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A type. It took me a moment to recall where I had heard that very expression. But then it came to me. It was Yevgeny himself suggesting that Frankie Limback had had a type: Cleo Dionne. Who, apparently, looked like Betsy—who, of course, looked like me.
“My point,” Bud continued, “is that there are lots of reasons why people are murdered. But I honestly don’t believe the police think you did it because I don’t see a motivation. Are you a spy? Are you a mobster?”
I wasn’t sure if he was kidding, but I shook my head, just in case.
“Didn’t think so,” Bud said.
“Crime of passion? Isn’t that a thing? I’m a furious lover and I push Yevgeny over a cliff when he isn’t expecting it?”
“I guess.”
“I didn’t, you know. Just so we have clarity.”
“I didn’t think you did. But steer clear of your sister’s new friends at Futurium.”
“That’s going to be very difficult, now that they’re buying this casino.”
“I know. Maybe it won’t matter in a month.”
“Because we’ll both be unemployed?”
“Or dead.”
“That’s a cheery thought.”
“Sorry.”
“Of course, the detectives would agree with you,” I said. “They told me to keep my head down.”
“That was good advice.”
The reality was that Bud was the third person in my rather petite circle who had suggested that I was in danger: I knew I would be popping one of my little yellow pills the moment he was gone.
Frankie was inside the house, but I knew he was watching me.
I figured he was watching me even when he went to the bathroom.
So, I stared at the browser on the tablet once I’d hacked into his Wi-Fi and thought: do I do this here in the pool or do I go inside and lock myself in the bedroom?
And what would “this” be?
But then I knew. First things first. Get Betsy’s nest egg out of Futurium. I had her crypto seed phrase hidden in that Gap email. Her checking account info was there, too. But then I thought, no, not her checking account. If Frankie or someone saw it was gone, that was the first place they’d check. But they probably didn’t even know I had a little savings account. So, that was where I’d put it.
Boom. Took a minute and it was gone. I drained it completely. Moved it out of Futurium and into my bank account.
Yup. WAGMI.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Betsy
The moment the detectives had left, she said to Rory, “I want my daughter.” They were standing at the window and watching the black car roll from the apartment complex parking lot. She’d followed the script with the police that they’d laid out for her: she told them she had not been at Red Rocks on Sunday. She denied being at Fort Knocks last night. She’d done it for her daughter, and she’d done it because her poor, pathetic, damaged sister was accusing her of the very same crime. The fact that her sister’s version of the story had an element of truth—Betsy herself might not have killed the poor guy out at Red Rocks, but her associates at Futurium sure as hell had—and hers had none exacerbated her guilt. She hated herself for what she was doing and doubted she’d ever forgive herself; the list of crimes and misdemeanors on her ledger was long, but this one was bad.
And yet what choice had she?
“The kid’s at school,” Rory told her.
“Then I will go get her and bring her home.”
