Page 47 of Sin Wager
Another pause. Her free hand clenches into a fist.
"No, I haven't said anything to anyone. But I'm scared, Sonya. This whole situation is getting out of control."
The conversation continues for another minute, but her responses become shorter, more clipped. When she finally hangs up, she leans against the workbench and takes several deep breaths.
I wait until she leaves the shed before following her path back toward the stables. She moves quickly now, her earlier caution replaced by urgency. Whatever Sonya told her, it's pushed her into immediate action.
The paddock tunnel connects the stable complex to the track's betting facilities—a concrete corridor lined with pipes and electrical conduits, poorly lit and rarely used except during major race days. It's also the perfect location for discrete meetings and private conversations.
Vera heads straight for it.
I follow at a distance, my footsteps masked by the ambient noise from the nearby exercise ring. The tunnel entrance is hidden behind a row of equipment sheds, accessible only to authorized personnel. Vera has a key card—all stable workers do—but her use of this route at this time is suspicious.
She disappears into the tunnel, and I wait thirty seconds before following.
The tunnel is dim, lit only by emergency lighting every twenty feet. The concrete walls amplify every sound, making stealth difficult. I move carefully, using the support pillars for cover, until I can see Vera about fifty meters ahead.
She's not alone.
Sonya Radich stands near the tunnel's midpoint, her silhouette sharp against the weak lighting. Even from this distance, I can see the tension between the two women—Vera's defensive posture, Sonya's commanding presence.
Their voices echo off the walls, distorted but audible.
"The instructions have changed," Sonya says, her tone businesslike. "The betting pattern from last month is too obvious. We need more variation."
"I don't understand." Vera's voice quavers. "You said the system was working."
"It was working too well. People notice patterns, ask questions. Your friend the bookie, for instance."
My jaw tightens. They know I've been watching.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Vera says quickly.
Sonya's expression is hard as steel as she shifts back to her point. "The new approach requires different timing, different amounts. Smaller bets, spread across multiple races." Sonya steps closer to Vera. "Can you handle that, or do we need to find someone more reliable?"
"I can handle it," Vera mutters, and her head hangs.
"Good. Because your brother's treatments depend on your cooperation."
I can't see Vera's reaction, but her silence stretches long enough to suggest Sonya's words hit their mark.
"Any other considerations?" Vera finally asks.
"Let's just say that loyalty has benefits, and betrayal has consequences. For everyone involved."
Sonya hands Vera an envelope—the betting instructions, from what I can observe.
"Today's races. Follow the schedule exactly. No deviations or creative interpretations. And Vera?" Sonya's voice sharpens. "No more phone calls about being scared. This is business, not therapy."
Sonya turns and walks deeper into the tunnel, toward the track-side exit. Vera remains where she is, staring at the envelope in her hands.
I wait until Sonya's footsteps fade completely before moving. Vera is still standing in the same spot, her shoulders shaking slightly. When I step out of the shadows, she spins around with a gasp.
"Misha." Her voice is barely above a whisper.
"What are you doing here?"
She clutches the envelope against her chest, her eyes wide with panic. "I got lost. I was looking for the supply room and took a wrong turn."
