Waggs laughed at that, her round face lighting up, now thinking it was totally worth the humiliation of going into Victoria’s Secret and asking that skinny chopstick of a salesgirl to help her pick out the new underwear she bought just for tonight.
Turning the corner and spotting her forest-green Subaru, Waggs popped the locks, opened the door, and slid into the front seat.
“Amy Waggs,” a voice called out behind her.
“What in the f—！”
Waggs spun around, her phone dropping from her hand. In the back seat was a young woman with brutal black eyes, pointy features, and silvery hair with a dyed black streak.
Waggs had never met her face-to-face but recognized her instantly.
“Nola?”
“You’re the one Mr. Zigarowski calls. The one who’s good with computers.” Nola turned on her iPad, its glow lighting the dark car. “I need to know about this place called Black House.”
29
Keenley, Pennsylvania
Fifteen years ago
This was Nola when she was thirteen.
They had moved two towns over because Royall couldn’t afford rent, which explained why he was teaching her how to cheat.
“Anybody thirsty?” Royall asked, pointing to the folding table covered in beer cans and liquor bottles.
“I am, I am,” said Francis, a middle-aged blond man with a dimpled chin who loved saying things twice for emphasis.
A few of Royall’s other poker buddies nodded, Nola quickly pouring six glasses of Johnnie Walker. The good stuff. Blue Label. Not that cheap Black Label crap that they mark down at Kmart.
Royall and Nola had spent the morning using a plastic funnel to fill the Blue Label bottle with an off-brand scotch that was so cheap, it came in a can.
Won’t they know? Nola was tempted to ask. Just like she was tempted to ask, Why do I need to dress up? when he told her to wear “the tight jeans.” But after six years of living with Royall, she knew better than to ask stupid questions.
“Here you go, sir,” she said, leaning hard on the word sir.
Royall looked up. Sir was the signal. Nola was only supposed to say it when she was standing behind the person with the best cards.
“Y’understand?” Royall had asked her earlier, talking with a closed fist as he always did, happy or sad. “When you do refills, that’s when you can peek at people’s cards. Make sense?”
It made sense.
Since the moment the game started, her stomach had been bothering her. She was struggling to remember whether a straight flush beat four of a kind, or was it the other way around?
It only got worse as players began arriving, especially those she knew to avoid, like Hartley Spencer, who she could swear leaned in to smell her every time she poured him a drink.
For the first hour of the game, terrified of being caught, Nola kept her head down, trying to be invisible as she refilled bowls of tortilla chips, took away dirty ashtrays, and spied on cards while Royall’s friends argued about the vital intellectual issues of the day, like which Dixie Chick was the biggest pain in the ass.
Eventually, Nola noticed that Repeating Francis—who recently had sold Royall nearly a hundred odd-lot water heaters that Royall was able to flip for a quick profit—scratched at a birthmark on the inside of his forearm, like he was slitting his wrist, every time he had a good hand.
She also noticed that Acne Steve with bad pimples and great teeth—who managed the local roller rink （and sold bootleg DVDs there）—would put his cards down and rub his hands together like a kid getting a toy, whenever his hand was a bust.