Page 116 of Gambler's Conceit

I overshot, was overconfident. Caleb Spade is smarter than everyone around him—but I’d dismissed Grant entirely, because I’d looked down on him.

Grant lets out a low, pained moan.

I dial the family’s cleaners. “I have a large stain I need removed,” I say, staring at Grant’s body. “In the basement. You’ll need heavy duty cleaning supplies.”

After they confirm, I hover over my contacts.

Finally, with trepidation, I call my grandfather.

He lets the phone ring a few times before he picks up. “Caleb! Why are you calling?”

I could try to butter him up first. I could find something he wants so I can get a leg up on this negotiation.

But I say, “I need a favor, Grandfather. Price isn’t an issue.”

“Depends on what it is,” he answers gruffly, but I can tell he’s intrigued.

Despite all my instincts warning me against it, I continue, “The Lockwoods took something of mine. I need help retrieving it.”

My grandfather’s silence speaks volumes. “I see. We’re family, so of course I’ll help.”

It’s a mistake. I’m going to regret the payment, and all the strings he’s going to tie around me.

Seven is worth it, though.

TWENTY-SEVEN

VORTEX

“Why the fuckwas Grant even at the casino?” Havoc demands, expression thunderous as we exit the casino. “He’d already touched Seven once!”

The pedestrians around us are either openly staring or pretending not to stare, and several of them hurry out of the way.

“He works there,” I say as calmly as I can manage, but the storm inside of me is swirling, dangerous and threatening to overwhelm me. “No one thought he was going to have the fucking audacity to?—”

My words catch in my throat, and I have to swallow hard to keep myself from losing control.

The urge to text my sister—to make sure that she, at least, is okay—is strong, but that’ll have to wait until we get Seven back.

And wewillget Seven back.

It’s just that finding him on the Calamity City strip is going to be challenging, to put it lightly.

I grit my teeth when I see the crowd of people gathered around the front of the Roi de Pique, but that annoyance turns into fear as I see the police cars blocking the street. I shove myway through the crowd, ignoring Havoc as I elbow my way past the onlookers.

Three cars have crashed into each other. The drivers are all yelling at each other.

“You opened the fucking door!” the woman shouts.

The cop is trying to calm her down, but one of the others says, “I told you! It wasn’t fucking me! The kid just ran out!”

Havoc rushes forward without consulting me. “What kid?” he shouts.

I’m right on his heel, barging past several more people.

Seven. It could be Seven. There’s no guaranteeing it, but my gut instinct tells me we need to pause long enough to look into this.

“Sir, if you’ll take a step back,” one of the cops says, casting an irritated look at Havoc. “We’ll be interviewing witnesses shortly.”

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