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If anybody got scammed, it was Vicky.
She told me she’d make things right in the elevator. I heard the truth in her words.
And ignored it.
I text her nearly a dozen times. When she doesn’t answer, I stop by her building. I pay somebody to let me in and make my way up six flights of stairs to her door. I’ve never been here, but I have her address from company records. I knock.
All I hear is a parrot squawking.
This is an apartment-sitting gig—she mentioned it once before. She made it sound nice. It’s not. Judging from the building layout, those two are living in four hundred square feet at the most.
A real grifter would have figured out how to milk the company by now, or at least get credit on the promise of it. A real grifter would be living it up. A penthouse with a view. Meal services and maids. The mob? They would’ve made a move by now.
But more than that, I know her.
And I didn’t listen to my heart.
Vicky and I had a relationship that ran deeper and more intimate than a lot of people I do big money deals with and I couldn’t keep an open mind for her.
And it killed her.
I know. Because I know her.
I knock again. No answer.
“Vicky, are you in there? I messed up,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I knock again. I talk into the crack between the door and the frame.
It becomes pretty clear she’s not home right around the time a neighbor threatens to call the police.
I stumble out of there wondering—miserably—what the hell have I done?
Chapter Twenty-One
Henry
The champagne is flowing, but I’m hitting the scotch.
Unfortunately, no amount of drinking will kill enough brain cells to make me forget what an asshole I was.
There’s a jazz trio on the other end of the lavishly decorated ballroom and Jana Jacabowski is trying to pull me away from the bar toward the dance floor.
“Not in the dancing mood,” I say, setting my glass down for the man to refill.
Because all I can think about is the hurt on Vicky’s face.
She never asked to play pet whisperer for my mother. She certainly never asked for that will to be changed. She thought she was getting money for taking Smuckers to some overpriced celebrity vet.
And I wouldn’t trust her.
Of all the women I’ve been with, she’s the only one who doesn’t seem to care about the Locke fortune, the only one who bothered to look behind my name and wealth.
And what do I do? Treat her like a grifter.
My texts stopped delivering to her. Blocked. My calls go to voice mail, and I doubt she’s been listening to those.
I stopped by the makers co-op. She wasn’t there. I probably seemed desperate. I’m not embarrassed. I’ll keep trying. I won’t give up.
Jana Jacabowski waits. We had an arrangement to be seen here together and talk up each other’s causes. She and her sister have been good allies for us.
