The Thought Readers (Mind Dimensions #1)(5)
“Just come with me quietly, please,” Buff says. He stands aside, so that he’s able to walk behind me. Nick leads the way, muttering something about the impossibility of my knowing his name, no matter how smart I am. He’s clearly brighter than Buff. I wonder what he would say if I told him where he lives and that he has two kids. Would he start a cult, or shoot me?
As we make the trek through the casino, I reflect on how knowing things I shouldn’t has served me well over the years. It’s kind of my thing, and it’s gotten me far in life. Of course, it’s possible that knowing things I shouldn’t is also the reason they have a file on me. Maybe casinos keep records on people who seem to have a history of beating the odds, so to speak.
When we get to the office—a modest-sized room filled with cameras overlooking different parts of the casino—Buff’s first question confirms that theory. “Do you know how much money you won today?” he asks, glaring at me.
I decide to play dumb. “I’m not sure.”
“You’re quite the statistical anomaly,” Nick says. He’s clearly proud of knowing such big words. “I want to show you something.” He takes a remote from the desk, which has a bunch of folders scattered on its surface. With Nick’s press of a button, one of the monitors begins showing footage of me playing at the blackjack table. Watching it, I realize that I did win too much.
In fact, I won just about every time.
Shit. Could I have been any more obvious? I didn’t think I’d be watched this closely, but that was stupid of me. I should’ve taken a couple of hits even when I knew I would bust, just to hide my tracks.
“You’re obviously counting cards,” Nick states, giving me a hard stare. “There’s no other explanation.”
Actually, there is, but I’m not about to give it to him. “With eight decks?” I say instead, making my voice as incredulous as possible.
Nick picks up a file on the desk and leafs through it.
“Darren Wang Goldberg, graduated from Harvard with an MBA and a law degree at eighteen. Near-perfect SAT, LSAT, GMAT, and GRE scores. CFA, CPA, plus a bunch more acronyms.” Nick chuckles as if amused at that last tidbit, but then his expression hardens as he continues. “The list goes on and on. If anyone could do it, it would be you.”
I take a deep breath, trying to contain my annoyance. “Since you’re so impressed with my bona fides, you should trust me when I tell you that no one can count cards with eight decks.” I have no clue if that’s actually true, but I do know casinos have been trying to stack the odds in the house’s favor for ages now, and eight decks is too many cards to count even for a mathematical prodigy.
As if reading my mind, Buff says, “Yeah, well, even if you can’t do it by yourself, you might be able to pull it off with partners.”
Partners? Where did they get the idea that I have partners?
In response to my blank look, Nick hits the remote again, and I see a new recording. This time it’s of the girl—of her winning at the blackjack table, then working a number of poker tables. Winning an impressive amount of cash, I might add.
“Another statistical anomaly,” Nick says, looking at me intently. “A friend of yours?” He must’ve worked as a detective before this gig, seeing as how he’s pretty good at this interrogation thing. I guess my chasing her through the casino set off some red flags. My reaction was definitely not for the reasons he thinks, though.
“No,” I say truthfully. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
Nick’s face tightens with anger. “You just played at the same poker table,” he says, his voice growing in volume with every word. “Then you both started running away just as we were coming toward you. I suppose that’s just a coincidence, huh? Do the two of you have someone on the inside? Who else is in on it?” He’s full-on yelling at this point, spittle flying in every direction.
This fierce grilling is too much for me, and I phase into the Quiet to give myself a few moments to think.
Contrary to Nick’s belief, the girl and I are definitely not partners. Yet it’s obvious she was here doing the same thing I was, as the recordings clearly show her winning over and over. That means I didn’t have a hallucination, and she really was in the Quiet somehow. She can do what I can. My heart beats faster with excitement as I realize again that I’m not the only one. This girl is like me—which means I really need to find her.
On a hunch, I approach the table and pick up the thickest folder I see.
And that’s when I hit the biggest jackpot of the night.
Staring back at me from the file is her picture. Her real name, according to the file, is Mira Tsiolkovsky. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.
Her age shocks me. She’s only eighteen. I thought she’d be in her mid-twenties—which would conveniently fit right within my datable age range. As I further investigate the information they’ve compiled on her, I find the reason I was fooled by her age: she intentionally tries to make herself look older to get into casinos. The folder lists a bunch of her aliases, all of which are banned from casinos. All are aged between twenty-one and twenty-five.
According to the folder, she does this cheating thing professionally. One section details her involvement in cheating both in casinos and underground gambling joints. Scary places by the sound of it, with links to organized crime.