‘There Is No Ethan’ Is a Jaw-Dropping Tale of Digital Deception

I did not expect to be shocked by “There Is No Ethan.” Online deception has become so ubiquitous that it’s boring. By now, the term “catfish,” which was added to the Merriam-Webster dictionary a decade ago, seems almost quaint. But the twists and turns in Anna Akbari’s book are outrageous. I read it in one sitting, then spent days recounting her story to anyone who would listen, unable to shake off my indignation on behalf of the author and her fellow victims.

The book begins in late 2010, when someone going by the name Ethan first messages Akbari, a sociologist teaching at New York University, on the online dating site OKCupid. Ethan’s photos are “approachably attractive” and his credentials seem impeccable: a Ph.D. in applied mathematics from M.I.T., a three-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side, an exciting (albeit mysterious) job that involves working for both Morgan Stanley and the U.S. government that he describes as “stealing from the rich.” Akbari is most drawn to Ethan’s “eagerness to keep the conversation going.” A persistent and intuitive communicator, Ethan stands out among the city’s innumerable self-absorbed and flaky men. For weeks, they message each other nonstop.

But Ethan’s excuses for why he can’t meet in person grow increasingly implausible: first work, then weather, then a horrifying cancer diagnosis. When Akbari starts fact-checking and finds holes everywhere, Ethan chastises her: “You obviously distrust me right now, and when I’m going through such an ordeal, that’s really the last thing I need on my plate.” She wants to extricate herself but finds it impossible to ignore him; Ethan even persuades her to have cybersex. He offers to pay her rent. He asks her to go away with him for the weekend. When Akbari finally stops responding, she feels awful for abandoning Ethan before he has started chemotherapy.

Then Akbari connects with two other women whose (simultaneous) relationships with Ethan mirror her own. Soon she begins hearing from more of his victims, all professionals in their 30s. Ethan has strung some of them along for years.

Language is his weapon of choice, Akbari writes, “persuading and emotionally manipulating women with attention, affection and the promise of love and companionship because the thing many women, especially high-achieving women, lack most in this digital age — far more than access to money or sex — is meaningful romantic companionship.” Ethan’s victims have convinced themselves that he is real — and really cares for them — because he doesn’t reap any financial or physical sexual gain. He demands nothing except for, in one woman’s paraphrased words, “her time, openness and emotional vulnerability.” Through some clever sleuthing (and an eerily portentous dream) the group discovers Ethan’s real identity. He isn’t a typical catfisher, a “wannabe influencer,” as Akbari puts it, but instead a “highly educated overachiever” with multiple Ivy League degrees.

The fact that Akbari has revealed Ethan’s identity in several outlets (initially in 2014) is telling; for the author this book is clearly as much a public reckoning as it is an act of closure. But for those who wish to preserve this mystery, stop reading now.

For everyone else? Ethan’s real identity is Emily Slutsky.

Akbari and the other women are blown away by the revelation that they have been corresponding with a woman. But Akbari feels most alarmed by the fact that Slutsky has been in medical school the entire time, training to be a doctor.

They decide to confront Slutsky and force her to seek psychological help, threatening to expose her history of serial manipulation. The questions mount. Will Slutsky confess? Why did she do it? And, if she’s revealed to her family and professional superiors, will anyone care? I won’t give away the answers here.

Given that Akbari wrote her doctoral dissertation on “aspirational identity,” it is bizarre that she barely mentions her own perspective as a sociologist until the book’s epilogue. When she does, she poses fascinating questions: What are the ethical boundaries of digital platforms? Is lying to create intimacy a violation of consent? When does inauthenticity become evil? And how should the law handle people who engage in virtual offenses that are not financially motivated, especially if the perpetrators hold positions of power over others, like doctors (Slutsky currently runs a women’s health center where she specializes in genetics and obstetrics/gynecology)? I wish Akbari had seriously explored these issues instead of spending so much time on the maddeningly similar experiences of Slutsky’s victims.

“There Is No Ethan” is billed as a memoir, and it often reads like a true-crime thriller, but I think it is most meaningfully assessed as a piece of investigative journalism.

“Can we be an ethical physician while also having a history of deceiving innocent people online?” Akbari asks. This question encapsulates everything that frustrated and compelled me about “There Is No Ethan.” Akbari isn’t always an elegant writer, but I won’t soon forget this valiant attempt to hold a manipulator accountable.