“Five dollars!” Dan’l whistled. “What you gonna do with it, Kitsy?”
“Bet on Joe-bee’s mare.”
“That nag can’t win.”
“Can too, and I’m gonna build my fortune off this race!”
years later, Kitsy sat in her luxury box, remembering. One foray
through the stables, unsupervised, had ensured her lifelong taste for
winning. The black locust powder had cost a dollar and a handshake with a
man whose accent made him hard to understand.
Most of the horses had lived. She had no regrets.
Twenty-five hours later, Kitsy Malone was found dead, a horseshoe-shaped hole where her heart should’ve been.