Blue flashed across the screen. She spotted the camera, looked me straight in the eye, and smirked like she knew I was the one watching.
Of course Amelia had learned the security rotation.
That’s why she had waited on the beach before coming in. She was waiting for me to be stuck in this godforsaken room, and she had done it all while twisting my heart into knots.
My clever little fox . . .
Amelia might have been onto my routine, but I was onto hers.
She went to the bar, ordered a drink that she would meagerly sip, then watched until she had the count of a fast-moving table. She hated playing with other folks who were slow to decide, probably because she was more likely to lose the count if she had to pause too long.
I had encountered plenty of card counters in my time. Some were way too obvious. They’d hold their fingers out under the table or mouth the numbers as they counted. Some played in pairs—a spotter and a player. And after a certain box-office hit, they’d come in teams. Those were the easiest to spot. It was almost comical when they came in disguise.
Amelia was the most discreet card counter I had seen in a while, but she was predictable.
Contrary to ’90s family sitcom theme songs, predictability was everyone’s downfall.
Fortunately for Amelia, John wasn’t here tonight. Unfortunately for me, John being gone tonight meant I’d have something to clean up later.
I scrolled through the feed until I found Jeremiah watching the floor at the very moment he spotted Amelia heading to a table.
“Jude, you got an ID on the blonde heading for blackjack?”
An ID and so much more . . .
“Looking her up,” I said as I sat back in the chair and crossed my arms. I counted to fifteen, then sat forward. “Angela Crawford. Twenty-eight.” The lie was easy.
“Is she on the list?”
No. Because I hadn’t put her on the watch list.
I waited a beat, as if I was scanning the list of banned guests—most of whom won too much by chance, were known card counters, or were on John’s radar for more nefarious reasons. “No.”
“Keep an eye on her. She’s been here a lot. Always comes in with a grand and cleans up. And she’s got that librarian look.”
“Will do,” I said.
I kept an eye on Amelia as she played a rather blasé game of blackjack but still came out on top.Way on top.She had turned her thousand dollars into eleven grand faster than most people could cash out. She was betting higher than usual earlier in the night. That wasn’t part of her MO. Usually, she’d play five or six rounds of mediocre bets, then play big for two rounds, then finish the night with a forgettable game and leave with her tail between her legs.
I watched as Amelia went big on the next hand and the next.
The moment Jeremiah stepped into the security room to take over for me, I headed out to the floor.
Amelia stood from her seat, collecting her chips to move to a different table, as I cut through the roulette tables. The cards must have gone cold.
I waited in a shadow, surveying the room until she passed by. “You’re winning too much,” I said, thankful that the din of the room kept my words just between us.
Amelia stumbled and the tray of chips fell from her hands, crashing on the floor.
We bent at the same time to scoop them up before any of them got away.
“Change tables, lose, and then go play craps.”
Like blackjack, craps was a little luck and a little skill. She wouldn’t lose too badly, but, for now, she had to stop winning.
“But I don’t know how to?—”
I scooped her chips onto the tray. “Learn. Lose. Be forgettable.”
