Page 70 of The Game Is Afoot

“What? A lady? Who?”

“There’s this workout group that comes here every Tuesday. Mostly rich white ladies. You know, the ones all moving in here, buying these flipped houses?” Dom gives me a knowing look, and I return it but not just because I know the type—because I knowthese specific rich white ladies.

“Anyway, it was a few weeks before Cole…you know.” He winces. “I saw him arguing with one of these ladies. After the rest of the group was gone. It got intense. She was getting up in his face, pointing at him, and he was shouting back. I almost stepped in because it was starting to make me real uncomfortable. You just don’t talk to women that way. But then she took off, and—”

“What did the woman look like?” I cut him off, needing the answer right this second. But I already know what I’m about to hear.

“Uh, she had short hair, kinda reddish blond? And big eyes.” He widens his own to match. “Like, really big.”

—

The next day, I’m sittingbehind a fiddle-leaf fig tree in a coffee shop, spying on that woman with short, kinda reddish-blond hair and really big eyes as she meets with her next mark.

I was supposed to be that mark. I made an appointment! But Bethany DMed me the following last night:

Mavis! I am SO flattered you booked a one-on-one self-care consultation but after some careful personal reflection, I think we are currently on very different journeys and I need to protect my own mental well-being from exposure to busyness culture or any other possible toxic influences. I wish you health and happiness!

I almost felt…offended? After all that time pursuing me, she’s really going to give up on me and the whole new market I can open up for her, just like that? But I guess I can’t blame her. I may have shown my cards a littletoomuch at her party, and who knows what Mackenzie has told her. If Bethany did what I’m now almost certain she did after talking to Dom, then it makes sense she’s going to avoid me for the foreseeable future.

But, thankfully, the woman didn’t change her publicly posted schedule to meet up with internet strangers (seriously, if she wasn’t a potential murderer, I would make her watch a couple episodes ofTo Catch a Predator)—so I still knew where she was going to be and what times, even if she uninvited me. And I’ve been watching her meet with a revolving door of women for overtwo hours now, waiting for the right moment to do what I need to do, which is get into her bag.

I mean, ideally, I would break into her house, but I have a pretty bad track record with that at this point, and I’m not looking for a third strike. So, her bag is the next best thing.

I know my bag is full of clues of my current existence—receipts from every store I’ve been to for the past twelve to eighteen months, an unpaid parking ticket, a snack Pearl took one bite out of and then gave back to me because it tasted too healthy—and her big vegan leather tote looks like it could be a gold mine. Maybe there isn’t a signed confession letter waiting for me, but there could be a CVS receipt for a burner phone and some Visine? I’ve gotta get at least a few minutes alone with it to see if there’s anything new and substantial I can bring to the detectives.

Except it hasn’t left the arm of her chair, and I know I’m not slick enough to casually walk by and grab it. No, I need her to leave it there, but as time passes, it’s seeming less and less likely. She’s only gotten up once, for like a second, to buy a gluten-free scone, and I don’t think I have much time left. There’s a crowd of much hipper people than me in boiler suits and baby tees waiting for tables, and the barista has been shooting me some not-so-subtle looks as I’ve sipped the one oat milk lavender latte I bought. But I can’t risk going to the front to buy something else and being seen by Bethany. Also, this thing was eight dollars!

“I’m so happy to have you joining our family, Joanie!” Bethany chirps, and I’m close enough that I don’t even have to strain to hear her over the sound of the espresso machine, thanks to the cover of this giant tree and a couple perfectly placed hanging pothos. I peek around them to see Bethany smiling at Joanie, who is wearing a cable-knit sweater tucked into high-waistedjeans, with a bow tying back her dark brown waves. She gently moves a stroller back and forth with her left hand as her right reaches for the Square reader Bethany is passing her.

“Go ahead and tap your debit there, and that’ll get you all enrolled.” I’ve heard Bethany give the same instructions by minute twenty-three on the dot in each of these thirty-minute sessions—and they’ve all given over their bank information just as easily as Joanie is doing now. It would be impressive if it wasn’t terrifying. “And you’ll get immediate access to our I LUV ME method and all of our other literature, so you can start reaching your self-care potential, and sharing it with others, right now!”

I fight the urge to jump up and grab Joanie’s phone so I can read that intro email and finally know what all those goddamn letters stand for. But that mystery will have to wait.

“Oh, and I meant to ask you? About the monthly sales minimums you mentioned to qualify for commission?” Nowthatis a change in the script, and Bethany’s face looks like the physical manifestation of a record scratch. Good for you, Joanie. “What happens if I don’t sell enough? Because there’s only so many people I know who will want personalized self-care plans, and eventually—”

“Don’t worry about it! It’s no big deal! You’ll meet it easily. Especially with our supplements releasing soon.” She stands up, her chair screeching on the concrete floor. “I actually have to pop over to the ladies’ room real quick. I’ll be right back!”

I check my phone, and we’re on minute twenty-four. So Bethany definitely isn’t planning on answering that question now that she has this woman’s debit card and probably Social Security number, too. And I feel bad for Joanie, but also, I want to pump my fist because Bethany has left her bag there, on theback of her chair. There’s still a witness present, but this may be my only chance.

I hop up, abandoning the dregs of my latte that tasted like grandma perfume, and I swear I hear the barista let out a dramatic sigh of relief.

“I, um…just saw your friend in the bathroom,” I say, approaching Joanie with my most nonthreatening, totally-not-a-thief smile. “She asked me to bring her a…tampon?” But no, that won’t work. I can’t go through this thing thoroughly with her watching. “Actually, maybe I’ll just bring her whole bag, so she can find it herself?”

Joanie narrows her eyes at me, and my eyes flick to the front door, already making my exit plan. But then there’s a squawk followed by a loud wail. The baby is awake—andpissed.

“Uh, sure,” Joanie says, her attention shifting to soothe her screaming baby in the stroller. I grab Bethany’s bag before she can change her mind and take off in the direction of the bathroom, in case she looks up. I walk just past the door, though, to another seating area, with wide sliding doors that lead to a back patio.

I grab a seat at a communal table with a man who is typing furiously and, ignoring his annoyed look, begin to dig through the bag on my lap.

There’s a Glossier lip balm, organic green tea mints, a Tesla key fob, and her wallet. I push down the worry that bubbles up when I see that—I’mnotkeeping it, this is not a crime. Underneath that is her phone—a new iPhone, not a burner from the pharmacy—and some plastic bottles. I pull them out and see the teal Balanced With Bethany logo with cutesy labels underneath distinguishing them:Let’s Move! Let’s Vibe! Let’s Rest!These must be the samples of her supplements. They’re gummies. Of course they’re gummies. And…that’s it. I dig around thebottom of the bag just to be sure, but there’s no bottle of Visine or sodium nitrite, no burner phone with her text to Cole still on the screen.

The disappointment feels like a balloon collapsing in my chest. But it makes sense that it wouldn’t be that easy. I’m glad I tried.

I hear the creak of the bathroom door opening, and my self-preservation instincts take over. Unfortunately, my instincts have me doing a weird spinny thing out of my chair and behind another fiddle-leaf fig tree (I thought these things were hard to grow, but they got a whole damn forest in here). I wince as my hip screams in protest because I am a thirty-two-year-old woman and not a Spy Kid. Fortunately, only the typing guy gapes at me in shock and concern, and Bethany remains completely unaware. She’s looking down at her phone, texting—momentarily distracted. I need to leave this bag behind this tree and run before she goes back to Joanie. It’s going to be a scene once she gets over there and realizes all of her things are missing…her things. Wait. I just looked through all of her things, and there was a phone. I know there was. I dig in the bag again, just to be sure, and my fingers find the iPhone. So what is she texting on right now? She has another phone? I risk a second glance around the tree and see her aggressively pushing buttons on a black flip phone—it looks like the kind I had in middle school. The kind that required you to push a number a few times to get the letter you wanted when texting. Did she have that in her jacket pocket or something? But why—oh my god, is that—?

My own phone vibrates in my crossbody bag, signaling a text. But before I can even pull it out, a call comes in. Which wouldn’t be a problem—my phone is always on silent—except that it’s the one number I have programmed to always ring: Knoll Elementary.

I grab for it in my bag, clicking the side button to silence it. My pulse pounds in my ears and my hands feel shaky. Was I fast enough? Am I caught? But when I look, Bethany is gone, and it’s just the guy with his laptop. He’s glancing around like he’s about to call the manager, though, so I take this gift from the universe, leave the bag where it is, and sprint out onto the back patio. Without looking back, I unlatch the little gate and run down the sidewalk, not stopping until I’m in my car.

---