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“It’s Brad Schmidt,” Harper said.
“I don’t know him.”
Harper glanced at her phone. “You wouldn’t. He’s a loser. Thinks he’s a tough guy. Football player. I hate him.”
“Oh, good.” None of this sounded right. “I need to talk to him.”
“No!” Dylan was shaking his head. “Mom, you’ll only make things worse.”
“So what is this guy threatening to do to you?” she demanded, worried. “What?”
“It’s . . . it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have placed the bet. I know. I won’t do it again and this will all go away.”
Rachel wasn’t so sure and was having trouble not panicking. Who was this kid, this Brad? Was he violent? Would he hurt Dylan? “Mrs. Walsh knows about this?”
“Yeah,” Dylan admitted. “Well, most of it.”
“So you were gambling with him. How’s that work?” Visions of casinos with slot machines and roulette wheels and craps tables spun through her mind. The bright lights of Las Vegas. Or maybe it was local. Whatever kids did.
“It . . . it was kind of an online thing.”
That made more sense. Dylan was forever hooked into his computer or his iPad or some game system. “We were playing a game. A war game. Interactive. For money. You pay for hits. I lost.”
That was almost the truth, she thought. But not quite.
Rachel turned to her daughter. “You knew about this?”
“I knew he got into some trouble with a couple of seniors.”
Her focus swung back to Dylan. “What were you thinking?”
“He wasn’t. It was stupid,” Harper said, stating the obvious. “Now they want to be paid.”
“So they’re what? Threatening you?” Rachel was playing this out in her head.
“Not really.” But he looked scared.
“How much?” Rachel asked, stepping back and folding her arms over her chest.
He swallowed. Licked his lips.
Her stomach dropped.
“A hundred,” he whispered.
“Dollars?”
“No, euros.” Harper rolled her eyes. “Of course dollars.”
“Okay,” Rachel said to Dylan. “So what’re you going to do?”
“Pay them back.”
“With what?”
“I have some . . . My birthday money and . . .”
He was always broke.
