Page 80 of Vicious Little Games

Even though there’s a fifty-fifty chance that Cass could luck up and find the name of the culprit, I’m not all that concerned.

The rich girl doesn’t have a clue what sort of real-world problems would cost a fortune, or the type of purchases that are extravagant for a middle-class worker.

As expected, hours later, when we’ve both reached the bottom of our divided lists, the only thing left to do is trade lists to see if one of us may have missed something pertinent.

And of course, as I correctly guessed, Cass did overlook our rat.

“Got her!” I announce triumphantly. After hitting print on the photo of the woman who ratted out the Salvatos, I lift my arms and do a little dance on the way to the printer on Dante’s desk. A hard copy of her photo isn’t really necessary, it’s mostly just a trophy to commemorate my win.

Cass jumps up and joins me at the printer to see who I discovered as our rat, grabbing the page as soon as the machine spits it out.

She stares at the photo, her brow furrowed. “I remember her. How can you be so certain that out of all the employees this is our rat?”

Stabbing the page with my index finger, I tell her, “Because that woman, Annette Davidson, quit a few weeks ago, posted online that she was taking time off ‘for herself,’ and then recently claimed that her husband bought her a new wedding set for their anniversary.”

Cass shakes her head and looks up at me, not bothering to hide her confusion. “I don’t get it. What am I missing?”

“Of course, you wouldn’t get it, Cassie. Middle-class people don’t just quit a job cleaning hotel rooms because they have so much extra cash lying around that they can afford to take time off from the daily grind. Most live paycheck to paycheck, especially at her age.”

“At her age?” Glancing down at the image again, she says, “She’s young, maybe twenty-six, twenty-seven.”

“Exactly! And her husband looks like he’s around the same age as her. They haven’t been working long enough to accumulate a big fat savings account. They live in a modest house, which likely means that neither of them comes from rich families. And they sure as shit haven’t been married long enough to reach an anniversary that would deserve that many new diamonds.”

“You sound so certain. What if you’re wrong?”

“I don’t intend to show up at their house empty-handed and pointing fingers. I’m going to get more proof.”

“Where exactly will you get this proof?” she asks. And while I can tell she’s disappointed she overlooked the woman, she also looks…excited to solve this mystery. Maybe she’s also hoping I’m wrong so she can rub it in my face.

“We’re going to go to a local jewelry store and talk to a gemologist.”

“Now you’re just making shit up,” she grumbles handing me the page. “A gemologist?”

“Yeah, the expert who cuts and sets diamonds.” Heading to the office door, waving my photo proudly like a victorious flag, I ask her, “Are you coming with me or not?”

“Fine. Whatever,” she says as she follows me out. “I’m curious to see if you’re actually right or just talking out of your ass like usual.”

Cass

A short drive later to a local jewelry store with our four guards and we have our answer.

Cole, the cocky bastard, is right.

“Assuming this set is made of real diamonds and not cubic zirconia, then you’re looking at two and a half carats give or take,” an actual gemologist, an ancient one in his eighties with snowy hair, declares just from looking at a few photos of the ring online provided by Cole’s phone.

“And how much would you sell that set for if those are real diamonds?”

He studies the photos for a few more moments, zooming in on the one the woman took of a close up of the ring. “Just off the top of my head, I’m guessing we would sell it for fifteen or sixteen thousand.”

Cole whistles as if that’s a lot of money.

Glancing at me all smug and shit, he says, “Cassie, this couple drives a truck and a car that isn’t worth fifteen thousand dollars combined. I’m telling you, she stupidly splurged on the diamonds, but she probably kept part of the cash stashed away.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

He sounds so damn confident. And since I have no way to challenge his explanation, I tell him, “Then let’s go make her regret her incredibly stupid decision.”

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