OME ON, COME ON. This way. No time to lose. We don’t want the blue-hairs to take our spot,” Steve said.

A bit unclear on what that meant, Posey followed her date. That’s right, a date. She wasn’t about to sit around and wait for Liam Murphy to remember that he’d kissed her and either apologize or ask her out. It had been five days since The Kiss. Once his unconsciousness had been verified with a poke to the uncracked set of ribs, Posey had given him maybe thirty seconds to rouse, debating on kissing him again (because, man! That had been quite a kiss!) or smothering him, because obviously it hadn’t been quite a kiss for him…just a reflex or something. Whatever. Their paths hadn’t crossed since, and that was fine. Because even if he was worried about his daughter being left alone, and even if Posey couldn’t deny that he had the thickest eyelashes she’d ever seen, and even though her girl parts still yowled like her cats during a full moon at the thought of that kiss, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t a jerk. He was. Because only jerks went around kissing women in medicated stupors and then did nothing.

“Oh, fantastic. Here we go.” Steve steered her to a row of slot machines and pretty much shoved her onto a seat. “Good luck.” With that, he spread his coat, her coat and her backpack onto three other slot machines, swiped a card and began punching buttons.

“Okay, so I just…” Posey’s voice trailed off. Steve was engrossed already, muttering, staring at the screen.

Steve was Elise’s cousin—Elise had dozens, apparently, and Steve had moved back to the area recently. “You might like him?” Elise had suggested in her sing-song voice. “Right?”

“Is he a good guy?” Posey’d asked. “He’s not a serial killer or anything, is he?” Such high standards. But that kiss had solidified her resolve to stop being distracted by Liam Murphy. And given the number of times she had relived that bleeping kiss, she needed distraction. Quickly.

“Um…no? Not a serial killer, of course not. He’s a good guy…I think. It’s been a while since we really hung out? Like…when we were twelve. But yeah. I guess?”

It wasn’t exactly the glowing recommendation Posey was hoping for…but heck. Everyone had flaws, right? One date. What harm could there be in that? Elise had found a picture of Steve, and he was very cute, and what more could Posey want, right? Not a serial killer, quite cute. Someone, call a priest.

She and Steve emailed, then talked on the phone. She’d been hoping for a walk or a meeting in the park—the weather was gorgeous, and Posey had been weeding at The Meadows for two hours that afternoon, but Steve suggested something else. So here they were at the new Indian casino—Revenge on the White Man, as Posey thought of it. They’d exchanged the briefest of pleasantries, but it was now clear Steve wanted to get to work.

The casino was filled with a strange, discordant melody as hundreds of slot machines were played at once. There was a bitter smell in the air, too, from the smoking section. No one was dancing, not like on the casino commercials, and there didn’t seem to be a lot of happy, well-dressed younger people. No. A woman with pinktinged hair sat to Posey’s left, her oxygen canister taking up another slot machine. Apparently you could play more than one at a time.

“Hi,” Posey said. The lady didn’t answer, simply adjusted her sweatshirt, sucked in a deep breath of oxygen and swiped her card, which hung around her neck like an ID badge. Clearly, she was experienced. Four or five seats down was a tiny, ancient man with a walker, and next to him, a woman wearing a thick red wig, her gnarled hands punching the buttons with surprising force.

Posey reached into her pocket for a quarter, inserted, pulled the crank and lost. Six minutes later, the twenty dollars she’d brought for gambling purposes was gone. “I guess I’m done for the night,” she said aloud. Neither her date nor the old lady replied.

“So, Steve, how is it being back and all?” she asked, getting up and leaning against his slot machine. “Elise said you just moved back from Texas, was it?”

“It’s pretty good.” He gave her a quick smile—that was nice; he remembered she was here—and pulled the crank again. “Wanna be my lucky charm?”

“Sure.”

He pulled the crank again. Lost again. He glanced at her, pulled. “You done already?”

“Yeah. Amazing how fast you can go through twenty dollars.”

“Twenty bucks? That’s all you brought?” He gave her an incredulous glance, then lost again, reached over and pulled another lever. Lost again. Pulled, lost, cursed. Pulled, lost, cursed. Posey sighed. The good news was she didn’t seem to have a gambling problem. Bad news was that Steve did.

Sure enough, he cursed again. “I don’t believe it!” he blurted, staring at a message on the screen in front of him. “My credit card is maxed out again. Perfect.” He smacked the screen of the slot machine, shoved his hands in his pockets and sighed.

Steve was not going to be the father of her children, that was clear.

“This really sucks.” He glanced at her again. “Do you have a credit card?”

“Um…yes.”

“Want to front me some money? Just a hundred or so.”

“No, thanks.”

He sighed. “Okay. Wanna get a room?”

Posey blinked. “No, I’m good.” Elise would be hearing about this, that was for sure.

“Well,” Steve said, checking his phone, “I guess we can…I don’t know. Walk or something. I’m broke.”

Dante of the Booty Call was looking better and better. At least he fed her.

“Why don’t we just go our separate ways, Steve?” Posey suggested. If she left now, she could get a pizza before Angie’s closed. Settle in, watch a movie…

“Aw, man! Posey, can you…uh, stand right here and don’t move, okay?” He hunched down, pretending to tie his shoe, and glanced around Posey’s hips. “Crap. Let’s go. Come on, hurry up!” With that, he grabbed her hand and jerked her past the oxygen-tank lady, one hand shielding his face as if he were Lady Gaga dodging the paparazzi.

“Steve, stop! What are you doing?” Posey glanced over her shoulder. “Holy Elvis! Are they here for you?”

Two uniformed police officers and three or four burly casino security men were pointing and talking into radios. Posey jerked to a stop. “Are you under arrest?” she yelped, wrenching her arm free.

“Steven Aubrey, you are under arrest,” called the female officer. “Stop or I will use this Taser before you can say Charlie Sheen.”

Steve stopped.

“Unbelievable,” Posey said. “Can you believe this?” she asked the oxygen-tank lady. No answer, but there was a tinkle of coins.

“Gotcha, you bastard,” the old lady said, scooping up her winnings. “You must be my lucky charm,” she added, giving Posey a smile.

“My date’s being arrested,” Posey told her.

“She let me borrow it!” Steve called. “She’s senile. She forgot, that’s all!”

“Did she forget you hocked her engagement ring, too?” the cop said. “Hands behind your head, scumbag.”

Steve hesitated, then bolted, but the tiny man swung his walker out, tripping Steve. He went down at the feet of a security guard, who calmly stepped on the back of his neck.

Posey felt a nudge at her side. “Ma’am? Hands behind your head, please.” It was the female cop.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Posey said, obeying. “I barely know this guy. His cousin fixed us up. Fun date, don’t you think?”

“Are you aware that he stole his grandmother’s car and jewelry?” the officer asked.

“No! Jeesh, Steve! That’s really low.”

“She doesn’t know anything,” Steve said, his words muffled by the carpet. “We just met.” The second officer slapped on some handcuffs.

“You know how to pick ’em, sister,” the officer said.

“Tell me about it,” Posey muttered.

“I thought my mom’s podiatrist was bad, but you win.”

“See, I would love a podiatrist. Think of the foot rubs. Can I put my hands down?”

“Sure.” The officer took her name and phone number, but Posey was quickly cleared. Cleared! How many dates had required her being cleared? Still, it would make a good story—Vivian would love it, as would Jon. Her parents…not so much. Then again, they didn’t have to know.

Steve apparently had life yet in him, because as they hauled him to his feet, he twisted away and broke into a staggering run. Just ahead of him was a Japanese family—mother, father, toddler in stroller—and though his hands were cuffed behind his back, Steve grabbed the handle of the stroller, as if he planned to drag it behind him as a hostage or something. The mother screamed, grabbed the stroller back, and all of a sudden, Steve was on the ground, convulsing, the toddler smiling at the excitement.

“Bull’s-eye,” said the female officer, blowing a kiss to her Taser.

“Now I know what I want for my birthday,” Posey murmured.

“I shouldn’t enjoy it as much as I do,” the officer said, “but come on. He grabbed that kid, he had it coming. I should’ve aimed lower.”

As Steve was led/dragged away, Posey rifled through her backpack, pulled out her phone, and called Elise. “Your cousin was just arrested.”

“Oh, man! Again?”

“Elise! What do you mean, again?”

“Well, right? I mean…he said he had a new leaf? Whatevs.”

“He stole your grandmother’s car. And her jewelry.”

“So not cool. But seriously, Gran should know by now, right?”

Posey ground her teeth. “Elise, next time you fix me up with someone, let’s do a background check first, okay?”

“Right? That’s a totally good idea. I’m gonna write that down.” There was a pause. “Background check…Posey. Got it.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Posey? Mrs. Appleton called. And she was kinda lonely.”

Well, dang it. Poor Vivian. She usually got blue after the Vultures visited—Countdown to the Grave, as Viv referred to it. The relatives would gather round, talk in overly loud voices, tuck blankets around Viv’s legs and stare at their watches as if hopeful her heart would give out any second. Posey wished she’d been with Vivian instead of watching her date resist arrest (though she had to admit, it was kind of fun to see a guy tasered, and what that said about her emotional state was nothing good).

By the time Posey had given her statement, it was getting late, and she was starving. She got a massive chocolate-covered pretzel from the food court and began making her way back toward where she thought the exit was. No clocks in here, of course, and no windows. No fun, either, from the looks of it. Even the high rollers’ lounge looked grim. Posey paused, looking in. A two-grand minimum bet. Holy Elvis Presley.

Hang on.

A familiar figure was seated at a table off to Posey’s left.

Gretchen.

She was sitting on a stool, dressed to kill in an emerald, one-shouldered dress. A man in a suit was with her, and they were clearly engrossed in a heated debate. Was Gretchen dating him? He put his hand on her arm, and Gret pulled back. “Don’t you know who I am?” she said. “Get your hands off me! This is a Stella McCartney, I’ll have you know!”

“Gret! Hey!” Posey yelled. “How you doing?” She pushed into the lounge, immediately out of place in her engineer boots and jeans. Gretchen looked up, then glanced back at the suit.

“Do you two know each other?” the man asked.

“I’m her cousin,” Posey said. “Is there a problem?”

The man folded his arms. “Not if you have three thousand dollars.”

“I’LL PAY YOU BACK,” Gretchen said tightly, as they drove home.

Posey flicked on her signal. “I don’t understand, Gret,” she said, glancing at her cousin. “How can you place a bet if you’re broke?”

“You’re so naive, Posey.” Gretchen turned her head and looked out at the landscape.

“Right. But I’m also solvent, and I just wrote a check for three thousand dollars!”

“And I said thank you, didn’t I?”

“Gret…you have to tell me about this.”

“Fine. Can it wait till we get home, at least?”

And so, half an hour later, Posey sat on the couch, clad in her fleece monkey pajamas, Shilo’s granitelike head in her lap as the dog crooned his appreciation for the belly rub she was administering. Gretchen came in from the kitchen and set a tray down on the coffee table. She was wearing what looked to be a midnight-blue satin peignoir (how Posey even knew the word was a mystery, but it looked like what a peignoir should look like, in her mind anyway, all long and flowy and expensive).

Posey picked up a mug—homemade cocoa—and took a sip, then dipped her finger in and offered it to her dog for a taste.

“Can you taste the Kahlua?” Gretchen asked. “And I used unpasteurized milk. Creamy, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, it’s great,” Posey said. “So. About the three grand.”

Gretchen sat down on the couch and arranged the robe around her. “Right. Well.” She sighed. “My money’s tied up in this fund, and I’m temporarily a little short on cash.”

Shilo’s tail began thumping against the sofa. “You’re broke?” Posey asked. “Broke is such an ugly word.” Gretchen took a sip of her cocoa and didn’t meet Posey’s eyes. Jellybean, who had always been something of a traitor, leaped up next to Gret and began purring.

Posey said nothing. She seemed to remember Stacia saying that Aunt Ruth and Uncle Ralphie had left Gretchen quite a nest egg…that Gretchen would never have to worry about money if she was smart. “What happened to your parents’ money?”

“That took care of cooking school and my year in France. And my car.” Gretchen had bought a Mercedes two-seater convertible for herself upon graduating high school. Even so, she should’ve had some left over. “And some jewelry and um…my wardrobe.”

“What about your salary?”

“See, that’s the big myth, that we get paid so much. Most of the real money comes from endorsements and product lines. But if you want to sell yourself, you have to look the part. The wardrobe allowance they gave me was laughable. And to live in Manhattan—well, if you want to live anywhere decent, that is—it costs money.”

Gretchen had lived in a glittering apartment in one of the sleek and shiny Trump buildings along the Hudson River. As Elise suspected, it was littered with celebrities.

Shilo stretched, hitting Posey on the side of the head with a massive paw. “So you were spending more than you were making,” she said.

“Well, yes, Posey, I suppose if you put it that way, I was. Look. I’m a celebrity, okay? There are certain expectations of me that you don’t understand. All those appearances, all those…things.”

“Like opening that Kmart?”

“People expect a television personality to look rich. You have no idea, Posey. So, yes, I spent more than I made. Big deal. Everyone does it. Even Donald Trump declares bankruptcy once in a while.” She flung her braid over her shoulder and took a defiant sip of cocoa.

Posey said nothing. There was no arguing with Gretchen when she started comparing herself to the rich and famous. After a minute or two, Gretchen sighed. “Look, Posey, I know you think I’m a big phony. And I was stupid, I admit that. I started playing blackjack— I dated this guy who had a share in a casino in Atlantic City, whatever, and at first I won. It was amazing. You have no idea what it’s like, winning a thousand dollars, or even two.” Her face took on a soft, dreamy look. “There’s such a rush. I mean, you walk in with what, four, five grand, and you can double your money in an hour.”

“I’m guessing you wouldn’t be broke if it was that easy,” Posey said.

Gretchen ignored her. “One time, Pose, I won seven thousand dollars in one night.”

“How long did it take you to lose it?”

Slowly, Gretchen seemed to come back to earth. “That’s the thing,” she admitted. “You get hooked. You lose six rounds, then you win one and you think ‘Oh, I’m on a roll now, I’ll get it back,’ and then even if you do, you can’t help wanting more.”

Sensing that someone needed a kiss, Shilo rolled off the couch and went over to Gret and licked her knee. For once, she didn’t push his big head out of the way, just reached out and gave him an awkward pat. Jellybean, disgusted that Gretchen’s attention had gone to a lowly canine, jumped off the couch and stalked away.

“I didn’t quit the Cooking Network,” Gretchen said, so quietly Posey almost couldn’t hear. “They fired me. I’d borrowed money from a not-very-nice person, and when I couldn’t pay it, he went to the network and said he’d make it public. So they paid it, but they fired me.”

“How much was it?” Posey asked.

“Twenty-five thousand.”

“Oh, Gret.” Posey closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry.” That dopey show had been everything to her cousin.

“Don’t be sorry,” she said, a hard edge to her voice. “They didn’t know anything. Marketing practically ignored me. I was, like, how am I going to get a million viewers an episode if you put me in this slot? Against Rachael Ray, who gets everything handed to her on a silver platter? And who’s gained fifteen pounds this year alone? Don’t get me started on that scrawny tramp, Giada.”

“Okay, let’s just skip over all of the glaring hyperbole and let me ask you this,” Posey said. “Gret, if your whole life has collapsed because of a gambling problem, why were you at the casino tonight?”

“Because! You think I like living here with you in this freezing-cold house? Listening to Max and Stacia tell me—me!—how to make a linzer torte?”

“Whoa! Stop right there, princess! I don’t recall inviting you here, and as for my parents, you should be kissing their feet and scrubbing their toilets. So don’t go there, okay?”

Gretchen looked at her hands. “I just want to get my life back in gear,” she said in a quieter voice. “I thought if I could win a few thousand dollars, I could…start over.”

“Where’d you get the money to gamble?”

Gretchen didn’t answer for a minute. “From your parents. From what they gave me for the renovation.”

“Gret! You can’t do that!”

“Well, I did! It was stupid, but you don’t understand!”

“How much did you take?”

“Two grand.”

Posey took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. “Okay. I’ll pay that back, too. But here’s the deal. You’re going to pay me back. All five thousand, because guess what? You cleaned me out, Gret. I’m not rich, you know.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell.” She cocked a perfect eyebrow.

“And guess what else, Fraulein? You can start by helping out around here. Painting, window glazing, moving some of this stuff…”

“I don’t know how to paint. Or glaze a window.”

“Well, how about this, Gretchen? You can learn.”