As he slips away, I excuse myself to the bathroom. Not that anyone is paying enough attention to me to notice. When I lock the door behind me, I let out a long sigh, relaxing for the first time since I stepped out of the car.
But a brief second’s reprieve is all I give myself. Then I lean toward the mirror, scrutinizing myself for any cracks in the mask. I wipe away a smudge of mascara, reapply my lipstick, practice my smile: small, demure, not too many teeth. I smooth down the flyaways in my hair, readjust my dress, suck in my stomach and check how I look from the front, the side, the back. This dress is clingier than it seemed when I first tried it on.I’ll have to be careful how much I eat. Especially since Louis’s mother and sister-in-law are so thin. I wonder if they’re close, if they trade diet tips. I wonder if they’re whispering about me right now.
I take a breath, shake out the tension in my hands. Being too wound up won’t help me. But I can’t help it. I need to be perfect tonight. Not decent, not good, not great.Perfect. I need to perform like I’ve never performed before.
The lies started as a game.
My parents were both employed by a wealthy family. They worked so hard compared to the people they served, and yet they made so much less. They always looked so tired. I started pretending to be like the family they worked for as a joke, strutting around our living room using my “rich people” voice while my parents howled with laughter.
Then my parents scraped together enough money to send me to the local private school, where I stood in front of a class of rich girls who knew nothing about me, and realized I could be anyone at all. My parents said they wanted me to have a better life, so why not start crafting myself one now?
After that, I moved across the country to get a college degree, funded by a scholarship and a series of sugar daddies. Often more than one at once, each fooled by my crocodile tears about how I couldn’t afford groceries. They gave me glittering jewels, designer handbags, fur coats… gifts that became part of my future costumes, just like my degree did.
Then I found more ambitious ways to bleed the rich dry. Cons and scams and blatant thefts from high-end malls and higher-end “friends.” Of course no one would suspect me, because I was masquerading as someone already rich. I’d lie and swindle and pickpocket my way into free clothes and jewelry and vacations, and move on to a new city whenever people started to get suspicious.
Of course, crafting a new life meant I had to leave my old self behind. That includes my parents. My stomach drops as I think of them; the holidays always bring that loss to the surface again. But it’s better for all of us this way. My parents won’t get dragged into the mess of my life, and I can maintain my fake sob story that I’m an orphan who lost her parents at a young age.
All those little lies and scams have slowly snowballed, eventually bringing me to the greatest con of all: marriage.
After our first couple of dates, it was easy to understand what Louis wanted. He saw me as a wounded dove, and himself as the hero. He wanted to take care of me, to spoil me, to heal me. In return he wanted me to be soft and grateful and submissive. A princess rescued from her tower; pretty and quiet in public, eager to get on her knees in private.
It’s not much different than what any man wants: a woman who’s smart, but not smarter than them. Pretty, but never proud of it. Charming without seeming like she’s trying to be. Never too loud, too desperate, toomuch.
All love is a con of sorts. My performance for Louis takes a little more effort than most, but that’s mostly my own fault. Because I have more to bury. More to hide. Because Louis wouldn’t love the feral, ugly thing that lives in my core, my anger with its sharp claws and bared teeth.
Nobody would.
With that thought in mind, I square my shoulders and leave the bathroom. I mean to head back to Louis’s side, but instead I hesitate, eyeing the other doors in the hallway. I shouldn’t snoop… but I can still hear the murmur of voices in the lounge. The better I understand Louis’s family, the more I can shape myself into whatever they want me to be.
The door nearest to me isn’t locked. It isn’t even shut. It’s cracked open, just a smidge, like it’s asking me to step inside. I bite my lip, glance up and down the hall, and step toward it.I use two fingers to coax the door open. It slides open easily, soundlessly, to reveal what appears to be an office. The walls are lined with bookshelves, all of them full and neatly stacked. There are a couple of leather armchairs, and a desk with an office chair behind it. The desk is polished mahogany, and I’m tempted to go search through the drawers till my gaze finds the book.
The thick, leatherbound tome sits in the center of the otherwise empty desk. The cover is blank, the spine turned away from the door so I can’t see how it’s labeled. Its pages are yellow with age. The con-running side of my brain screamsexpensive, but I don’t think that’s the reason the book catches my gaze. It’s not like I’m going to hide it under my dress and steal it away, especially when I have bigger goals for this weekend.
But there’s something about it… something that calls to me. Begs me to read it, even just totouchit. My hand is reaching out before I’m aware of what’s happening, and I step forward as if pulled against my will. Whispering stirs in the back of my mind, growing louder with each step. I can’t quite decipher the words, but I’m certain I will if I can only be closer…
I can’t resist the pull. Even though a part of me is screaming that this is stupid, I open the book. My fingers flip through yellowed pages of their own accord. My eyes scan dates and lists of names I can’t remember—other than the constant refrain ofKohler, Kohler, Kohler—until I reach the pages holding familiar ones.
Karl Kohler, Theodora Kohler, Adrian Kohler, Louis Kohler, Anna Kohler.The last few pages are the same. I flip to the ones before that, find one that listsAnna Lewettinstead ofAnnaKohler. Further back, Anna’s not there at all—there are different names instead.Mary. Lisa. Catherine.All women’s names, all crossed out. Some years there are two of them alongside the Kohler family.
My brow furrows. The names of the brothers’ exes? Is this some kind of… guestbook?
Again I hear that whispering in the back of my head. This time I can understand it.
Sign the book,it says.Give your name. Give your blood?—
The sound of voices in the hallway makes me jump, shattering whatever strange trance I was in. I shut the book and push myself against the wall so I’m not visible from the cracked-open door.
“She’s hot, I’ll give you that,” I hear Louis’s brother say as his footsteps pass by.
“It’s not about that,” Louis protests. A beat, and then he says, “Well, it’s notjustabout that.”
I roll my eyes as they chuckle.
“I mean, that is the most important thing,” his brother says. “Don’t get me wrong, it’d be nice if my wife were smart, but it’s not that important. I need my business partners to be smart. I need my partner tolookgood.”
“I’m lucky I got both,” Louis says, and I smile to myself.
“Well, we’ll see how it goes. You’ve always been picky. Hardly ever bringing girls here, and even when you do, they never come back…”
