by Amanda Adair
As for Sander Mass I couldn’t get any DNA. But Tessa, your half-sister, her DNA is easier to get. With a little help I got her brush. She probably wondered where it went. DNA tests are expensive, but it was worth it. Kye is not related to Axel, thank god, because who would want their child to be related to an unsuccessful loser and psycho rapist. Sander Maas at least is a psycho rapist with a degree in business management and a proper job. They say one should think positive. At least Kye has a father with a brain, even if it is a malfunctioning brain when it comes to women and sexual harassment. I thought about telling your mother what her husband did. But that would destroy my plans to get revenge. I’m deeply sorry she’ll never get to know that the man she married is a rapist. Maybe it’s better for her if she doesn’t know. I mean it’s her who gave birth to such a mean and malicious girl, you.
“Are you okay?,” you ask.
“Yes, sorry,” I say. “I was distracted.”
“I don’t want to hurt Dana,” you say. “I know how hard it was for Tessa to lose her dad.” You sigh. “She’s too young to be without one parent.”
I’d like to choke. I can’t stand talking to you. I can’t stand being with you. I can’t stand knowing what you think. You’re a selfish piece of shit who has absolutely no sympathy. So, you’re telling me your sister is too young to lose one of her parents? What did you do when I lost my mother? Wait, you were in the car when she was killed. You were sitting on the passenger seat. Your car was probably the last thing my mother saw. I miss her so much. It hurts all day every day. When I think of her death it feels like I’m on fire. Every part of my body hurts. My head, my stomach, my skin, my eyes, my fingers, everything. Why wasn’t I too young to lose my mother? Did I deserve it because you didn’t like me?
48
You’re annoying. You’re really getting on my nerves. The whole apartment smells like your perfume. I find your stuff everywhere. Bobby pins. Socks. Thongs. Earrings. I’m trying to get some work done. Amber is helpless since I’m not around, and Paola hasn’t yet found a replacement for you. There isn’t even a job description online. Not on the website. Not on LinkedIn. Not on Instagram. She’s not even looking for someone to join our team. Paola will be devastated when I quit as well.
“I don’t wanna distract you, but can you help me close this dress?,” you ask and turn around, so I can see the zipper on your back. You’re wearing a red dress for a job interview. You’re lying to me. That’s nothing one would wear to a job interview unless it’s for the position of a hooker.
“Sure,” I say and turn away from the screen where lots of messages from Amber pop up. “Where’s the interview taking place?”
“Tribeca,” you say.
I don’t believe you. I’m going to follow you. I’m sure you’re on your way to another date. You can’t give up on trying to find a rich New Yorker. A Chuck Bass.
“Fashion?,” I ask. “Another blog? A production company?”
“I’ll let you know,” you say and grab one of my handbags. “I need to go. I don’t wanna be late. See ya.”
Kye’s at school. I can pick him up in four hours, so I close my laptop and get up. I can message Amber on my phone. I’ll just update my calendar and some Excel files while following you. It counts as actively working.
You get in a car, probably an Uber, so I track your location on my phone. You’re right. You’re getting out of the car in Tribeca. I get off mine on the other side of the street. My phone says you’re in the building across the street. It’s a corporate building. There are several companies listed on the signs next to the entrance. One is a model agency. You’ve got to be kidding.
I text you that I’m in SoHo and ask you to meet me at Starbucks when you’re ready. I even tell you good luck, but I don’t mean it.
“Tell me everything,” I say when you walk towards me with your caramel latte in the right and your phone in the left hand.
“Just a sec,” you say and sit down in one of the dark green armchairs in front of me. “It was so damn great there. They have MacBooks and their own barista.”
That’s not what I meant. “Where did you even go?,” I say and laugh. “You didn’t tell me anything. Remember?”
“A model agency,” you say. “Not as a model. A booker. I mean it’s close to being a project manager.”
Project assistant.
“Cool,” I say. “When do you start?”
“Funny,” you say and take a sip of your latte. “They’re supposed to tell me in two days. They really need someone asap. They’re growing.”
They always tell you it’s because of their immense growth that they’re hiring. That they’re opening the holy gates for new slaves. Truth is people flee the company, so positions become vacant. Believe me or not.
You look down. “So, how’s life at lala’s?”
“Nothing’s changed,” I say. You don’t look happy, so I add, “I miss you as a colleague, but workwise it’s business as usual.”
“I heard Jane’s pregnant,” you say.
It’s been a few days, so I understand why you’re still interested in the gossip. You always need some group of people to gossip about. No people around you, no gossip.
“She is,” I say. “Paola’s angry. I mean not really angry at Jane, but she’s stressed out because you’re gone and Jane’s about to leave.” And I am leaving soon. But she hasn’t got the memo yet.
“She shouldn’t have fired me,” you say, “because of some stupid shit I haven’t done.”
“The online shopping?,” I ask.
You roll your eyes. “I didn’t order anything online. I was just looking at some websites.”
“You should’ve deleted your browser history,” you say.
“I don’t think that’s how she knew,” you say skeptically. “I don’t know why she thinks I’ve leaked information about the company.” I know.
“I think it was Amber,” you say.
“No, come on,” I say. “She’s crazy and annoying but nice.”
“She’s sitting next to me,” you say. “It’s plausible. It can either be her.” You pause. “Or you.”
I swallow. “Sure, because it was so boring with you as my partner in crime.” The term partner in crime is reserved for Hannah. I love her. I hate you.
“True,” you say and smile. “What would you do without me. At least we are roommates now.”
49
You almost entirely spent the first days of your unemployment in my apartment. You rarely went outside. Sometimes you bought some salad or chocolate. These days are over now. I physically go to the office once a week. Paola likes me so much that she allows it. Amber asked her to work from home, but she was rejected. Poor Amber. Today I can’t track you. Apparently you’ve realized that the location services are turned on. Now I sit on my sofa, handle some client calls and instruct Amber to complete the simplest tasks. I wonder what I want to become after leaving lalamilan. Do I want to become a software developer? No. A cyber security specialist. Maybe. A full-time mother. Maybe. A wife. Also maybe. I feel like there are so many possibilities out there waiting for me. I felt hopeless and stuck in my situation after school. I thought my life was over. Over and out. It’s not. It’s just the beginning. I can still become anything and anyone. There are no boundaries. I was able to become a murderer, and that was nothing nobody ever expected me to become. Out of anything in the world I happened to become a killer. Temporary, of course. Is it possible to become a killer at some point in your life and then never kill someone again for the rest of your life? Is that a thing? Not everyone’s a serial killer.
Right now, you’re meeting someone you got to know on Instagram. Not a guy. The person’s female. A New Yorker model who asked you to hang out and do some photo shoots. Hope you’re having fun. In five minutes, we’re supposed to pick up Dana and Kye. Since you’re not around I’ll have to go alone. You only use your car for dates with models who texted you on Instagram. But when it comes to driving to school you�
��re giving me loads excuses. Gas isn’t that cheap anymore when you’re jobless and broke. You need the car for a job interview. You can’t even ask your parents for money. Your mother is still suffering from her husband’s death. She keeps inviting all the other widows in town. They’re probably about to start a book club, or rather a coffee and wine club without the reading. Your father is busy living his new life. He’s tired of sending you money. He’s making other investments now.
Right before dinner you come home. As if you’ve smelled the vegetable casserole that I’ve just cooked for the kids. I kept them busy the whole afternoon.
“Kelly is amazing,” you say. “I can show you some of the photos later.”
“Awesome,” I say and hand Dana her plate.
“She gave me some tips on how to make money online,” you say. “On Instagram.”
Please don’t start a YouTube channel. I don’t want a shitload of subscribers and followers keeping up with your shitty life. That would make killing you much more exhausting and difficult. I can’t kill a famous person.
“Mom,” Dana say.
“Do you want something to drink?,” you ask.
She nods.
“Water? Juice?,” I ask.
“She always wants juice,” you say and open the fridge.
“Kye?,” I say. “Do you want some?”
“Can I have the iPad?,” he says, ignoring my question.
“Not now,” I say. ”Do you want juice?”
After dinner we put the kids to bed. Originally you were supposed to share your room with your daughter. After two days you begged me to let Dana sleep in. Kye’s room. Now his room is full of both his stuff and Dana’s. It’s a mess. Your excuse was that Dana would be better off sharing a room with a someone of the same age. But it’s because of your ego. You’re selfish. You don’t want her to mess with your make-up and clothes, bags and shoes. You want to keep your single lifestyle even though you’re a jobless single mom with absolutely no clue what you’re doing.
50
The first thing I see when I open my eyes is your face. You lean over my bed and smile.
“Good morning,” you say.
Why are you awake so early on a weekend?
“Hey,” I say. I’m tired, and you shouldn’t talk to me.
“I couldn’t sleep any longer,” you explain. “I was waiting for the weekend all week.”
I think everyone does that. “Because?”
“Because Dana’s with Joe,” you say. “Oh, and I contacted a lawyer yesterday. I wanna make sure he won’t steal her from me.”
“What’s he gonna do?,” I want to know. I sit up and make room for you to sit down next to me. It’s just a queen size bed, but it’s big enough for both of us. And I honestly don’t want to get out of bed right now. I need a few more hours to feel alive.
“I just want him to give me some advice,” you say. “He says it’s not exactly a good idea to lie. You know, about the abuse.“ I told you, didn’t I? “But he’s coming up with a strategy. I trust him. He’s basically a celebrity lawyer. It’s just amazing.”
With what money can you afford a celebrity lawyer? “Isn’t he expensive?,” I say because I don’t want to ask directly. I don’t want you to ask me for money.
“Let’s put it that way,” you say, “he and I have a special arrangement.”
So, you either help him do something illegal or you’re his mistress. “Is he hot?”
“Blair,” you say. “I didn’t say what kind of arrangement, did I?”
“I can’t think of anything other than payment in kind.”
You come closer and lie your head on my shoulder. “I mean I’d like to date him. He’s the type of man I would want to date. He’s tall, successful, kind, smart.”
Everything you’re not. You’re somehow tall, but not tall enough to become a model. “What’s his name?”
“That’s none of your business,” you say.
“Come on, you’re my roommate,” I say. “We should tell each other our deepest secrets.”
“What’s your deepest secret?,” you ask
That I’m not Blair Morgan. It’s a fictional identity. A fake one. That I killed your stepfather. That he’s the father of Kye. That Kye’s your stepsister’s brother. You’re technically not related by blood. It doesn’t matter. You’re the reason I was raped. You let Axel rape me. My deepest secret is that I want to see you dead. I don’t answer because I don’t know what to say.
“I want to go to a party today,” you say and thereby change the topic.
“Please ask Bruna to join us,” you say and jump onto my bed. “It’s Saturday. We haven’t been at a real party in weeks. I want to go out tonight. We need to go out.”
“I can ask her,” I promise.
51
Bruna couldn’t make it. She has a date. A boyfriend. Maybe he’s her boyfriend. She isn’t sure herself, but they’ve spent a lot of time together lately. I meet you inside. I’m late because I had to wait for my eighty-year-old neighbor. She’s the new nanny. Not for real. It’s just for tonight. I hope she won’t die because she’s really old and forgetful and fragile. But she’s also cute. Dana spends the weekend with Joe. You’re still figuring out how to prevent him from stealing her form you. You don’t want her to grow up anywhere else but in New York City. Well, you told me you would consider moving to Miami or Los Angeles for either a new job or a new man.
I don’t mind partying with you alone. I don’t know anyone at this party. I’ve never been at this club before. It was your idea to come here because there’s lots of rich bachelors around. I see a lot of women, but whatever.
“What do you want to drink?,” you ask. I can barely here you over the music. It’s some rap song that’s currently popular on TikTok.
“Tequila,” I say because I know that’s what you want to hear.
You come back with not two but four shots of tequila.
“Do you wanna make me drunk?,” I ask.
“Maybe,” you say and empty one of the shots. “Here, come on, Morgan. Can’t you keep up with me?”
After several shots we end up on the dance floor. We’re surrounded by sweaty and drunk people. I go to the bar and order a glass of water. Not gin and tonic. Just water. The bartender looks at me like I’m out of my mind. Then I go to the restroom. When I come back you’re gone. You and your lover for the evening are not on the dance floor anymore. I expected this to happen when you asked me to go out. Dana is with Joe, so you can just hook up with somebody and sleep over at their place. You’re free.
I look everywhere. You’re not here. Did you just leave me here? Are you fucking the guy now? Where the hell are you, Piper? I go back inside and look around. Just when I’m about to give up searching I see the bearded guy that you’ve kissed. He’s at the bar, talking to a group of college girls.
“Hey,” I say and tap on his shoulders. “Where’s my friend?”
“Chill, girl,” he says. He smells like alcohol. “She just wasn’t my type after all. Sorry.” He’s stoned or something.
“That’s fine,” I say. “Just tell me where she is.”
He squints his eyes and points at the door that leads to the stairs. He almost tips backwards.
I hear one of the girls say, “he’s too drunk. I’m out.”
“But he’s hot,” another says.
“Don’t tell your friend I’m still here,” he says when I walk away.
On the stairs I walk past people who are making out, smoking or drinking. I have to climb over broken glass and empty bottles. Someone spilled their drinks. The ground is wet, slippery and sticky. The door that leads to the fourth floor is open but it’s just an empty warehouse that hosts more people who are smoking. You aren’t there.
On the way up a woman blocks my way. “Can I use your phone?”
“Sorry, no,” I say, “I don’t have it with me.”
But then I remember it’s in my hand, and she can see it.
“Oka
y, girl,” she says. “Why don’t you just say you don’t want me to use it.”
I don’t have time for this, I think. I keep on going.
“Bitch,” I hear her say.
The other door that is unlocked is the door that leads to the roof. I open it and step outside. It’s not cold but I wish I wasn’t wearing a short sleeveless dress. I wrap my arms around my body. I see you standing in the middle of the empty rooftop terrace, staring at the sky.
“Blair,” you say when you turn around.
I can’t stand being her. Being Blair Morgan. I don’t think I should do what I’m about to do, but I don’t care anymore. I want you to become aware of your actions and face the consequences.
“You can call me Samantha,” I say. You look puzzled. You either don’t remember me, which I doubt, or you’re too shocked to process what I’m telling you. After all these lies you deserve a small amount of truth. “Goldinger, Shitinger, Servinger, Pimplinger.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” you say and throw your hands up. “Seriously?” You start laughing, bursting, and randomly walk back and forth. “Shit, what? You are Sammy?” You turn back around. “What have you done? You’re not that ugly. What happened to you? Plastic surgery? Shit, Samantha Goldshitter. Sam. Oh shit. Fuck. What the fuck do you want from me? Why the hell? You can’t be her. Look at you, blondie.”