Even the dealer had raised his eyebrows above his foggy glasses at the eight thousand dollars she now had laid out in front of her, but she’d only laughed and made some comment about how mad her boyfriend was going to be if she lost.

Now, as the dealer reached out to turn over his hole card, she did her best to keep the tension out of her cheeks and eyes, keeping that smile light and unconcerned—and there it was, a ten, bright red and perfect, for a dealer sixteen. Which meant he needed another card. His fingers sped to the shoe in pure mechanical fashion, gears in a machine, and then the next card whizzed onto the felt, faceup. Another ten.

A dealer bust at twenty-six.

Hailey fought the fireworks in her chest as the dealer began pushing equal stacks of yellow chips next to her bets, another eight thousand dollars to add to her fourteen. Twenty-two thousand dollars. The old man at the end was clapping his hands together, his hundred-dollar bet doubled, and Hailey was about to congratulate him when something caught her eye. Past the old lady, all the way across the beige room, a door had opened and two men were coming through. Big men, big and burly, one with a crew cut and the other with a dye job that wasn’t fooling anybody. Both were wearing dark suits, and the one with the crew cut had an earpiece and was talking into something attached to his lapel.

“Nice win,” the dealer said, scooping up the cards, but Hailey was barely listening. The two men had made it a few yards before pausing, the crew cut still speaking into his lapel. And then he looked up—right at Hailey. Before she had a chance to react, they had locked eyes, and she knew.

She had been made.

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Thanks,” Hailey said to the dealer, uncrossing her legs and rising quickly from her chair. “I better get back to my room and hide this from my boyfriend, or he’ll give it all back on the roulette wheel.”

She grabbed the chips with both hands and swept them into her purse, which was open on her lap. Her roommate Jill’s purse, actually, tiger print, with bronze clasps worn down from many nights spent clubbing in Kenmore, makeup applied and reapplied in bathrooms jammed with BU girls. The lipstick and compact had been replaced with a fake ID and a half-empty juice box. All part of the routine—heading to the bathroom early in the evening, dumping out the scotch she’d ordered when she’d first sat down and refilling the glass with apple juice. Nobody betting two thousand dollars a hand at blackjack was playing sober, and no matter how late it was, no matter how inattentive the pit boss seemed, in a casino you had to assume someone was always watching.