Read Online Assuming Names: a con artist's masquerade (Criminal Mischief Book 1) by Tanya Thompson - Free Book Online
Authors: Tanya Thompson
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beneficial to instill a bit of doubt, so I let the question sit for a while before answering, “No.”
“Are you sure?”
A little more uncertainty and then, “Yes.”
“Yes to a second language?”
I gave an expression that I might admit it, almost said what it was but changed my mind, “No.” I decided then that I needed to learn Russian. With the Cold War at its height, that would be sinister.
Under language, Rick wrote that I spoke English with a British accent.
Education was private tutors. My appearance was well-presented, and my manner polished and refined.
I had no tattoos, but there was an obvious scar on my cheek and another above it on my brow. “I was a clumsy child,” there was no reason to lie about that. I had been four and remembered both times I split my face open falling into a table, but I didn’t want to tell a story about an emergency room visit, so regarding the details, I insisted, “I don’t remember.”
Rick was quiet. He was thinking, and whatever he was thinking about did not make him happy. Finally he asked, “Did someone hit you?”
“ No ,” with two syllables. I was baffled as to who he thought would dare to strike me. I was a countess. Countesses did not get hit. But I could see he didn’t believe me, so I said with greater insistence, “No.”
The section of the form we were discussing dealt with identifying body marks, and he was looking at the scar forming on my wrist. He decided to fill that part in later and flipped the page, and then maybe he would fill in the next few pages about my background without me present as well.
He would attach my fingerprints and photograph later.
But as long as he was asking, he had just one more question about the Porsche, “When did it show up?”
And as long as I was lying, “I have no idea.”
~~~~~~
Tricia was compiling a list of Cambodian women that the refugee agency had never made contact with and who she could learn nothing about. Their folders were grouped together in the top drawer of her office filing cabinet. To prevent losing any more, I went to the airport to meet the next single woman due to arrive.
I was at the arrival gate looking for a solitary Cambodian woman, and was the first to approach her, asking her name, “Chantou?”
And that was the extent of my Khmer. I knew nothing else in the language.
When she agreed this was her name, I smiled to indicate I was friendly and motioned she should come with me. Then, a middle-aged Cambodian man joined us and asked of her considerably more. We walked together toward baggage claim with the man conversing, and Chantou agreeing. I could offer nothing.
At the turnstile, Chantou pointed to a box wrapped in black plastic. The man and I both tried to claim possession of it, but he was faster. I went to pull it from his arms and he resisted, swinging the box away. Understanding Chantou would follow the box, I took hold of his arm, saying, “You have no business here, now give that to me.”
And he had quite a lot to say in Khmer, which alarmed Chantou.
Hands out to pacify, I was explaining as though Chantou might understand, “It’s okay, I’m with the refugee agency. You really do want to come with me.”
But I imagine she was hearing from the man, “The crazy white woman plans to slaughter and eat you,” because she went full-tilt rollercoaster screaming.
It was loud.
I stepped back, and then back again. Hands up to surrender any claim on the box, I was pleading, “Oh please, please don’t do that. It’s okay,” but no one around us thought so.
There were few things worse to me than a scene, and Chantou had us center stage at the baggage claim. I wanted to flee but Tricia had told me a terrible story about what would become of Chantou if the Cambodian mob left the airport with her.
Sergiu had explained it in detail to Tricia, telling her that first Chantou would have her passport taken away, and then be told she was indebted to the mob for
“Are you sure?”
A little more uncertainty and then, “Yes.”
“Yes to a second language?”
I gave an expression that I might admit it, almost said what it was but changed my mind, “No.” I decided then that I needed to learn Russian. With the Cold War at its height, that would be sinister.
Under language, Rick wrote that I spoke English with a British accent.
Education was private tutors. My appearance was well-presented, and my manner polished and refined.
I had no tattoos, but there was an obvious scar on my cheek and another above it on my brow. “I was a clumsy child,” there was no reason to lie about that. I had been four and remembered both times I split my face open falling into a table, but I didn’t want to tell a story about an emergency room visit, so regarding the details, I insisted, “I don’t remember.”
Rick was quiet. He was thinking, and whatever he was thinking about did not make him happy. Finally he asked, “Did someone hit you?”
“ No ,” with two syllables. I was baffled as to who he thought would dare to strike me. I was a countess. Countesses did not get hit. But I could see he didn’t believe me, so I said with greater insistence, “No.”
The section of the form we were discussing dealt with identifying body marks, and he was looking at the scar forming on my wrist. He decided to fill that part in later and flipped the page, and then maybe he would fill in the next few pages about my background without me present as well.
He would attach my fingerprints and photograph later.
But as long as he was asking, he had just one more question about the Porsche, “When did it show up?”
And as long as I was lying, “I have no idea.”
~~~~~~
Tricia was compiling a list of Cambodian women that the refugee agency had never made contact with and who she could learn nothing about. Their folders were grouped together in the top drawer of her office filing cabinet. To prevent losing any more, I went to the airport to meet the next single woman due to arrive.
I was at the arrival gate looking for a solitary Cambodian woman, and was the first to approach her, asking her name, “Chantou?”
And that was the extent of my Khmer. I knew nothing else in the language.
When she agreed this was her name, I smiled to indicate I was friendly and motioned she should come with me. Then, a middle-aged Cambodian man joined us and asked of her considerably more. We walked together toward baggage claim with the man conversing, and Chantou agreeing. I could offer nothing.
At the turnstile, Chantou pointed to a box wrapped in black plastic. The man and I both tried to claim possession of it, but he was faster. I went to pull it from his arms and he resisted, swinging the box away. Understanding Chantou would follow the box, I took hold of his arm, saying, “You have no business here, now give that to me.”
And he had quite a lot to say in Khmer, which alarmed Chantou.
Hands out to pacify, I was explaining as though Chantou might understand, “It’s okay, I’m with the refugee agency. You really do want to come with me.”
But I imagine she was hearing from the man, “The crazy white woman plans to slaughter and eat you,” because she went full-tilt rollercoaster screaming.
It was loud.
I stepped back, and then back again. Hands up to surrender any claim on the box, I was pleading, “Oh please, please don’t do that. It’s okay,” but no one around us thought so.
There were few things worse to me than a scene, and Chantou had us center stage at the baggage claim. I wanted to flee but Tricia had told me a terrible story about what would become of Chantou if the Cambodian mob left the airport with her.
Sergiu had explained it in detail to Tricia, telling her that first Chantou would have her passport taken away, and then be told she was indebted to the mob for
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