Over the following days, I develop a backstory for the woman I will become. Where she is from, her desires and failures, her most significant pain points, her weaknesses and strengths. I teach myself to speak differently, adopt a different accent, and learn the local habits, words, and people of the fake hometown.
When I feel certain enough, I change my appearance. Instead ofa wig, I color my hair in a natural orange-red, put in the colored lenses, and get an entire wardrobe that fits the character.
I get all the necessary documents and an official bank account with a payment history that roughly fits my character’s MO. There is nothing you cannot get in the depths of the internet if you have enough money and know your way.
I get an apartment in Dumbo that fits the character and style, in a way my impersonation would: a cheap apartment in a rundown building right by the subway.
“Hi, I’m Ella,” I say to myself, glancing at my new self in the mirror as a subway rushes past the apartment I now live in. The floor vibrates slightly, just as the glasses in the old glass shelf do.
“Oh, you mean me? I’m sorry, Ella Larsen, nice to meet you.”
I play through several rounds of introduction and small talk in the mirror. The more I talk, the more comfortable I get. Taking on a new personality is something magical. Like getting another fresh and clean chance at life.
As a next step, I start going outside. I talk to people in the neighborhood, tell them my story, and make them remember my face and my name. I smile heartwarmingly, listen to their stories and backstories, build superficial friendships, and become part of a community gardening project.
And while I do become Ella, I research. I listen to Lilian’s conversations and comb through more data. What I recognize most is how scared she is, even as she pretends she isn't.
“Whom are you hiding from?” I ask myself as I listen to the fifth call in one day with an experienced bodyguard and an ex-secret-service agent, with whom she discusses security protocols.
I get suspicious because Sutton’s death has been declared as an overdose, although I am quite sure it wasn’t. Lilian, however, should feel safer, but somehow she is more on edge than ever. Maybe, because she knows something I don’t. Maybe I’m missing something. Maybe Sutton’s death posed a threat to her because there was more than the official business. Maybe she was part of his organization. Part of what he did in silence and secret. If so, she will be the one I kill for my revenge.
But therefore, I must know. I have to be sure.
After three weeks of getting nowhere, I decide it is time to make a move on her.
Tomorrow will be the day. My heart beats faster at the thought of tomorrow. I like the thrill. Finally meeting my target, seeing how good my preparation was—A wave of anticipation rolls through me.
After a wonderful night’s sleep, I prepare for my move by following my character's routine as she searches for a new job after being “fake-fired” from her fake job. I check nearby restaurants and diners for open positions. All of it is a farce, of course.
When it’s roughly time for Lilian’s routine leave of the office, I draw in closer. The nearby Chelsea Market gives me an excellent opportunity to watch her leave through the glass front stairs of her company’s building. Lilian always takes the stairs, and I wonder why.
There is only a small window of time between leaving the office and stepping into the car. My move needs to be perfect.
It is already dark outside, and Manhattan has become a buzzing firework of lights. I watch her walk down the stairs through the lit glass stairway. She’s wearing a female suit in bordeaux with black heels, and a bodyguard is shadowing her. The impression of her is so hot, I almost drool.
The car turns up.
I remove my eyes. It’s time to play.
I focus on sadness, shed some fake tears, smear a little mascara, and walk fast down the sidewalk, cramming in my bag.
From the corner of my eye, I see the door opening. I turn back, faking as if someone was after me, and then I crash into her.
“Oh god,” I cry out, glancing at the stumbling Lilian and putting a hand on her forearm, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—” I stop deliberately, bend down to grasp my glasses, glance around me, and aim to hurry away.
“Hey!” I hear Lilian call after me, “Wait!”
I stop and turn around anxiously.
“Are you ok?” she asks, closing the distance between us, and I nod, looking at the ground and aiming to leave again.
She grasps my arm, stares at my well-chosen lesbian flagbracelet, and I have to fight a smirk as the sensation of success burns through me.
“I have seen you before,” Lilian says, “You work at the Ritz, don’t you?”
“N-not anymore,” I stammer and glance nervously behind Lilian.
Lilian follows my gaze, the bodyguard as well.
