While contemplating how to get Lila talking, I scratch my two fingers across the felt table toward me, telling her I want to hit on seventeen.
She arches her brow at me as if challenging my decision or warning me against it. I scrape the table again, arching my brow right back at her.
Bam. A four of hearts. That’s twenty-one. My chest vibrates with that familiar zing of excitement, but I shove it down until it’s merely an echo.
Along with me, two other players beat the house on that round. As she passes me the chips I’ve won, she does so with suspicion weighing down her every movement.
Instead of looking at the other winners that way, she smiles at them and offers congratulations. But from this vantage, it’s clear her cheer is only surface level. There’s something hidden in how she interacts with them as well. An underlying tension I can’t quite put my finger on.
As gameplay continues, the old guy is the only person who ever gets her genuine smiles. It seems that for every sneer she gives me, he gets more of her warmth. Like she’s balancing it out.
After placing my next bet, I ask, “So, Lila. Have you seen anycreepshanging around recently?” My phrasing is an intentional throwback to how she described the perp last week.
Her eyes twinkle with mirth. “Actually, I have.”
I realize the error of my words a second before she adds, “And tonight, he finally decided to come over to the table instead of lurking like he’s done for the last few months.”
My pulse spikes, but I don’t let it show.
I’m starting to think I never learned a damn thing about counter surveillance when I was at Quantico. I wonder if they have remedial training.
“I’m serious. Any sightings I need to know about? Here or elsewhere?”
Quietly, she says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, place your bet.”
Her eyes flash wildly at me again. However, this time, she telegraphs more than disdain. Her head sways almost imperceptibly, and her gaze softens with an underlying fear. The fire she’s been scorching me with has been snuffed out. She’s almost...pleadingwith her expression. Begging me to stop.
While I like the idea of Lila begging, not like this.
I slide my chips to the betting line, sticking with the table minimum. For a moment, I’m proud of myself for not getting carried away. Honestly, it’s hardly like I’m gambling. The game fades into the background due to my intense focus on her and the mannerisms of the players at the table.
I fucking knew I could handle this shit.
She deals everyone’s first card of the hand. Although her movements are polished and practiced, a slight tremor makes her fingers dance periodically. Her eyes flicker to mine three times before she’s done dealing the second set of cards, and her throat bobs with a forced smile.
I sit out the next hand, too focused on figuring out what she was trying to communicate. Well, aside from her obvious message of:stop questioning me.
For some reason, my gut says it isn’t merely because she doesn’t want to answer me like she’s been doing all week. It’s almost as if she doesn’t want to speakhere.
Prior to joining the bureau, I was a police detective for nearly a decade. In that time, I’ve learned it’s helpful to put people in uncomfortable positions to see how they handle it. That’s part of why I joined the game tonight. And Lila isn’t handling it well. That damn look she gave me told me she was beyond scared.
And not of me.
The thought of her being frightened makes my skin crawl and teeth grind. Turns out, I like the idea of that less than I like the flirty fucker beside me.
At one point, she catches my stare, then darts her line of sight to a man three seats down before coming back to mine.
Who is that man, and why is she pointing him out to me? Is she scared of him? Or was that just her looking around, trying to avoid my gaze?
If I could slip her a note, I would. But that’s not allowed for obvious reasons.
Retrieving my phone from my pocket, I set it to silent and feign scrolling social media. Covertly, I snap a few pictures of the players at the table.
“You can’t have your phone out at the table, sir,” Lila cautions me in a practiced, professional tone. However, fear permeates her in a dense fog.
Shrugging, I put the phone in my pocket. “Sorry. My bad.”
I play the next hand, then cash out my chips and leave the table. I’ve seen all I need to see. I’m more convinced now than ever that she’s hiding something dangerous. I need to go find out what I can about the other players before I press her further.
