Page 135 of Gambler's Fallacy

Seven looks at me, but instead of the despair or even resignation I expect to see, there’s only resolve. Before any of us can even speak, I see the glint of metal — then blood starts to flow from an open gash in my grandfather’s throat.

Leon makes a gurgling sound and clutches the poker table. The blood splatters onto the green felt.

I stare in shock as the scent of copper fills the air.

Havoc is the first to react. “What the fuck? Seven—what the fuck did you do?”

“I negotiated from a position of power,” Seven says calmly. He smiles at me, a few blood splatters on his face. “Did I do good, Master?”

Vortex sprints over, grabbing a towel from the bar on the way. “Fuck! Here, Caleb, hold this?—”

I know it’s too late, though. Even as I take the towel from him, Leon slumps over onto the table.

My grandfather is dead.

I stare at the still bleeding corpse. I wonder how long it’s going to take for all the blood to drain out of him.

“We need to call…” I stop and grip the edge of the table. I can’t call any of the usual clean-up crew. This is my grandfather. The head of the organization.

Havoc curses. “How do we clean this up? Shit.” He looks at Seven. “Good job and all, but… crap.”

This isn’t a good job. This is a disaster.

But part of me is relieved, too. I no longer need to put up with my grandfather’s needling or micromanaging or his barely-veiled comments about my sexuality.

I no longer need to worry about him threatening to return Seven.

I take a deep breath. “Okay. Clean-up. We can roll him up in the carpet. Pull the mat off the poker table, too. Havoc, go find cleaning supplies. I’ll…” I look between Vortex and Seven. “I’ll find more towels. Vortex, stay with Seven.”

Seven’s face is more tranquil than I’ve ever seen it.

Vortex wraps his arms around him from behind, but he looks dumbfounded.

“He was going to send me back,” Seven says. He lifts his chin, his eyes finding mine. “I’m never going back.”

“No, you aren’t,” Vortex says immediately. “But Seven, we need to figure this out. Go sit down. All right? I’ll get you a drink.”

I leave the room, in part to get the cleaning supplies, and in part to escape Seven. I don’t know what to tell him.

If I admonish him, he’ll be crushed.

If I praise him, he might do something like this again.

His words echo in my mind.“I negotiated from a position of power.”

This is my fault.

But in between all the guilt and panic, I have to admit: I’m proud of him.

THIRTY-ONE

SEVEN

When I close my eyes,I still see the old man’s body slumped over the green felt of the poker table, blood spreading out around him.

The water sluices over me, washing away the blood that had splattered onto me when I’d cut his throat.

I’m dizzy, and I have to steady myself against the shower wall to keep from wobbling on my feet.

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