Author Games: Ace of Spades

Quarterfinals: Aoife Callahan

My name is Aoife Kathleen Callahan. I am a liar. I tell myself I only lie to my marks; of course, everyone I meet is a mark, or might be someday. This was undeniably true.

The one person I had sworn never to lie to, however, was myself.

I found it. It was mine, the easiest fortune anyone could ask to receive. All I had to do was reach forward, pick up the case, and leave victorious. It was so trivially, impossibly simple. Anyone with a grain of sense would already be out the door, whistling as they waltzed their way to a better life.

I was more than sensible; I was a predator with sharply crafted fangs, preying upon the foolish whenever they were unfortunate enough to cross my path. The cash should have been a boon, a flock of sleeping lambs abandoned by the shepherd.

Why, then, was I not gleeful?

Why was I still standing in front of the money, incapable of so much as stretching out my hand?

My breath shuddered, a harsh rasp at odds with my perfectly maintained facade. Some abstract part of my mind noted with chill practicality that I was fortunate to not be seen in such a state, that elderly Irish widows were not considered to be in disarray. A single misstep could make my mark question her perceptions, the stereotypes that I was happy to use as invisibility. She might wonder what else about me did not conform. A thinking mark was never safe; I relied upon giving her the ideas I wanted, in suggestions so subtle that she'd never notice the strings that tugged her about like a marionette.

No, it was always best to hide behind expectations, the lies that came ready-built in another's heart. The sweet Irish widow, even though the only widows I had ever met cried in the night, drunk on wine or church, venting their spleen on themselves and others. The jolly bartender, who in reality couldn't care less about the petty woes of a thousand sloppy drinkers if they were too plastered to leave money on the table.

The grifter, soulless and smiling with painted lips, a thousand faces waiting with hidden fangs to draw blood from the unsuspecting. A space where her heart belonged instead hollowed out and filled with stolen treasures—

Perhaps some lies were all too true.

I pushed a strand of hair back into place. The gesture was automatic, yet insufficient to shatter my confining stupor.

I told myself the deaths of strangers meant nothing to me. I would even remove a threat in Florence, the clever girl who had seen through my facade but had not yet hardened her heart against the assaults of the world. If she escaped, she could identify me, find me and make me pay for the indignity of endangerment. It wouldn't be long before she could do it, I was sure. The frigid calculation would spread from her eyes to her lips so that every word was shield and spear all at once, and from there to her heart.

Once that happened, she would find me. And when she did, no lie would be my salvation. However, the truth that I spared her when I could have snuffed her out...

My hand reached of its own accord for the picture frame—

—a hand closed over mine, pulling it away from the doorknob. It was strong and warm, a pleasant contrast against my skin; even in those days, my hands were cold.

"Aoife, don't be ridiculous. You don't need to walk out of our lives just because—"

I didn't let him finish the sentence. "Because I'm a criminal? A blackmailer? Don't insult my intelligence, Jack. I know what I am, and that Father and Mother would die of shame if they discovered they had an 'unsavory' character in their own household. Best to save them some trouble. I've already gotten a train ticket to Cork."

His skin was too pale, unhealthy against the black of his priestly uniform. Nonetheless, I burned with helpless fury against the pity in eyes as green as my own.

"That's the trouble, dear sister," he said with no hint of irony in his voice. The bastard never even deigned to use sarcasm in our little duels. "You lack faith in your own family, the ones who would give their own souls to know you were safe. We love you. Don't turn your back on us for something as foolish as shame."

"Perhaps you'e forgotten, but I never let others give me shame. Perhaps that was the first sign I wasn't a good Catholic girl." The jab didn't go unnoticed. His lips thinned.

"Aoife, that wasn't fair," he replied, the tone a shade more clipped than before.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Don't you know that sometimes sacrificing feelings is the only way to win?"

"Is that what you want, then? Will winning make you happy? No matter who gets hurt in the process?"

I was at a loss for words for a moment. He pressed his advantage, stepping closer. "Come home. Talk to Mother and Father. Mother has friends on the police; I'm sure a fine can be negotiated—"

"Yes."

He blinked. "You'll come with me?"

"Winning is what I want. No matter who gets hurt in the process."

I moved towards the door. He didn't stop me, and was silent until I had turned the knob, opening to the rainy Dublin night.

"You never said it would make you happy." I paused at the tone, weary and resigned and something I couldn't quite identify.

"Go back to your flock, Father Callahan," I said instead of a reply. "You'll find no wayward lambs where a sister once stood."

The rain was cold and fresh. It washed away the salt on my cheeks.

A low, wild laugh echoed through the room. It was a long moment before I realized it was my own.

Save the others at my own expense? Turn away an opportunity worth the risk of a psychopath's lethal games of chance?

I had chosen what sort of person I would become long ago. That person knew that mercy was only a virtue for prey.

My hand touched metal, and in an instant I was outside in a hallway murmuring with whispers.

I took long strides away from the room, the metal of the case frigid under my arm. My pace grew with every passing second until I was running, flying through the richly appointed halls of the casino.

The strong sacrifice what is necessary for victory. I had escaped without so much as a scratch.

However, my last promise to myself, my last truth, withered away as I told myself the solitary tear on my cheek meant nothing at all.