Chapter 4 Cybil
Cybil
Dallas, Texas
Monday night
This cannot be happening.
I skirt around a corner and dart into the women’s bathroom, slamming the third stall door shut and twisting the lock. I attempt
to jump onto the toilet seat—but my right foot skids across the slick plastic. I hear the splash a second before cold toilet
water soaks my foot.
Welp, these shoes are going into the fire.
Swallowing a gag, I fight the urge to scream and extract my foot from its questionable bath. My pulse hasn’t stopped battering
my throat since I got caught at the door, and now I’m standing in some knockoff version of Karate Kid’s crane pose on a public
toilet, trying to figure out who the heck that man was.
At first I assumed he was museum security. But he didn’t call for backup. Didn’t reach for a radio. Which means . . . something
is wrong. Was he private security for Ramirez? A friend of Faux-Diesel?
All I caught was a glimpse—tall, broad shoulders, black tux. Absolutely zero identifying features that could separate him
from the sea of overpriced cologne and cuff links roaming the gala tonight.
I wait—counting out ninety agonizing seconds—before stepping off the toilet and unlocking the stall door. I pause with every movement, holding my breath to listen, but all I hear is the pounding of my own heartbeat. And the occasional drip of toilet water sliding off my toes.
I can’t hide here forever.
Mr. Edmond has probably noticed my absence by now. With any luck, claiming I was in the ladies’ room won’t raise too many
questions. But if I’m going to pull this off, I need to leave. Now. And not get caught.
I grab for the toilet paper to mop up my foot and find . . . one ply? Of course. It takes half a roll of the transparent stuff to dry my foot before I shimmy back into my gown, hide the bag again, and slip
the lipstick recorder back into my clutch. First attempt: botched. But I don’t give up.
No matter what messes I get myself into, it’s hard to complain when the money hits my account. I need this paycheck to pay
my rent and my student loans, to help my mom, and if I’m lucky, to maybe finally replace the underwear I’ve owned since college.
It’s the little things.
I crack the door an inch. No one’s waiting for me.
Instead of risking the main stairs and a collision with Faux-Diesel, I opt for the side stairwell. There’s still a chance
I’ll run into museum security, but back in my gown, I feel armored. One thing Mr. Edmond has taught me: Money buys invisibility.
Nobody questions a well-dressed woman.
Moonlight spills through the windows, casting a silver glow over the gala. Bart Jennings is dancing across the stage, the
crowd singing along, the whole place vibrating with energy. I should be focused on getting back to Mr. Edmond. But instead,
it’s the server carrying a tray of chocolate desserts who captures my full attention.
Surely I have time for one little choco—
“He won’t die. But he’ll wish he had.”
The harsh whisper halts me in my heels, pulling my attention to a door that’s been left slightly ajar. I glance back over
my shoulder, knowing I should get back to Mr. Edmond. Instead, curiosity wins. It always does. It’s what keeps the bills paid.
“Just one or two drops. I promise he’ll never put his hands on you again.”
I ease the door open and find two female servers crammed inside what looks like an oversized broom closet. The brunette spins around, shielding the blonde behind her. I catch a glimpse—smeared makeup, teary eyes.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
The brunette’s eyes flash. “A guy out there got handsy with her. She asked him to stop. He took it as a challenge.”
I shift my focus to the blonde. Her chin is tucked as if she’s embarrassed.
“Are you hurt?” I ask.
Her head snaps up. “No, ma’am.”
She’s all professional polish. Neat uniform, tasteful makeup, blond hair twisted into a chignon, though some strands have
escaped. Her makeup, or what’s left of it, is tastefully done, giving her that girl-next-door look.
“I wasn’t flirting,” she blurts. “I swear.”
Anger tightens in my gut. Why is the first instinct always to blame ourselves?
“Who was it?” I press.
Both girls hesitate.
“The man who put his hands on you,” I clarify. “I need to know.”
It takes a minute of coaxing, but finally the blonde describes him—a creep holding court at the bar. I don’t hesitate.
Yes, I’m late getting back to Mr. Edmond. Yes, this is probably dumb. But letting this slide isn’t an option.
It doesn’t take me long to find the man the server described. White tuxedo. Smug grin. Half perched on a barstool, pawing
at a woman in a red cocktail dress and flashing his watch like it’s some kind of mating call.
“You like what you see?”
Ew. I step up, flashing my brightest smile and thrusting my hand in his face. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Cybil Langford.”
His gaze bounces off Red Dress and lands on me. I don’t miss the relief that washes over her face before she slips away. He
doesn’t seem as grateful for my interruption.
“Gee, that’s a nice watch.” I squint at it. “Is it a Casio?”
He looks genuinely scandalized. “Baby, it’s a Rolex.”
Baby. Kill me now.
“Wow. I bet it cost a lot.” I run my manicured nails lightly along his wrist. “Mind if I take a closer look?”
He grins. Then yelps when I twist his thumb back at a painful angle—a useful move my uncle taught me when I started dating.
“Wh-what are you doing?” he stammers.
“Shh.” I lean in, sweet as poison. “We don’t want to make a scene.”
Around us, the crowd begins singing loudly with a familiar song. Perfect cover. He tries to squirm, but with the bar at his
back, he’s stuck.
“Listen, John Revolta, when a woman tells you to back off,” I hiss, “you do it.” I push harder, until I feel the joint shift.
Fear finally flares in his eyes. “Got it?” I whisper.
He nods, sweating. I start to release him—when he lurches and clamps onto my wrist, yanking me closer. “Who do you think you
are?” he spits.
I smile, all teeth. “I already told you. Cybil Langford.”
He keeps my wrist low and tight, trying to make it look like an intimate conversation. Cute. Except now I’m thinking about
how best to break his nose without splattering blood on my dress—
“Cybil.”
The deep voice behind me freezes us both.
Sebastian Edmond steps into view, cool and lethal. His presence causes the man to drop my wrist like it burns. Irritation
flares in my chest that it’s Sebastian who scares the man, but he probably saved me from an assault charge.
“Mr. Edmond,” he croaks.
Sebastian doesn’t bother acknowledging the greeting. He signals to security with a flick of two fingers.
As security closes in, I rub my wrist. “I didn’t need your help.”
“You never do,” Sebastian says dryly, flagging the bartender for a drink. “Where were you?”
It doesn’t completely surprise me that Sebastian noticed I was gone.
He pays attention when it serves him—whether out of habit, suspicion, or that Edmond instinct to catalog threats and assets.
He’s like the big brother I never asked for—the kind who’d absolutely rat me out to Daddy if it aligned with his agenda.
“Chasing down a waiter for more of those chocolate desserts.”
Sebastian arches a brow. “And that guy?”
“He got handsy.”
“With you?” There’s a sharp edge to his voice now.
I shrug. “Not me.”
His shoulders ease slightly, but suspicion still lingers in his watchful stare.
“Where’s Mr. Edmond?” I ask, shifting the subject.
“With George Washington.”
“What?”
Sebastian collects his drink. Sniffs it. Then takes a slow sip. “The museum has an oil painting of George Washington.” He
tips his head in the direction of a hallway. “Dad wanted to see it before the meeting.”
Mr. Edmond might love America’s history, but he has a more . . . flexible relationship obeying her laws. At least, according
to Athena. But he hasn’t been arrested for anything yet, which only feeds into my belief that the rich and powerful don’t
get booked; they get buildings named after them.
“Has the meeting started?”
Sebastian tilts his glass, studying me over the rim. “Not without me.”
There’s always been an edge between Sebastian and his father. Part of it’s generational. Part of it’s a power struggle—one
man unwilling to let go, one unwilling to wait his turn.
I’m reminded of the heated argument between Sebastian and his father. “He’s killed for less.” Those four words bring me back to my failed mission—and the man behind it. I search the sea of men in tuxedos around me.
Maybe there’ll be some hint of recognition: a mole, a crooked nose, anything that will help me identify the person who hid
behind a marble bust.
My gaze sweeps the crowd and stops on the security staff. Maroon jackets, badges, hovering at the edges of the room. Bored
and inattentive. Nothing about their posture suggests they’re on alert and looking for me.
Which means . . . the man upstairs wasn’t museum security.
My mind replays the earlier events. Someone caught me trying to break into the Mayer Library. Any decent guest in attendance tonight would’ve assumed I was a burglar
and reported me, right? But he didn’t. He chased after me, but only when the real museum security showed up.
Which tells me he didn’t want to get caught either.
The thought rattles through my brain almost as loudly as the drumbeat from the band. The man upstairs wasn’t supposed to be
there either. So why was he? Who was he? My questions shudder to a stop when the next question comes: Did he see me? Like really see me? Enough to identify me?
My fingers fly to my hair, yanking loose bobby pins until the tight chignon falls over my shoulders and curtains my face.
I’m no longer annoyed with Athena for forcing me to change out of my dress. If the man from upstairs is looking for me, I’m
hoping the clothing change will throw him off. Still, I feel vulnerable. Exposed.
I’m not as invisible as I want to be.
“I think I’ll go make sure your father has everything he needs,” I tell Sebastian, already moving before he can stop me.