Page 82 of Most Eligible Billionaire

“Vicky and Carly would run into your mom a lot after that, mostly on this bench they’d pass every day going to Carly’s school. They wondered if she was stalking them. Your mom would hit Vicky up for readings but she’d refuse. And then this one day your mother was all dizzy and faint. It was hot out…” Latrisha relates a story about Mom having a dizzy spell. Mom needing help up to her apartment. Feeling queasy.

Needless to say, I’m the one feeling queasy now. None of this sounds like a con.

It sounds like Vicky, though.

Latrisha tells me about how Vicky saw the dry water bowl, how it made her worry. Of course Vicky would notice something like that and worry.

Fuck.

Latrisha tells me about the moldy bread out on the counter next to the butter. Was it all deliberate, Bernadette playing helpless to pull Vicky into her orbit? Probably.

Latrisha tells me about Vicky refusing money, so Bernadette hired Carly to walk the dog, as an end run around Vicky’s objections. Classic Bernadette—if she can’t pick off the strong animal in the herd, she goes for the weak one.

She goes on about how Vicky started playing dog whisperer when she thought it would help my mom. I walked in on her saying some pretty ridiculous stuff to her in that hospital room, but maybe it’s what my mother needed to hear. How would I know? I hadn’t spoken with her in years.

They all believed Bernadette was alone in the world. Bernadette would have encouraged that belief. She lived for drama.

My heart bangs out of my chest. Vicky told me she was a pet whisperer accidentally and I hadn’t believed her. Who ends up as an accidental pet whisperer?

Vicky does.

Because she cares about people. Because she’s a woman making her way alone in the world—without help, without protection—and she’d have empathy for another woman like that.

If anybody got scammed, it was Vicky.

She told me she’d make things right in the elevator. I heard the truth in her words.

And ignored it.

I text her nearly a dozen times. When she doesn’t answer, I stop by her building. I pay somebody to let me in and make my way up six flights of stairs to her door. I’ve never been here, but I have her address from company records. I knock.

All I hear is a parrot squawking.

This is an apartment-sitting gig—she mentioned it once before. She made it sound nice. It’s not. Judging from the building layout, those two are living in four hundred square feet at the most.

A real grifter would have figured out how to milk the company by now, or at least get credit on the promise of it. A real grifter would be living it up. A penthouse with a view. Meal services and maids. The mob? They would’ve made a move by now.

But more than that, I know her.

And I didn’t listen to my heart.

Vicky and I had a relationship that ran deeper and more intimate than a lot of people I do big money deals with and I couldn’t keep an open mind for her.

And it killed her.

I know. Because I know her.

I knock again. No answer.

“Vicky, are you in there? I messed up,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I knock again. I talk into the crack between the door and the frame.

It becomes pretty clear she’s not home right around the time a neighbor threatens to call the police.

I stumble out of there wondering—miserably—what the hell have I done?

Twenty-One

Henry

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