She ran the rules through her head. They weren’t complex, but the cards moved so fast it was hard to keep up. Plus one for twos, threes, fours, fives, and sixes; minus one for tens and face cards. Take that running count and divide it by the number of decks in the shoe not yet dealt to come up with the true count. When the true count was plus eight or better, start increasing your bet. And most importantly, look casual, distracted, unconcerned, lusty, possibly intoxicated-but never give the slightest hint that you’re counting.
She pulled out five hundreds and placed them on the table, waiting for chips. A moment later, a small man in a black vest slid onto the stool beside her. He had thinning hair and a little Hitler-style black mustache.
“Having any luck?” he asked.
“Just got here,” Annabel answered succinctly. She didn’t want to be unfriendly-but she didn’t want to be friendly, either.
“I haven’t caught a break all night,” he said.
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Guess the stars just aren’t right.”
“Maybe a zombie priestess put the hoodoo on you.”
The corner of his lips turned up. “Anything’s possible.”
A waitress came by the table. She was dressed in a witch getup, but Vegas-style, with a plunging neckline, an obscenely short skirt, and fishnet hose. She did at least wear the traditional black pointed hat. Annabel ordered a mineral water. The man beside her asked for a Bloody Mary.
The first several decks were average. That was okay. She knew counting required patience. Favorable decks were the exception, not the rule. For the first hour and a half, Annabel remained almost exactly even. The count never rose above a plus five. She’d managed to rack up a few extra bucks by doubling down and splitting at strategic moments, but she’d had no justification for seriously increasing her wager. And the man sitting next to her talked almost continuously the whole time. He seemed uncommonly interested in her-where she was from, what she did for a living, whether she was here alone. Another hand or two and he’d probably be asking what kind of underwear she had on.
About two-thirds of the way through the next shoe, the count rose to plus twelve. With all those ten-spots in the deck, it favored the players, and coming this late in the shoe, the count was extremely reliable. It was time to increase her bet. Her hand trembled a bit as she pushed three hundred bucks’ worth of chips into the circle. She was nervous, putting so much money on the line. But she had to do it. Everything depended on her game. Including Warren.
She felt a tapping on her bare shoulder. “Excuse me, miss.”
She turned and saw a silver security badge. Damnation. Busted.
“Could I speak to you for a moment? In private.”
Her first instinct was to run, but she got a grip on herself and followed the man to a private corner at the edge of the pit, just beneath a cartoonish polystyrene Satan. Had he caught her counting? Did he know she was underage? And what would he do about it? Her knees knocked. She was beginning to wish she’d had something stronger than mineral water.
“I’ve been watching you at the blackjack table, ma’am.”
Great. So he knew she was counting. She should’ve realized that-
“The man sitting next to you has been watching, too.”
Her brain jerked back front and center. “He has?”
The guard nodded. “I’ve had my eye on him for a while. I think he’s a thief-pickpocket or purse snatcher or some such.”
“How can you tell?”
“I’ve been at this job awhile, ma’am.”
“Of course. I’m sorry-”
“I’d keep my distance from him. And definitely keep your eyes on your chips.”
“Sure, I’ll-”
“When you sat down at the table and pulled out your money, you flashed a huge wad. Looked to me like several hundred bucks, maybe more. And if I saw it, every crook in the joint saw it as well.”
“I guess I should’ve been more discreet.”
“We do our best to keep the casino safe, but the reality is, we have robberies every day. These creeps prey on nice people like you.”
“I’ll try to be more careful.”
“That would be wise.” He smiled. “Now go back there and get lucky, okay?”
“Sure. Thanks.” She returned to the table. The dealer resumed the game. She won the hand. The count was still high, so she let it ride.
Not a minute passed before her neighbor spoke again. “Car parked next to a hydrant?”
Maybe if she was cooler to him, he’d go away. “No. Just a private matter.”
“Trouble back home?”
“Nothing important.”
More cards were dealt. Annabel got a natural blackjack, which paid off one and a half times the wager. She’d just made over two thousand dollars.
At this rate, she’d be married by sunrise.
The Shepherds’ house was in one of the middle-range suburbs, not nearly as nice as the neighborhood where my house is-was-but decent. The vast preponderance of white picket fences and close-set houses told me the designers were striving for that old-time community feel. That these foster parents would live in such a neighborhood told me a lot about them from the get-go.
It was a brick two-story with green shutters and beige trim. A white trellis up the left side, with ivy snaking through the latticework. A long, curving walk led to the front door. The paint was fresh and the garden had been tended. It was all so Leave It to Beaver it momentarily engaged my gag reflex.
“They put Rachel in this Stepford house?”
Lisa ignored the commentary. “She was lucky to get a good placement as quickly as she did, Susan. I’m told the Shepherds are very nice people. She has her own room.”
“She had her own room at my place.”
“Which is now the bank’s place.” She popped open the car door. “Come on.”
I didn’t have to walk all the way up those steps. Rachel saw me coming. She burst out the front door and ran toward me, leaping into my arms.
I winced. I’d forgotten about my wrist, still wrapped and bandaged. The impact opened the wound and it began to bleed. I yelped.
“Oh, my God!” Rachel shrieked. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing. It was already bleeding before I got here.”
“Is that where you-you-”
“Cut myself. Accidentally.” I took a step back and gave her the once-over. “Well, suburbia hasn’t ruined you. Yet.”
She laughed a little, but I could feel her edginess. “So… you’re all right?”
“Of course. I was a little sick, but I’m better now.”
“Can I go home with you, then?” She threw her arms around me again and squeezed tightly. God, but this girl loved me. I could feel the affection rushing through her fingertips. And I loved her back. I would do anything for her.
Behind her, standing in the doorway, I saw what must be the Shepherds. An elderly couple, trim and tidy, with smiles plastered on their faces that had nothing to do with happiness. They were watching every move I made.
“Rachel, honey, I guess the man says you have to stay here for a while. But I’m going to hire an attorney and fight. I’ll get you back.”
“Please hurry. I can’t stand it here.”
“Why?” I put a finger under her chin and raised her eyes to mine. “Have they hurt you?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Made you do a lot of chores?”
“They haven’t made me do anything. They’re just so… you know. Boring. I want to go home.”
“About that.” I figured the best approach was to come right out with it. “I lost the house.”
“What?” Almost instantly, water welled up in her eyes.
“Yeah. Bank took it.”
“But-all my stuff-”
“Lisa saved it. And I’ve got a new place.”
She wiped her eyes. “Where’s the new house?”
“It’s… an apartment. But it’s nice-sized and there’s a room for you. So all your stuff will be waiting for you once I bust you out of Stalag 13.”