Chapter 66 – You Slippery Bitch
"I knew it! Truly great work is always appreciated by someone!"
Ryan said excitedly, gripping William's hands with both of his, eyes shining.
"Keep it up. You're doing great," William replied, patting Ryan on the shoulder.
"I've got something else to take care of, so I won't stay any longer."
After that, he nodded to Samar and Dre, then left the laboratory.
"Oh my God… Blake is nothing like the rumors," Dre said dreamily as she watched William's back.
"He's actually really approachable."
"Don't you think that's strange?" Carter frowned slightly.
"He's a psychology major—why would he be interested in a high-energy physics project like Sisyphus?"
"Dude," Ryan said, clapping Carter on the shoulder,
"a love for science knows no disciplinary boundaries!"
---
At the same time, inside the probate office, Frank stood by the window, staring anxiously outside.
T-Bag was smoking calmly beyond the glass.
"No. No one gets to touch Frank Gallagher's money. No one,"
Frank muttered, his gaze sharpening.
He picked up the phone and dialed 911.
Truth be told, he didn't want to make this call.
Once he used the cops to drive T-Bag away, the next time they met would be anything but pleasant.
So Frank had only one plan:
Create a time gap.
Run.
Sell the house as fast as possible.
Grab the cash.
Get the hell out of Chicago.
As long as he left the South Side, he'd be safe.
As for whether T-Bag might retaliate against Fiona and the others?
Please.
Even Fiona's own boyfriend didn't care about her anymore—why should he?
A scumbag was a scumbag.
And scumbags thought like animals.
---
In the parking lot, T-Bag stared at the entrance of the probate office.
"Hey, what time is it?" he asked his partner.
"Hasn't Frank been inside a little too long?"
"Yeah… he's been in there for a while."
T-Bag narrowed his eyes.
"Alright. You stay here and keep watching. I'll check the back door."
Yesterday, when he'd helped Frank swap the wills and poison the clerk, he'd already mapped out the building's layout.
He flicked his cigarette to the ground and headed off.
At the back entrance, T-Bag took cover in a concealed spot and lit another cigarette, making sure Frank didn't try to slip out that way.
Sure, Frank was crippled—he couldn't run far.
But T-Bag had a bad feeling.
After all, a bastard like Frank Gallagher was never going to pay up willingly.
Twenty minutes passed before a police cruiser finally rolled into a parking space in the lot.
The moment he spotted the patrol car, T-Bag's partner immediately turned his head away to avoid being seen.
Both he and T-Bag had outstanding warrants.
Inside the probate office, Frank let out a long breath of relief when he saw the police.
"About damn time," he muttered. "The police station's right next door, and it still took them this long. Bunch of useless idiots—just wasting taxpayers' money."
Of course, if anyone who actually knew Frank had been there, they'd have mocked him on the spot:
You pay taxes?
At the entrance, the two officers spoke briefly with the security guard on duty. One of the guards then led them inside.
"Who called this in?" one of the officers barked as they entered.
"I did! I'm the one who called, officer!"
Frank raised his hand immediately.
"What seems to be the problem?"
The cop was a tall, broad-shouldered blond white man with a thoroughly sour attitude—impatience practically written across his face.
"Well, technically speaking, I don't need help," Frank said smoothly.
"But while I was looking out the window, I happened to notice two men who looked an awful lot like fugitives I've seen on TV. That's why I called."
Frank lied as naturally as he breathed.
The word fugitives instantly wiped the laziness from the officer's expression.
"You sure you're not mistaken?"
Frank shook his head vigorously.
"Absolutely not! Officer, as a law-abiding American citizen, why would I joke about something like this?"
Then, through the glass doors, Frank pointed toward T-Bag's pickup truck in the distance.
"Oh, and when I saw them earlier, it looked like something in the truck bed was moving. I couldn't tell—might've been a person."
He poured gasoline on the fire.
---
In the parking lot, T-Bag's partner saw Frank standing with two cops, pointing in his direction.
"Holy fucking hell—Frank, you son of a bitch!"
Even he wasn't stupid enough to miss what was happening.
He didn't wait for T-Bag. He jumped into the driver's seat, started the engine, and floored it.
Partners or not, they were still just hired muscle.
When disaster struck, everyone flew solo.
At that moment, T-Bag happened to round the corner—
Just in time to see his partner speeding off.
"What the hell…?"
It didn't click at first.
Then he saw the two cops stepping out of the probate office.
His blood ran cold.
He immediately ducked back behind the corner.
"Fuck! Why are there cops!?"
T-Bag was carrying multiple kidnapping charges, one murder, and a handful of crimes involving minors.
If he got caught, life without parole would be the best-case scenario.
"God damn it!"
He peeked out again—just in time to see one of the officers walking in his direction.
He cursed under his breath, pulled back, scanned his surroundings, and bolted the other way.
---
Chicago Institute of Technology
Sorority Gathering – Café Interior
Because of the cold weather, the sorority had moved their get-together inside the café.
(The original timeline took place in summer; this has been adjusted.)
As a group of girls chatted noisily, Theresa sat alone in a corner.
Her expression was grim.
Earlier that day in Organic Chemistry, she'd stared from afar at Gregory standing at the podium.
Gregory—the professor she was having an affair with.
A married man.
And yes, Theresa knew that.
She openly admitted she was a bitch.
Part of it stemmed from losing her mother young—but mostly, it was her own self-destruction.
In the movie, she eventually "redeemed" herself and ended up with Carter.
When William had first watched it, he'd felt physically uncomfortable.
Someone with values like hers getting a happy ending felt less like growth and more like moral poisoning.
But now that he was dealing with her in person?
All William could think was—
That's a damn good handle.
"Hey, Theresa. Got a minute? I want to talk."
William's voice cut through Danielle's speech mid-sentence.
Danielle—the sorority president.
"Wow, Tree!" Danielle whispered sharply, leaning close.
"You sneaky bitch. When did you hook up with William Blake?!"