tears, as if a whole lifetime of pent-up emotion was released in a single moment.
When it was over, she was spent, exhausted, rested her head on the wheel, her breathing ragged. The sun set, casting the field in gold. Then streetlamps came on. Finally, she was in darkness. After a while, she took the long drive home. Home. Back to the house she shared with Pop.
But when she got there, the house was empty, as it often was lately. Pop was busy. He had a new job, something that was taking a lot of time and energy. She was often alone with her schoolwork, with her books. She read and read, just as she had always done—disappearing into other worlds, other lives.
When she checked her email on returning to her laptop, there was a note from her father. Her biological father. The man who was nothing special.
Yes, it read, I know you. Should we meet?
THIRTY
Anne
On the kitchen counter, there were three phones, all charging. Two burners, both flip phones, and a smartphone. Anne currently managed four email addresses, five post office boxes. And she held two properties, condos, owned by a shell corporation. Thanks to Pop’s crooked old lawyer, Merle, her assets were managed, and she had a single legal identity that was utterly clean—passport, Social Security number, driver’s license.
That identity was her escape hatch. She’d finish up what she was working on, and then she was going to go clean.
“This is my final—act,” she said out loud.
She didn’t like the word “con.” It had such a base connotation—a scam, rip-off; there was something ugly about the word that didn’t reflect all the careful nuances of the game. What she did, what they did, it was so much more than theft. It was a science and an art, a delicate give and take. Pop believed that he gave as much as they took, which she always thought was bullshit. But later she saw that there was a truth to it, without it being the whole truth.
Pop was quiet, which meant he disapproved or disagreed. He was just a ghost in the corner today, barely a shadow. That’s what he was. A ghost. A shadow. Long gone but still with her.
“And then what?” he said finally.
That was Pop. He was always accusing her of going in too deep, getting too personal, giving too much. But Pop? He didn’t even know who he was when he wasn’t running a game. He’d become edgy, restless. He’d sit blank for hours, as if he’d been powered down. He was nothing without it.
But it wasn’t like that for her.
She could become anyone, go anywhere, shift off one self, pick up another. She could give it up anytime. And when she did, she’d spend some energy getting to know herself finally—the real girl behind all the masks she’d worn.
“I’m tired,” she said. “I want to just ‘be’ for a while. Travel. Take some cooking classes in exotic places. Learn how to ski. Whatever. Whatever it is people do.”
He laughed a little—gently, not unkind. Never unkind. He loved her, in the way that he was able. “Life’s not like that for people like us, kitten.”
“I’m not like you.” It came out edgy, defensive. Softer, “I’m not.”
“Oh, no?”
“I can live without it.”
“Are you sure?”
One of the burner phones jumped and danced. Ben.
She’d been out of contact since their last chat. He’d called several times, texted, emailed. Then he’d gone silent for a while. She could imagine him sweetly worried, but also desperate. She’d given him something—hope that he could love someone again, that he could be loved. She fed his broken ego with her words, her need for him, their talks when she’d asked his advice, the photos they’d exchanged. She’d given him the free flight of fancy. What might be.
Pop always said that you couldn’t con an honest man, but that wasn’t the whole truth. You couldn’t con someone who didn’t need something, who didn’t want something badly enough to believe it was possible.
“You like him,” said Pop. “Is that it?”
She didn’t answer him.
“Big mistake.”
She picked up the burner phone, scrolled through Ben’s texts.
“What?” goaded Pop. “You think you’ll get married. Settle down. Leave this life behind?”
She could just let Ben off the hook right now. Never answer him again, close down her profile, cancel the email she used for him, trash the phone. He’d be sad that he’d lost “Gwyneth.” He’d get over it. Eventually. But she didn’t want to let him go.