She found the betting app on her husband's phone. Balance zero. Last bet, twenty-eight thousand dollars. Lost. That was their house. Then a stranger walked into their bedroom and said her husband was late.
The little blue house on Delmar Street had a lemon tree in the backyard.
That was the first thing Imani Jenkins saw in the listing photos, and she decided right then. A two-bedroom, one-bath with a crooked porch and a lemon tree, twenty minutes from her job. Closing date: two weeks from Friday.
Four years of saving. Four years of lunch from home, no vacations, one car between them. She'd worked extra Saturdays at the dental office. She'd sold her grandmother's old piano. Twenty-eight thousand dollars sitting in the joint savings account, every dollar of it counted.
Tonight she'd gone to the bank app to move the down payment into checking for the title company.
The savings account said zero.
She found the other app on Marcus's phone forty minutes later, while he was in the shower. Behind a folder labeled Work. Green football field, gold letters, flashing lights. A sports betting app.
Balance: zero dollars.
Last bet: twenty-eight thousand dollars. Lost.
When Marcus came out of the bathroom in his gray tank top and gym shorts, gold chain around his neck, rubbing a towel over his braids, she was standing in the middle of the bedroom in her big white T-shirt, holding his phone out in front of his face like a badge.
The lamp was on. The neon sign from the corner store across the street turned the window pink.
"Where is our house down payment, Marcus?"
He stopped. The towel slid off his shoulder.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, very slowly. For a second he put his hand over his face. Then he looked up at her with those big brown eyes that had gotten him out of trouble his whole life.
"I was going to win it back," he said. "I swear."
She held the phone closer to his face so he had to look at the screen. Zero. Lost. Twenty-eight thousand.
"You bet our home," she said, "on a football game."
Marcus leaned forward on the bed, hands out, palms up, talking fast.
"Baby, listen. Listen to me. I was up. I was up eleven thousand in September. I had it. Then I had a bad week, and I was trying to get back to even before you found out, and the Sunday game was a lock, everybody said it was a lock..."
"Everybody."
"Just give me one more week," he said. "One more week, I'll have it back. I promise you. I'll have it all back."
Imani lowered the phone. She stared at him like she'd never seen him before. Three years married. Seven years together. She'd thought she knew every single thing about this man.
Then she saw his eyes move. Past her. Over her shoulder. To the bedroom door.
And she watched the color drain out of his face.
Imani turned around.
A man was standing in the bedroom doorway.
Late forties. Shaved head, short dark beard, black leather jacket zipped to the collar. He was just standing there, calm, like he'd been invited. Like he'd been standing there a while.
"Marcus," the man said. "You're late."
Imani's whole body went cold.
"Who are you?" she said. "How did you get in my house?"
"Front door was unlocked." The man looked at Marcus, then back at her. "You must be Imani. He talks about you. Says you're the smart one."
"Vic," Marcus said. His voice was shaking. "Vic, man, not here. Not in front of her. I told you Friday."
"You told me Friday last Friday," Vic said. He took a step into the room. Not fast. He didn't need to be fast. "And the Friday before that."
Imani looked from one man to the other. Her brain was trying to put it together and didn't want to.
"Marcus," she said slowly. "What does he mean, late?"
Marcus didn't answer.
So Vic did.
"Your husband lost his own money in August," he said, almost politely. "Then he lost your money on the app. And when the app ran dry, he came to me. Because I don't have a daily limit." He shrugged. "He borrowed fourteen thousand, to win back the twenty-eight. Then he lost that too."
Imani grabbed the dresser behind her.
"Fourteen thousand," she whispered.
"Plus the vig," Vic said. "Interest. It's nineteen now."
"Vic, come on, man..."
"You told me," Vic said to Marcus, still in that calm, flat voice, "the money was coming from a house. You said your wife had a house deal closing, and you'd have it all by the first." He looked at Imani. "I'm guessing nobody told her that part."
Marcus put his face in his hands.
Imani couldn't feel her fingers.
"Get out of my house," she said. Her voice came out a lot steadier than she felt.
Vic smiled a little. Then he reached into his inside pocket.
Imani flinched. Marcus jumped up off the bed.
But Vic just pulled out a photograph. A little four-by-six print, like from a drugstore. He set it down on the edge of the bed, very carefully, and stepped back.
It was Imani. In her blue scrubs. Walking out of the dental office on Harmon Avenue. Yesterday. She recognized the lunch bag in her hand.
"Friday," Vic said. "Nineteen thousand. I'll come by."
He walked out the way he came in. They heard the front door open. Then close.
Imani stood there staring at the photograph of herself.
She didn't scream. She didn't cry. Not yet.
She walked to the front door, locked it, turned the deadbolt, and put the chain on. Then she went to the kitchen and wedged a chair under the back door handle, the way her mother used to do when her father was drinking.
Then she came back into the bedroom.
Marcus was sitting on the bed, crying, shaking, saying her name over and over.
"I'm so sorry. Baby, I'm so sorry. I didn't think he'd come here. I swear to God, I didn't think..."
"You gave him my job," Imani said.
He stopped.
"He knew where I work, Marcus. He knew what I look like. He has a picture of me." She held it up. Her hand was finally shaking. "Did you tell him? Did you tell him where I work so he'd believe you were good for the money?"
Marcus opened his mouth.
He didn't say no.
This is a fictional story. Names, characters and events are invented. Any resemblance to real people or events is coincidental.
