Chapter Eleven – The Trade

She had a system. Every con artist did, but hers was refined.


Phone numbers were never in short supply. Data brokers on the dark web sold them by the tens of thousands: lists from charities, contests, even old bank records. She paid in cryptocurrency, downloaded spreadsheets, and spent nights scrolling until she found her targets. She didn’t care about the sources — only that the numbers worked.


Spoofing the calls was easy. Software let her make any number appear on a caller ID: a government office, a police detachment, even the RCMP. Victims answered because they trusted the name on their display. And when she gave them a callback number, it routed to one of her prepaid lines, registered in a false name, ready for her to pick up.


The money flowed the same way. Banks saw what she wanted them to see. Transfers were broken up, shifted through prepaid cards, PayPal accounts, crypto wallets. Sometimes she used offshore accounts, but more often the cash churned fast enough that no one could follow it. By the time a flag was raised, the trail was ash.


She stayed sharp by studying scams the way other men studied sports. Message boards, private chat groups, whispered tips traded in the back rooms of internet cafés. She adapted quickly — gift cards one year, cryptocurrency the next, cell-phone upgrades after that. Sometimes she borrowed techniques, sometimes she tweaked them. Once in a while she invented something new, tested it small, then rolled it out for profit.


But the work was never nine-to-five. She scammed like it was a job: eight, ten hours a day, headset on, scripts at the ready. She took breaks, sure, but always came back to the phone. Every hour meant more chances, more victims, more money.


And when the money piled up, she spent it with the same cold detachment.


The casino was her playground. Poker tables, smoke curling through the air, the thrill of bluffing across green felt. She was good at it — the same instincts that let her read a victim let her read a card player. She knew when someone’s hand trembled, when their eyes darted, when they swallowed hard. She took their chips with the same satisfaction she took a pensioner’s savings.


When the night ended, she didn’t go home alone. Cash bought company, and she preferred to keep it transactional. Hookers didn’t ask questions, didn’t pry into how she paid. She liked the control, the anonymity. No strings, no risks.


Back in her apartment, she would pour herself a drink, stack her winnings beside the latest bundle of prepaid cards, and think about tomorrow. More numbers. More calls. More voices bending to her will.


It wasn’t just a trade. It was a life. And she was winning.

 

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