Page 62 of Gambler's Fallacy

“I mean, there’s rent, and food, and somehow my account is low?” Connie shrugs. “You know how it is. You gotta have money to earn money.”

“No, I don’t know ‘how it is,’” I say, my voice sharper than I intended it to be. “That’s not how it works.”

“Of course it is!” Connie wipes ketchup from her mouth. “That’s why that place you work for has big ads all over the town! How much money is your boss investing in advertising and promotion? I had to buy bots to push my social media presence, so people would know how to find me!”

“Did it work?” I demand, tossing the rest of my hot dog into the trash. “Connie, have you made anything back from what you bought before?”

This is never-ending. This is a cycle — like Seven’s gambling — that Connie has no intention of putting the brakes on. No matter what I do, no matter how much money I give her, it keeps on happening.

“Yeah, I sold all that stock to Ylona! I made five hundred bucks right there!” Connie says proudly. “You’re just a hater, Sebby.”

“Five hundred?” I repeat, stunned and barely even registering the part where she’d sold it to her new TerBaby or whatever the fuck it’s called instead of to actual paying customers. “You borrowed over three grand.”

“Right, and that went toward rent and food and utilities and the marketing and some of the stock,” Connie repeats, like I’m slow. “Keep up, Sebby. We live in an unfair, capitalistic society that wants to keep us wage slaves down.”

Wage slaves.

Jesus. Not this again.

“You’re supposed to be making money from this,” I tell her, feeling as desperate as I do when I try to talk Seven down from gambling away Caleb’s money. “Connie, I really think you should take the job at the Roi de Pique. I talked to Caleb about it, and he’s willing to hire you.”

“I don’t want to work for Caleb Spade,” Connie counters with a disgusted scoff. “How many billions of dollars does he have? He’s one of the peopleexploiting us!”

I make my own frustrated sound. “It’s solid employment. He pays well, he gives bonuses, the benefits are good, and I know you don’t want to be a ‘wage slave,’ but sometimes, you have to admit when something isn’t working.” I narrow my eyes at her. “I’m not giving you money to buy more of that shit.”

Connie looks at me, her lip wibbling. “Oh. Okay. I see how it is.”

“How it—” I throw my hands up in the air, trying not to cave instantly when I see how upset she’s getting. “A regular job, Connie. That’s all I’m asking.”

“You want me to be unhappy.” Connie tosses the napkins and empty hot dog container into the nearby trash can. “I should have known. You work for the Spades, after all.”

I groan. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You hear about that online investigator?” Connie asks casually. “The guy who was looking into the Roi de Pique and other Spade investments? Oh no, suddenly, he’s gone!” She scoffs loudly. “My fellow TerMa babes in Calamity are sure he either had to flee or they dumped him out in the desert somewhere. Everybody knows what the Spades are like, Sebby. I have enough morals not to work for them.”

My mouth goes dry as I think back to how I’d killed the guy she’s talking about. I don’t usually have any compunctions about what I occasionally do for Caleb, but hearing this from my sister is surprisingly difficult. “That’s just people being people. You really think Caleb Spade, the owner of a highly profitable casino, needs to get rid of some random loser?”

“I know that if you want to take his blood money, fine, but I won’t,” Connie says with a loud sniff.

All the money she takes from me is blood money, by that logic, but I don’t mention that because she’s too close to the truth. If she knew what I’ve done for Caleb, if she knew that I was responsible for more than one death…

“And I’ll figure out how to make rent on my own,” she continues. “It’ll be tight, and I might need to move into a smaller place, andprobably find some roommates. Maybe Peter will want to move in with me again.”

Peter.

I’d hated that squirrelly bastard, and she knows it. “Connie…” I begin, trying to keep my calm. “A smaller place might be better, but you don’t need someone like Peter. I can try to see if anyone at the casino needs a roommate.”

A few tears roll down her cheeks. “Wow. You’re really going to let me lose my apartment? After all that effort we put into decorating it?” She takes a big sniffle. “It’s fine. I’ll figure things out on my own. I know Peter has been looking for a new roommate anyway.” She pulls out her phone and taps at the screen.

It shows an outgoing call to Peter.

“Stop,” I hiss. “I’m not—” Another irritated, frustrated sound escapes me. “All right, Connie. Fine. How much do you need to pay rent and all that stuff?”

She stops the call before it connects and smiles through her tears. “Just two thousand.”

Just.

Justtwo grand.

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