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“Bad. Twice I shot at deer and both times I missed. But I have fired a bolt-action Remington.”
“You enjoy it?”
“It was fine,” she answered, before turning back to Lara. “You didn’t really answer my question. Why do you keep that SIG whatever in your purse?” she pressed.
“Because it keeps me safe.”
“Did you carry it when you worked in New York City?”
“I didn’t own it when I worked on Wall Street. But there were times when I was overseas when I wished I’d had a gun.”
“Is that why you got one when you moved out here? It makes you feel safer?”
“Not feel safer. Be safer. I’m not a paranoid wack job. But I don’t worry quite so much now. It’s nice to have it.”
“The gun.”
“Yes. A few months ago, a friend took me to the shooting range and I had the best time. That’s how it started. I discovered that I’m much happier as a single woman knowing I have a little pistol.”
Betsy turned to Rory. “And you? Why do you carry a gun?”
“It makes me harder to kill,” he said simply.
* * *
She texted Marisa that they were finished with lunch, and she and Frankie were on their way through the shopping concourses that surrounded the gambling floor to pick her up at the arcade. Because the Versailles was decked out to resemble the Sun King’s France, it was a high-end version of the BP’s homage to the Homes of the Inbred Royals—though, it seemed to Betsy, whoever took over the BP from the Morleys’ estate would be wise to capitalize on the reality that Americans were far more likely to devour deeply fried fish and chips than cassoulet and coq au vin. There was opportunity there, even she could see it.
The Versailles always boasted exhibits about Louis XIV, Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, guillotines, and anything that involved Napoleon, but Betsy doubted that most of the guests were aware of anything other than the idea that the casino feigned extravagance and had lots of chandeliers. The guests were interested in aura, not authenticity, and some of the imagery was gargoyle gothic straight from Notre Dame.
“I have to tell you, Frankie,” she said, bringing their conversation back to her own future, “I still have no idea what I’m going to do at Futurium.”
“You’ve got to learn the business.”
“I’m not sure I even know what the business is.”
They passed the Imperial Hair Salon and Frankie stopped. “I have an idea. Let’s double back after we get Marisa.”
“To the salon?”
“Yup. Let’s surprise her and give her a makeover. For school.”
“She’s thirteen.”
“So? At thirteen, my daughter loved makeovers. We used to take her and her pals to this elegant resort in Stowe—Powder Peak, you probably went there a thousand times—and let them all have makeovers for her birthday. We’d own the joint.”
“Does she need one?” Betsy asked. She had never been to Powder Peak. She almost went as a guest with her college roommate’s family one winter break, but she canceled at the last minute because she feared she lacked the right clothes and that her secondhand snowboard would reveal how modest her home life truly was.
He pulled her into him and wrapped his arms around the small of her back. “Nope. She does not. And neither do you and neither do I. But this is Las Vegas. Let’s have some fun.”
She suspected she knew where this was going, and she wasn’t wild about the destination. But she knew also that Marisa would enjoy the experience and that Frankie was about to drop four digits. And so she acquiesced.
How do things fall apart? she asked herself when the stylist began dying her hair the exact shade of blond that had belonged to Diana Spencer, using images pulled from the Internet to match it perfectly. Little by little and then all at once.
Even I could see that Betsy was worried about her sister. Crissy lived in this world of—and Betsy herself used this word with Frankie, and when I googled it, I saw it was perfect—denial.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Crissy
