I stood before my closet, frowning at the limited options hanging before me like condemned prisoners. What exactly does one wear to impersonate a centenarian’s mistress? The question wasn’t merely absurd—it had practical implications that twisted my stomach into knots. Too casual, and I’d be dismissed before speaking a word. Too formal, and I’d look like an actress in a poorly conceived role. The wrong choice would expose me as the fraud I was preparing to become.
“Too much deliberation for too few options,” I muttered, pushing metal hangers aside with sharp scraping sounds that matched my mood.
“The middle path,” Mister B. suggested from his perch on the edge of my unmade bed. His form was less distinct in the morning light, edges softened to suggestion rather than definition, but his voice carried its usual crisp certainty. “Professional, but with a hint of expensive taste. You’re not playing arm candy, but a woman of substance who caught an intelligent man’s attention.”
I paused at a charcoal pencil skirt I’d purchased three years ago for the birthday party of a friend. Beside it hung a silk blouse in deep burgundy, one of the few luxury items I’d allowed myself when my shop was bringing in actual profit instead of merely potential. Together, they suggested exactly what Mister B. had described: understated quality.
The skirt hugged my hips without constriction, ending just below my knees—conservative enough for a lawyer’s office, but tailored to suggest a woman comfortable in her body. The silk blouse felt cool against my skin, the deep color warming my complexion. I added my grandmother’s pearl earrings, simple studs that carried the gravitas of inheritance.
In the bathroom mirror, I assessed my reflection as I applied makeup—subtle but deliberate. Foundation to even my sleep-deprived complexion. A touch of blush to suggest health rather than cosmetics. Eyeliner thin and precise, mascara minimal. My dark hair fell in waves to my shoulders, neither elaborately styled nor carelessly neglected.
“I met Seamus at a charity event three years ago,” I said to my reflection, rehearsing the lie aloud. My eyes met their mirrored counterparts, searching for conviction. “He was interested in my knowledge of esoteric subjects. Our relationship evolved from intellectual to personal.”
Mister B. made a slight sound of disapproval from the doorway he didn’t need to use. “Too vague. Lawyers detect vagueness like sharks sense blood.”
“Fine.” I adjusted my eyeliner, a tiny imperfection bothering me more than it should. Perfectionistic tendencies emerge when everything else feels beyond control. “The Whitney Museum Gala, October 2022. We discussed the metaphysical symbolism in abstract expressionism. He invited me to view his private collection.”
I paused, scrutinizing my delivery. “Is that specific enough?”
“Better,” Mister B. conceded, his reflection absent from the mirror despite his voice coming from just behind me. “But you’ll need details about Seamus himself. Personal habits. Preferences. The sort of intimate knowledge that establishes relationship authenticity.”
I reached for my phone on the bathroom counter, pulling up the browser tabs I’d opened during my midnight research. The blue light from the screen cast harsh shadows across my face, making me look older, more angular—perhaps appropriate for the role I was about to play.
“Seamus Green, born 1922 in Boston,” I read aloud, scrolling through the digital biography I’d assembled. “Harvard educated. Built his fortune in real estate during the 1950s property boom. Widowed in 1985 when his wife Eleanor died of cancer. No remarriage. One daughter—Aurelia. One son—Seamus jr., died from a heart attack five years ago. Grandchildren—Julia, Aurelias daughter, and Jason, Seamus jr.’s son. Philanthropic interests primarily in education and the arts.”
“Good,” Mister B. nodded, his bowtie momentarily coming into sharper focus as his approval solidified his presence. “What about personal details? Things a mistress would know.”
My finger paused in its scrolling. “That’s the problem. Most of what’s available is public knowledge. Business achievements, philanthropic donations, society photographs.” I sighed, setting the phone down. “Nothing about whether he preferred coffee or tea in the morning. And I’m not sure if I want to call Jason and ask him about it.”
“Then be strategic,” Mister B. advised, drifting closer. “Reveal the public information confidently. When pressed for intimate details, be coy. Suggest that your relationship was based on intellectual connection and companionship, with occasional moments of physical intimacy that you’re too discreet to elaborate on.”
I met his eyes—or the suggestion of eyes—in the mirror. “That’s actually quite brilliant.”
“I have my moments,” he replied with the faintest hint of smugness.
“Especially since the idea of physical intimacy with a man his age is…” I trailed off, unable to complete the thought without a grimace.
“Focus on the task,” Mister B. reminded me, his form growing more transparent as I pulled away from the introspective moment. “The code is your priority. 11-65-87-19.”
“Right.” I slid into low heels—sensible enough for walking but polished enough for the performance ahead. A final assessment in the full-length mirror on my closet door confirmed that I looked the part: professional, somewhat expensive, confident. The woman reflected back at me could conceivably have attracted an intellectual centenarian’s attention, if not his physical desire.
I gathered my purse—a structured leather bag that had cost more than I could afford but that made the right impression. Inside, I placed my tarot deck—not because I expected to use it, but because its presence provided comfort. A talisman of sorts, connecting me to my actual expertise rather than the fabricated identity I was about to assume. I also tucked in a small notebook, pen, and my phone—charged and ready to record if needed.
“How will I explain knowing about the code?” I asked, the question suddenly occurring to me as I checked my lipstick one final time.
“Seamus shared it with you,” Mister B. replied simply, now just a voice near my shoulder. “For safekeeping.”
“And if Summer asks why Seamus never mentioned me?”
“Discretion.” The word was delivered with particular satisfaction, and I could sense Mister B. straightening his bowtie, a gesture that indicated he was particularly pleased with a solution. “Seamus was protecting you from family scrutiny and potential scandal. What nonagenarian wants to admit to a much younger lover?”
I nodded slowly. The story was taking shape—outlandish, yes, but just plausible enough to create uncertainty. Uncertainty might be all I needed to get access to whatever information the code unlocked.
“This is either the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” I said, reaching for my coat—a camel-colored wool blend that suggested old money rather than advertised it—“or the first real lead in this case.”
“Perhaps both,” Mister B. offered, his form beginning to fade as my attention turned increasingly outward, preparing to engage with the physical world rather than the spiritual. “Remember—observe everything. Edward Summer’s reaction may tell you as much as any information he provides.”
I checked the time on my phone. Just after 10 AM. Law offices would be open, executives receiving clients. The timing was right; the only question was whether my performance would be.
In the elevator mirror, descending from my fifth-floor apartment, I practiced my expressions. Professional interest. Mild embarrassment when discussing the relationship. Dignified concern regarding Seamus’s death. Not so different from my tarot readings, really—giving people what they expected while looking for deeper truths beneath the surface.
“11-65-87-19,” I repeated one final time, committing the numbers to memory. Four digits that had somehow become a bridge between worlds, a message from the dead to the living. They tasted metallic on my tongue, like old keys or forgotten coins.
I went out on the street. Morning traffic flowed along the street—taxis, delivery trucks, pedestrians locked in their private concerns. Among them, somewhere in a Manhattan high-rise, Edward Summer went about his morning unaware that a dead man had dispatched me to disrupt it.
I took a deep breath, adjusted my coat, and stepped forward. Whatever those digits unlocked, I would soon discover if my dream had been prophecy or delusion. Either way, there was no turning back now. The dead had called, and I had answered. The consequences would unfold as they must.
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