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“You’re making a mistake,” he said, after a moment.
“Whatever you’re doing…you know it’s wrong.”
“I don’t have the best choices.”
“You once said if I ever wanted us to go back to Vermont, we’d leave. You’d book a flight east, and off we’d go. You, me, and Marisa.”
“It’s not that easy. Not anymore.”
“Was it ever?”
“Betsy, c’mon.”
“I probably shouldn’t go to work today,” she told him.
“You really think that would be making a good choice?”
“I do.”
“So: how will you pay for this apartment?”
He wasn’t looking at her, but she could hear the threat in his voice. Instantly she tried to calculate in her head what her expenses were. Should she cash in her crypto? She wasn’t sure what the coin was going for today. Did she have enough savings in her old-fashioned checking account at her old-fashioned bank from her short time at Futurium to tide her over until she could find another job here? That would depend, she guessed, on how long it took to become a dealer or whatever—and then on whatever she could make doing what Ayobami did. She knew she couldn’t carry this place, modest as it was, as a waitress at some second- or third-rate joint in Summerlin, or give Marisa the life that she wanted for her. Or, yes, the life that she wanted for herself. But it was clear that her sugar daddy was willing to turn off the tap. And while her taste for the illicit might have seemed insatiable before college, she had found her limits and walked away from the worst. Reinvented herself. Futurium? It was backsliding. No, it was worse than backsliding, because people were getting killed. None of her temerity or foolhardiness in the past rose to anywhere near that level of criminality.
“I think you should go,” she said quietly. “I think if you stay, we both might say things we’ll regret. Things we don’t mean but can’t take back.”
“You’re seriously not going to the warehouse today? Is that definite?”
“That’s definite. I’m not. I guess I’m calling in sick while we…we reassess.”
“Reassess what?”
She wasn’t precisely sure what she meant. Them? Their relationship? What Futurium was up to and what they were asking of her? “The job description,” she said, a half-truth at best.
“You’re putting me in a tough spot. You know that, don’t you? But you’re putting yourself in a worse one.”
“I understand,” she agreed, ignoring the menace that skulked in that last sentence.
“Your sister doesn’t like you, Betsy,” he said. “Maybe she loves you. But she sure doesn’t like you.”
“I know that, too,” she agreed. It was as if he were telling her something new.
“And I can’t protect you.”
“What do I need protection from?” But, of course, the answer was obvious. She could have framed the question with who instead of what. But she could have named names, if asked. Rory. Damon. Tony. Maybe even Lara.
He put his hands in his front pants pockets. “Okay,” he said. “Why not? Take today off. Think about what you want and what’s best for you and Marisa.”
“I will.”
“But Betsy?”
She waited.
“This isn’t over. The Mastaba…”
“Go on.”
“They take whatever the fuck they want. They’re used to getting their way.”
