My Friend Anna

by Rachel DeLoache Williams

  “What makes you say that?” asked McCaw. I told her about the Frying Pan, about Beth’s suspicions and Anna’s hardened demeanor during our questioning.

  She couldn’t tell me yes or no, but went as far as to say, “You have good instincts.”

  At last I could see new ways to be proactive. There was a whirring in my head as scenes and phrases replayed, fragments clicking into a pattern. I’d had a front-row seat to Anna’s operations. My memories were relevant, and I wanted to be helpful. I told them what I knew.

  “Did you ever consider a career as an investigator?” one of the ADAs asked me. As it happened, why yes, I had. As a third-grader in Knoxville, Tennessee (looking up to my grandfather, who’d been an assistant director in the FBI), becoming an agent had been my earnest when-I-grow-up plan. This was not how I had imagined it, but my time had come and I would rise to the occasion.

  The meeting lasted around two hours. Finally, I stood up to leave. “Would you like this back?” asked Assistant DA Catherine McCaw, pointing to the black binder on the desk between us. I glanced down.

  “No,” I said. “I think I was making it for you.”

  * * *

  I sat on a park bench between the Louis J. Lefkowitz State Office Building, where the DAs were located, and the New York County Supreme Court. I called my aunt Jennie. I called Janine. I called Nick, who had left the day before for a few months of travel—a separation that would prove to be hard. I then realized I had almost forgotten an appointment that Kathryn and I had made for that evening. The two of us were expected at the Lowell hotel for a tour of the penthouse suite (to consider as a future photo-shoot location) and drinks with the hotel’s P.R. team. “Are you up for it?” Kathryn asked. I said I was, wanting to be in her company.

  As we walked through the lobby of the five-star hotel, I barely noticed my surroundings. I was too busy ruminating, trapped in my own head. I vaguely remember the smell of flowers. The penthouse was nice. I bet Anna would have loved it—or maybe it was too classically luxurious—too authentic. Back on the ground level, Kathryn and I followed the publicists into the hotel’s bar. I was the last one to enter. My pace slowed as I looked around—was it my imagination? Majorelle blue, geometric patterns, embossed leather, and low seating—it was Moroccan inspired. The irony was amusing, but I found it mildly triggering, having packed so many emotions into my memory of Marrakech, particularly when it came to hotels.

  Light-headed, I slipped into the bathroom, took a few deep breaths, and splashed cold water on my face. After a few minutes, I found my group at a table in the back room. A waitress came by for our drink orders.

  “What’ll you have?” she asked, looking at Kathryn first.

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . What’s good? What’s your signature cocktail?”

  “The Marrakech Express.”

  A knowing look, a nervous smile, an obvious choice. “We’ll take two,” Kathryn said.

  Chapter 15

  Flip Side

  * * *

  After that meeting at the District Attorney’s Office, I became trapped within my memories. I moved through the city—from my apartment to work and back again—but saw very little of my physical surroundings. I was busy sifting through every remembered detail and scene from my time with Anna. For months, I’d been fixating on a timeline that began with Marrakech and ended with the Frying Pan. Now I ricocheted back to the start. I met Anna at Happy Ending, a restaurant-lounge on Broome Street. Where were the warning signs? How did this happen?

  Words and gestures, once seemingly trivial, suddenly took on new meaning. “Things, like money, could all be lost in an instant,” she’d told me—is this what she meant? How much didn’t I know? What happened behind the scenes?

  One and a half years’ worth of archival footage spun back and forth on a reel. There were hidden layers in every scene. I combed through the memories when I should have been sleeping as a way of coping with my shock. The mystery had caused such mental anguish, but now that I knew that Anna Delvey was not real, I could chart a whole new course of action.

  First, keep Anna in the dark. Enlightened as I was, I couldn’t see any advantage to making her aware of what I now knew. Better for her to assume that I was still in my cave, watching her shadow on the wall. So I considered: What would I have done if I hadn’t found the DA? Assuming that Anna was still without a cell phone, I sent her a message through Facebook on August 4: Anna, I really need to be reimbursed. I’m in huge trouble. My job is on the line. Please please please. I can’t believe I’m in this situation. I really trusted you. She didn’t respond.

  The next morning, I called American Express. Unpacking the story for a stranger—on whom I needed to rely—triggered a range of emotions. My tone, to start, was firm, matter-of-fact. Describing the breakdown at La Mamounia, it shifted to angry. And at last, explaining my attempts at reimbursement, it lost all semblance of composure. I contested the charges from La Mamounia: $16,770.45 on my American Express corporate card and $36,010.09 on my personal card. Disputes filed, it was back to waiting, an activity I now knew so well.

  Next, it was time to tell my parents. Alone in my apartment that evening, I picked up the phone but found I couldn’t make the call. I thought it might be easier to talk about the situation while I was outside, in the open air, rather than indoors. The emotional weight was too big for a contained space, and walking helped me think. I paced the streets of Lower Manhattan and summoned the courage to call. My mom answered the phone.

  “Do you have a few minutes to talk? Is Dad around, too?” My dad was out for a campaign event, but now that I was ready, I couldn’t bear to wait. “I need to tell you about something and it’s not good. Before I start, I want you to know that I am okay.”

  I began with the trip to Morocco. My mom hung on my every word. Even though she knew the trip had happened, these details were brand-new. She interrupted. I didn’t blame her. How could she know where the story would end? Was that it?

  “Just wait,” I said, an impossible request. “Anything you can think of, I’ve already asked, and anything you suggest, I’ve already tried.” Overconfident maybe, but I’d come so far. “Answers will come as I go,” I assured her. Out it came, from start to finish: the back room after Villa Oasis, Jennie and Janine, loans from Nick, lawyers, police, the confrontation, and the truth.

  There was a long pause.

  “Oh, sweetie.” Her voice broke. “I am heartbroken that you went through that on your own, but I am so proud of you.” Not having the energy to tell it twice, I asked her to let my dad know. A few hours later, he sent me a note: “Your daddy loves you oh so much.”

  I broke down and cried.

  * * *

  I spent the first weekend in August at Kathryn’s house, in Bridgehampton, and that’s when I began to write everything down. The amount of information was overwhelming—I hadn’t known that it was possible to remember so much. It felt necessary to exorcise every detail. If I didn’t write each of them thoroughly, whatever stayed behind might fester, or become lost inside forever. To move forward, I needed the story to live elsewhere—outside of me—intact. I found the process incredibly cathartic.

  The prosecutors would not disclose the contents of their investigation: they’d taken my information on board without giving much back. Although this made sense as an operational necessity, it made it hard to know what parts of my story might be relevant. So, just in case, I gave them everything I could think of that could possibly be of interest, from obvious facts to far-fetched theories (labeled accordingly). After all, if Anna Delvey was just a character, a front for covert operations, anything was possible.

  With little hope of recouping any money from Anna, why did I bother? At the time, I barely paused to ask. My scope was limited, and in my quest to make sense of the chaos, it was gratifying to join forces with a broader operation committed to the same task. It was also motivating for my negative experience to be repurposed and put to good use. And deep in my stomach,
I wrestled with one other thing: If Anna had chosen to do this to me, her friend, what else was she capable of ? What else had she already done? I needed to know.

  As I went through my memories and records of our exchanges, I organized the data in emails to the DA’s office. By cross-referencing messages and iPhone photos, I created a timeline of Anna’s activities. I listed the names of people she had mentioned: her favorite lawyer, hedge-fund acquaintances, businessmen, and potential collaborators. For each of them, I included a link to background information and a summary of their relationship to Anna.

  Along with the timeline and list of names, I submitted the audio recordings from the Frying Pan. I also shared my full text-messaging history with Anna, going back to February of 2017, when she’d given me her new number. The PDF began with my first message, Hello new Anna, along with her first response, Hello stranger.

  I logged new information as it came to mind. My emails to the DA’s office went out in bursts, a flux of miscellaneous data. I thought the prosecutors might follow the money, so I told them where she spent it. She got her hair done here, her eyelash extensions there. She used this app for car services, that app for fitness bookings, and another app for spa reservations. She had an interest in cryptocurrency. I think she was running a Ponzi scheme, I said.

  I planned to block Anna from all of my social media accounts, but first I went through them and took screenshots of her posts. I documented as much information as I could find (names of people Anna was pictured with and locations when available). I made a list of her social media handles in case the DA’s office hadn’t seen them. It seemed important for them to know where she’d been: New York, Berlin, Paris, Venice, Miami, Dubrovnik, Los Angeles, San Francisco—so many cities around the world. I scrolled all the way back to the beginning, to see Anna’s first post on Instagram. There it was, February 27, 2013—three years before I met her—a picture of a chessboard, black-and-white marble with gold and silver pieces. The game had just begun.

  When I wasn’t archiving, I spent my time alone or with Kathryn. I had drinks with Ashley once during this time and confided in her. I relayed the broad strokes, but never mentioned the DA’s confidential investigation. Without batting an eye, she asked whether I wanted to move in with her, into her studio apartment, so that I could sublet my apartment to save money. I was deeply touched by her offer—an act of extreme kindness during a time I felt broken and jagged.

  Fundamentally shaken, I retreated inward, lacking the energy to keep anyone fully abreast of my progress and theories. Even as the narrative continued to unfold, I knew that something about it was so absurdly transfixing that, once it was told, it would be hard to contain. It was the type of gossip you needed to bounce off another person to properly absorb. Can you believe it? And although there were plenty of people I trusted to keep my secrets, this one was liable to burn a hole into any place it sat for too long. The smaller my circle, the less I had to worry. And with so much else causing me stress, the decision to keep quiet was easy to make.

  Work was a good distraction—I had my day job to maintain. That following Monday, I was in the Vanity Fair office, as usual. I was busy organizing a small photo shoot of Jeff Goldblum, finding someone to photograph the desk of Cecile Richards for a front-of-book page, and finalizing a menu for the photo department’s annual “Summer Fling,” an upcoming dinner at Cecconi’s in Brooklyn.

  It occurred to me, not having heard from Anna, that it would be natural to reach out again. It felt wisest to keep the chain of communication open—what did I have to lose? I sent her another Facebook message, as if it were a matter of routine procedure: Am I meant to give up? Can you please contact your family? Hello?

  I’m not sure what I thought was going to happen, but thirty minutes later, her response came as a shock: did you go through all my contacts or not yet.

  My heart fell on the floor. What did she mean—contacts? Was she asking if I’d spoken to her friends and acquaintances? Maybe she was referring to Tommy, since I’d brought him up to her at the Frying Pan. But if not him, who? Was someone playing both sides, talking to me and to Anna? It was the day after I’d sent that list of names—contacts?—to the prosecutors, but how could she know that? Had she tapped my phone? My computer? I disconnected my laptop from the Internet and looked nervously over my shoulder for the rest of the day. Her message shook me. I didn’t respond.

  But on Tuesday, Anna surfaced again. I was at my desk when my cell phone buzzed: the name “Anna Delvey” popped up on its screen.

  Back at this [number], she texted. Did she have her phone back or was she using a computer? Either way, I didn’t engage. An hour later my cell phone rang. It was her again. I watched the phone vibrate as if it were possessed.

  In my mind, Anna had become a disembodied force, more of a specter than a human. If we were in a horror movie, she was the evil spirit who kept knocking on the door.

  When I didn’t answer the phone, she sent another text: Call me back or provide a time for us to call you back asap regarding the outstanding issue, it said.

  Us? Who’s us? “Outstanding issue” meaning reimbursement? Why was she being so cryptic? My view of Anna had changed entirely. All trace of my friend was gone; she was a stranger, and I was afraid. Even so, I found ways to be proactive. I alerted the DA’s office that Anna was back on the grid. Thinking ahead, just in case, I downloaded an app on my cell phone that would allow me to record calls. Then I considered my words carefully and waited until I was calmer to respond.

  That evening, I went for it: You have all my info. You’ve had it for almost three months. My life has turned upside down because of you. When will I see something in my account?

  She responded a minute later: It seems like you are misrepresenting the situation and the way I’m handling it to a lot of people.

  My heart raced so quickly that I felt sick. Anna’s power play was aggressive. By taking the offensive, she made me question my own strength. By implying that I was outnumbered—was she really talking to a lot of people?—she made me feel like I was alone. Her attempt was perfectly twisted. Despite the physicality of my panic, I could see these manipulation tactics clearly and understood their objective.

  This time, I took the upper hand: The situation is clear. There is nothing to misrepresent. You owe me a lot of money. This debt has ruined my life over the last three months. If you think I’m not upset you are wrong. And you have not answered my question. I have nothing else to discuss.

  * * *

  For a while, Anna and I left it at that. Neither of us had anything to add. I trusted the assistant district attorneys to do their job, and, as a way to feel constructive, I continued to write. Now and then, I would get phone calls from an unknown number. I never answered, but I assumed they were from Anna. Since she seemed alone and desperate, I expected her to spiral. The thought of her lashing out scared me. To feel safe, I watched her from a distance, keeping an eye on her social media.

  During the time that I’d known her, Anna had always fixated on knowing about places that were new and considered cool, but I’d noticed that if she visited those places, she rarely posted about them online, at least not right away. This made it difficult for me to know where she was. And yet, while it didn’t reveal her geographic location, her online activity in mid-August did unmask a certain state of mind.

  drain you, read the caption of her Instagram post on August 10, an underwater picture of a woman. You couldn’t see Anna’s face, but in a black dress with her legs bent, it was definitely her. Although she hadn’t geotagged the location, I remembered the scene from Marrakech. It was an image Jesse had taken in our private pool at La Mamounia. Was Anna’s caption directed at me? I took a screenshot of the post and shared it with the DA’s office, if only to give them an indicator of Anna’s insensitivity.

  That same day, she also posted one other photo: a close-up of her own face, lips pouting with pseudo-vulnerability. She mimicked a baby doll, puffy-faced with feminine fe
atures and a markedly vacant look in her eyes. She also updated her Instagram bio. “Let em eat cake,” it said. Just like her tattoo, an homage to her idol, Marie Antoinette.

  I followed Anna’s activity on Spotify, so I could see the names of songs as she played them. Knowing that she was online and listening to music was agitating (what was she doing?), but I was convinced that the information might somehow be useful.

  Again and again, she listened to one in particular: “Drain You,” by Nirvana—a song about a parasitic relationship, written by Kurt Cobain, which must have been the inspiration for her Instagram caption. It was all a little too on the nose. How much was she doing on purpose? Her actions struck me as predatory and increasingly deranged. Though I was deeply unsettled, I couldn’t look away.

  Craving more insight, I consulted Anna’s Instagram account to see the photos in which she had been tagged. This led me to Hunter, Anna’s ex-boyfriend, so I scrolled through his account, too. Anna appeared in only a few of Hunter’s photos, but in my state of mind, there was more that seemed relevant. For instance, his post from New Year’s Day 2014, from the Soho House in Berlin, a photo of typed words on strips of paper:

  enjoy

  the little things

  in life . . .

  for one day

  you’ll look back

  and

  realize

  they were

  the big things

  Platitude or warning?

  Judging by his posts, Hunter had also been to La Mamounia; he shared photos of the hotel in June 2015 and April 2016. Evidently, he and Anna had similar taste in travel, as well as in art, architecture, and design. I scrolled all the way back to his earliest posts. This time it wasn’t a chessboard that caught my eye (although there were a few of those). It was René Magritte’s Le modèle rouge—posted on March 21, 2011, without any caption—a Surrealist painting of hollowed out feet-shoes, complete with ten toes and untied laces, like boots made of flesh. It was a fitting reflection of how I’d come to see Anna. Her human form was just a vessel: sealed in its confines, her Machiavellian life force wore its skin like a costume.