Nine Perfect Strangers by Liane Moriarty Page B

the middle of the night. “Paul Drabble” had multiple names, each with a carefully curated online presence, so that when the ladies Googled their suitors—as they always did—they saw exactly what they wanted to see. Of course, he was not the friend of a friend of a friend. Or not in the real-world way. He’d played a long game, setting up a fake Facebook page and pretending an interest in antique restoration furniture, which had gotten him accepted into a Facebook group run by a university friend’s husband. By the time he sent Frances a friend request, she’d seen enough of his (intelligent, witty, concise) comments on her friend’s posts to believe him to be a real person in her extended circle.
    Frances met up with one of the other women for coffee. The woman showed Frances pictures on her phone of the bedroom she’d created for Ari, complete with Star Wars posters on the wall. The posters were actually a little young for Ari—he wasn’t into Star Wars —but Frances kept that to herself.
    The woman was in a far worse state than Frances. Frances ended up writing her a check to help her get back on her feet. Frances’s friends spluttered when they heard this. Yes, she gave more cash to yet another stranger, but for Frances it was a way of restoring her pride, taking back control, and fixing some of the trail of destruction left by that man. (She did think a thank you card from her fellow scam victim might have been nice, but one mustn’t give only in expectation of thank you cards.)
    After it was all over, Frances packed away the evidence of her stupidity in a file. All the printouts of emails where she’d spilled her foolish heart. The cards that accompanied real flowers with fake sentiments. The handwritten letters. She went to shove the folder into her filing cabinet and a sheet of paper sliced open her thumb like the edge of a razor blade. Such a tiny trite injury and yet it hurt so much.
    The therapist’s thumbs moved in small hard circles. A liquid warmth radiated across Frances’s lower back. She looked through the hole in themassage table at the floor. She could see the therapist’s sneakered feet. Someone had used a Sharpie to doodle flowers all over the white plastic toes of her shoes.
    â€œI fell for an internet romance scam,” said Frances. She needed to talk. The therapist would just have to listen. “I lost a lot of money.”
    The therapist said nothing, but at least she didn’t order Frances to stop talking again. Her hands kept moving.
    â€œI didn’t care so much about the money—well, I did , I’d worked hard for that money—but some people lose everything in these kinds of scams whereas I just lost … my self-respect, I guess, and … my innocence.”
    She was babbling now, but she couldn’t seem to stop. All she could hear was the therapist’s steady breathing.
    â€œI guess I’ve always just assumed that people are who they say they are, and that ninety-nine percent of people are good people. I’ve lived in a bubble. Never been robbed. Never been mugged. Nobody has ever laid a hand on me.”
    That wasn’t strictly true. Her second husband hit her once. He cried. She didn’t. They both knew the marriage was over in that moment. Poor Henry. He was a good man, but they brought out something terrible in each other, like allergic reactions.
    Her mind wandered off down the road of her long and complicated relationship history. She’d shared her relationship history with “Paul Drabble” and he’d shared his. His had sounded so real. It must have had some truth to it? So says the novelist who makes up relationships for a living. Of course he could have fabricated his relationship history, you idiot .
    She kept talking. Better to talk than to think.
    â€œI honestly thought I was more in love with this man than any other man I’d met in the