“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” I say, flashing a smile that could never compare in brightness to Elodie’s bleached teeth. I extend a hand through her window. “I’m Margaux. Our girls are in the same grade.”
Elodie recoils as though she thinks I’ll try to steal the tube of Milani Color Statement lipstick and mascara wand from her cupholder. Then she sighs. Her hand is buttery soft when she shakes mine with it. “Get in,” she says. “I’ll drive. After seeing how you park, I don’t want to know how you operate a vehicle when it’s in motion.”
I don’t make waves because I suspect this is what Mr. X wanted. I never know exactly where he’s watching me from, but I can be confident he keeps a protective eye on all of his employees—all nine or ten of us. He has a small network of spies he trusts. I have no idea what he pays the others, but I know that it must come out of his own inheritance. He doesn’t want the money. Like me, it makes him think about that awful night, so he only takes what he needs to keep his operation running.
Fifteen years in business and none of us has ever sustained so much as a workplace papercut. We are Mr. X’s perfect chess pieces: He knows just where to place us, and he can anticipate every move we’ll make.
I climb into the passenger seat of Elodie’s SUV, overwhelmed by the chemical sweetness of her various beauty products. There are two car seats in the back row, which has been recently vacuumed and shows no sign of a single crumb, smudge, or spilled juice box.
She’s too perfect. She reminds me of myself. I always make sure all the skeletons are in the closet before I entertain guests, too.
We ride in silence for a while. Then I ask, “What do you know about the client?” at the same time Elodie asks me, “How many kids do you have?”
“Collette’s an only child,” I say. What I don’t add is that Collette wasn’t part of my original life plan. Falling in love, getting married—none of this was in the plan. It just sort of happened, and here we are.
If Waylen and I had been able to restrain ourselves, we never would have had the one-night stand that conceived her. I would be living in an apartment somewhere, far from suburbs and yoga classes and social cliques. There was a time when I would have been happy with this—or at least, I would have told myself I was happy. But now that I have Collette, I can’t imagine being without her. I could leave everything else behind, but not her. It’s terrifying to love anything this much, and I’m in no hurry to double those worries.
“Oh,” Elodie says, pityingly. “Fertility troubles? I get it.” She plows right through formalities. “Todd and I had to do IVF the second time around, and that’s how we got the twins.” She laughs dryly. “So,nowwe’re done.”
“Have you been briefed about the client?” I try again. I’ve learned to change this particular subject seamlessly. The trick is to ask the other person a question that gets them talking a lot.
“Sister of some tech billionaire who claims he stole her idea and she wants revenge,” Elodie says. “Between you and me, I don’t know if there’s even a case. It sounds like she’sjust jealous he’s got all that money and she has nothing. Maybe he’s bad at sharing.”
“Mr. X vets his clients well,” I say. “I’m sure there’s something.”
We roll to a stop, and Elodie glances at me. Her diamond ring catches the red of the traffic light and glows like blood. Everything about her is so…shiny. So practiced. It makes me wonder what she really looks like when she wipes her makeup off.
“You’ve worked for him a long time, right?” she asks.
“Since the beginning,” I say, intrigued by what this small bit of seniority may get me. She seems interested. Every partnership has a power dynamic, and I know when to take the lead and when to hang back and wait for my turn to run point. With Mira Hart it was easy—she was meek, nervous, and eager to be done with things. Elodie, though, is type A and very green. It’s a combination that could be catastrophic if not handled correctly. I’ll need to make sure she doesn’t get ahead of herself, but also be mindful not to come across as so bossy that she starts contradicting me to assert herself.
“He doesn’t like to get his hands dirty,” I go on. “But he knows what he’s doing when he assigns us to a client.”
The light turns green and Elodie glances at the map on her phone. We’re headed downtown, and the route says there are twenty minutes left. Of course the client won’t live close to us. There’s a lot of corruption in the suburbs, but you don’t play around where you sleep.
“I suppose he picked me for this one because I’m a people person,” Elodie says. “I used to sell makeup out of catalogs way before social media. Had to do it in person on campus.”
“That must be it.”
Another glance as she appraises me. “What did you do, anyway? He said this is a onetime deal and then I’m out scot-free. What’s he got on you that you’ve been working with him for all these years?”
“It was a string of petty crimes,” I say. A partial truth is as effective as a lie, and twice as easy to manage because it doesn’t require a good memory. “I paid my dues. I just like the work.”
That much is true. I had the option to get out long ago. Waylen begs me all the time. It chips away at the fragile edges of our marriage like someone taking a chisel to the borders of a picture frame.
I could be like Elodie, fully committed to the PTA lifestyle, a helicopter parent, a traffic director for the school pickup lines. I could have a little whistle around my neck and write strongly worded emails to the parents whose SUVs have crude bumper stickers. Don’t they realize that we’re all trying to raise a generation of exceptional children?
A part of me wants it, but only as a facade. This life I’m living is the perfect place to hide, and the best part is that it doesn’t rub off as easily as Elodie’s makeup at the end of the day. It conceals the real me—the ugly, dark secret bearer who can never be redeemed, even if I did put in my time.
“Tell the truth,”I heard when I was growing up. By my parents, and then by my social worker. And then by the court system. But I learned the hard way that telling the truth doesn’t mean you’ll be believed. Sometimes the truth needs a little embellishment in order to be accepted.
The conversation turns light. We talk about ourdaughters. Collette will hate me for it, but I set up a date for her to tutor Finnegan with her math. She’s too much of a loner as it is, and she needs to learn the value of social allies.
I hardly notice that we’ve edged into an unsavory part of town until I see the worry on Elodie’s face. “Next time we should use a rental car,” she says. “I think it’s one of these.”
We’ve pulled into a complex of small brick condos in various stages of disrepair. Unit 5 is one of the few with any lights on inside. Once the car is parked, Elodie and I pull our phones out as they buzz in unison. Mr. X letting us know that he’s tracking us and that he’ll make sure we’re safe.
I text him:Don’t let anything happen to Elodie’s car. She’ll quit on the spot.
