Chapter Seventeen – Ramona

 She stared at the dark screen long after Janet had cut the line. The final words still burned in her mind: Fuck off.

Ramona leaned back and smirked. That wasn’t a professional signing off—that was a drunk, flailing at the keyboard. The pacing of Janet’s replies, the sudden hostility, the profanity. All the signs of someone pouring from a bottle between messages. Pathetic. And useful.

At first, the time-zone slip had rattled her. “Supper” at nearly midnight in Toronto? Impossible. Janet wasn’t there anymore—she was closer. Ramona’s chest had tightened for a moment at the thought of being hunted.

But the worry faded quickly. Edmonton was behind her. She had moved to Lacombe years ago, and she’d made sure the move was untraceable. Bank account closed. Utilities canceled. New providers set up under her new name: Elizabeth Ramona. First and middle swapped, paperwork neat, clean, official. She’d even chuckled when the new driver’s license arrived, a talisman of her own cleverness.

Now, in her mid-forties, Ramona was ordinary. A little overweight, red hair streaked with gray, freckles scattered across skin that once burned easily in the prairie sun. Never an eyecatcher—not as a girl and not as a woman. Boys hadn’t asked her out; men had overlooked her. She had grown used to invisibility. In that way, she was very much like Janet—though she didn’t know it.

But unlike Janet, she avoided cigarettes and whiskey. She cared about her health, about her body lasting. Crooks who drank too much or smoked themselves into early graves never got to enjoy their winnings.

That morning, she went to Safeway. Pushing a cart, she moved through the aisles with the ease of someone who belonged. She chatted with the woman comparing brands of pasta sauce, gave a polite smile to the tired mother herding two kids. At the checkout, she joked with the cashier, made a show of complimenting the bag boy on how quickly he packed. Her tone was warm, her laugh ready.

Every interaction was a kind of balm, proof to herself that she was decent, pleasant, kind. See? she told herself. People like me. People trust me. That was who she really was.

The other part—the scams, the calls, the money siphoned away—wasn’t shameful. It was respectable work, in her mind. She thought of it as a job no different from any other. She found the weakness, provided the script, the victim played their part. She got paid. Everyone earned what they deserved.

By the time she drove home with her groceries, she felt perfectly balanced again.

Janet, the drunk reporter, could stew in silence for a few days. Ramona had no intention of reaching out. Control belonged to her now. And when she did make contact again, she would set the terms: ten thousand more, with penalties for every time Janet stepped over the line.

Ramona unpacked the groceries, humming as she put bread in the cupboard and milk in the fridge. The life she’d built in Lacombe was quiet, neat, untraceable. In her own mind, she was living proof that cleverness paid, that she was good at her job, and that she was—above all else—a nice person.

And she did live well.

Her condo was lavish—polished hardwood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking quiet streets, stainless steel appliances that gleamed in the kitchen. Everything paid for in cash, her name scrubbed clean from obvious trails. When she passed neighbors in the lobby, she gave bright greetings, smiles, little compliments. Never too much, never too little. Outwardly friendly, inwardly untouched. No dinners together. No favors exchanged. She liked to keep doors closed behind her.

The BMW she drove purred like a cat, metallic blue and waxed until the body shone. She parked it underground, secure and locked away. It was the one indulgence she let the world see—a little flash, a whisper of success. And when neighbors asked what she did, she had an easy answer: consultant. Vague enough to be believable, dull enough to bore them into changing the subject.

But where she came most alive was at the casino tables. Poker.

That night she sat under the soft yellow lights of the casino floor, green felt spread out before her. Stacks of chips towered neatly, her hands resting casually near them. She had already bled two opponents dry—one young man sweating over every card, one older woman who folded too often.

Ramona watched faces the way others watched the cards. The twitch of a mouth. A glance too long at the flop. Fingers drumming on the table. She spotted nerves. She spotted arrogance. She spotted hunger. And when the moment came, she slid her chips forward with calm precision, her expression unreadable.

The dealer turned the river card. Her opponent’s eyes flickered. Ramona knew then she had him.

“All in,” she said softly.

The man hesitated, then pushed his pile forward. Minutes later, his chair was empty and the chips were hers.

She gathered them slowly, savoring the weight. This, too, was part of the job—reading people, exploiting their weaknesses, taking what they thought they could protect.

To the casino regulars, she was just another skilled player, friendly enough when she left the table, smiling at staff, joking lightly with the dealers. To herself, she was proof of her own cleverness.

And as she drove the BMW back to her condo that night, groceries from Safeway still in the trunk, she thought again of Janet. A drunk. Sloppy. Easy to control.

She decided she would stay silent for a few days. Let the reporter squirm. Let her wonder if she had ruined everything. When Ramona reached out again, it would be on her terms: ten thousand more, with penalties if Janet strayed from the script.

For now, silence was her weapon.

And at the poker table, as in life, she knew the power of patience.