece and nephew.”
“Husband?”
“Left,” she said. She sighed, going for sad, helpless. “Men. They’re not all like you.”
He kissed her again.
Cash—he had a grand in his wallet. He handed it over to her. The bracelet; the baby-blue box gaped on the nightstand. And his credit card number for flights and hotels. The one Kate didn’t know about. Oh, Hugh, how can I ever thank you?
She showered with him, pleasured him on her knees in the steamy tile bathroom, the scent of sage and mint heavy in the air.
She loved it when they were exposed, moaning and helpless.
Then Anne watched him dress, late for his afternoon meeting. Where did Kate think he was? If he was Anne’s husband, she’d be tailing him every second. But maybe Kate couldn’t be bothered. She knew she had him on a short leash. Or maybe she was just another mark, fooled again and again by her handsome, charming, and totally unfaithful husband.
Anne wrapped herself in the big plush robe and got back into bed as Hugh was fixing his tie. He watched her in the mirror.
“Keep the room if you want,” he said. “Go to the spa, relax while you can. I’ll call you later. Things have a way of working out, Annie.”
She nodded, going for uncertain, fragile. Yes, things had a way of working out if you were a wealthy white man.
He moved over to her, sat on the bed, and took her into his arms, then kissed her long. In the space of that kiss, she let herself be the woman he thought she was—someone who loved him, who wanted to marry him, who had to go care for her sick sister. She let herself imagine what it would be like to be tender, loving, someone’s mistress waiting for him to leave his wife. How vulnerable she might be, how hopeful. Would she cling? She would. Anne held on to him a second after he tried to pull away.
“I promise,” he said before he left. “We’ll figure this out.”
She walked him to the door, and when it closed there was something final about the click of the latch.
The con is a method actor, Pop always said. Become the lie.
And she was good at that, disappearing into the person she was pretending to be. She was Anne Porter—young, ambitious, a mind for numbers, from New Jersey, a Rutgers grad. She had a sister, someone she loved. That part was true-ish, that she had a sister. Kind of. But her sister wasn’t dying of some unnamed disease. There was no niece or nephew. There were pieces of her in every character, little handles that helped her keep things authentic. She was authentically uncomfortable with heights; she loved sushi. Her mother was dead. She never really knew her father. These things recurred in all of her characters.
Before Anne, she was Ellie Martin, young widow wondering if she could ever love again. Before that there was Marlie Croft, an orphan looking for her lost family. Before that. Before that. She was a Russian doll, every shell a different face, a different color. Right now, her hair was black—but she’d been a blonde, a redhead, a mousy brunette. She’d gained weight, lost it. She was good at becoming. The only problem was that the real person was buried deep, so tiny and formless that Anne could barely remember her.
Who you were is gone. Who you will be—she doesn’t exist. The only thing that matters is who are you are right now. Pop. Con artist. Zen master.
Did you get what you wanted? He would surely ask. Are you done?
Not quite.
She finished the lunch they’d ordered but hadn’t touched—a beautiful lobster Cobb, whole grain bread with truffle butter, cut strawberries. She poured herself another glass of champagne, watched the darkening clouds drift over the treetops, the city streets far below.
When she was done, she walked unhurriedly to the bathroom where earlier she’d propped up her phone and set it to record, turning it off after they were done. Back in bed, she played the video and watched the steamy image of Hugh and her in the shower. It was a little blurry, but there was no mistaking it was him—especially with all the moaning. Her back was to the camera. His groans were guttural, primal. It went on and on. She had to hand it to herself: stamina was her strong suit. Then, as Hugh climaxed clumsily, Anne turned