with the finesse of a con artist. The smooth way she set her boarding pass on the bar between us, a quiet temptation I was too preoccupied to notice at the time, the way she described how easy it was to blend in to Berkeley. The subtle way she reflected my own desires and fears back at me, allowing me to fall into step alongside her.
According to her car registration, she drives an old Honda, which is most likely hidden in the attached garage. A woman smart enough to orchestrate something like this isn’t going to leave her car parked at an airport or train station, identifying that as her starting point. I don’t want anything to do with it, though. If someone’s looking for her, they’ll surely begin with her car. But it’s nice to know it’s there, if I need it.
I make quick work of the rest of Eva’s desk. More dried-out pens and paper clips in a tangle, empty envelopes, a few charging bricks with no cords. But none of the other things you’d expect to find. No saved birthday cards or appointment reminders. No photographs, notes, or sentimental keepsakes. Not only was her husband a fabrication, I’m beginning to wonder if Eva was too.
I look to the left of the desk, where an empty trash can sits, and my gaze catches on a small piece of paper, partially concealed behind the desk, as if someone meant to throw it away and missed. I pick it up and smooth it. It’s a small card, the handwriting a neat cursive, the slanted, loopy kind you don’t see beyond elementary school. Everything you ever wanted is on the other side of fear.
I try to imagine the circumstances upon which Eva wrote this and then later discarded it. If perhaps she didn’t need it anymore, or whether it stopped being something she believed to be true.
I carry it across the hall to Eva’s bedroom, tuck the card into the edge of the mirror over her dresser, and begin to tidy the mess I’d made. As I refold her shirts, the smell of her—flowers with that chemical undernote—stirs in the air around me. I come across a Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt, and I hold it against my chest. Oversized and well worn, it’s from their Californication tour. The Chili Peppers were one of Violet’s favorite bands, and I had promised her that when she turned sixteen, I’d take her to a concert. One of the many things she never got to do. I drape the shirt over my shoulder and close the drawer. This, I want.
I finish tidying the dresser, confirming no hidden money or jewelry. No diary or love letters stashed away from prying eyes. Fictional husband aside, no one—except perhaps me, living in Rory’s house—lives a life this empty.
Across the room, I sit on the edge of her bed and open the top drawer of her nightstand. Another tube of expensive hand lotion that smells like roses when I rub it into my arm. A bottle of Tylenol. But tucked along the inside edge of the drawer is a photo, the only one I’ve seen in the house so far. It’s a novelty shot of Eva posing with an older woman outside a stadium in San Francisco. Enormous Giants Baseball banners hang behind life-sized cutouts of players, and the women pose, their heads tilted together, Eva laughing, her arm draped over the woman’s shoulders. She looks light and happy, as if whatever shadows were chasing her hadn’t shown up yet. I wonder if this was a friend, or someone else Eva had tricked. Whether everything Eva did had been calculated for her own benefit.
I imagine Eva, spinning her lies. Making this woman believe Eva was someone who needed help. I study the woman’s face, wondering where she is now, whether she might come looking for Eva, and what she’d say to find me, with the exact same haircut and color as Eva’s, living in Eva’s house, wearing her clothes. Who’s the con artist now?
At the back of the drawer, underneath a pair of scissors and some tape, I find an envelope. Inside it is a handwritten note dated thirteen years ago, clipped to some pages behind it. I remove the clip and flip through them, paperwork from a place in San Francisco called St. Joseph’s. A convent? A church? The handwriting is spidery and faded, and I tilt it toward the window so I can read it better.