Chapter 11 Cybil
Cybil
Dallas, Texas
Wednesday morning
I slap my hand down on the alarm clock before it goes off. Not like I needed it. Sleep and I broke up somewhere around four
in the morning. Probably because my brain won’t shut up. I still haven’t heard back from Athena. I’ve left two messages—one
about the gala and another about the unexpected Ben-shaped complication. But nothing. And now before I can even recover from
the emotional whiplash, I get to add jet lag to the list.
When I got back to the office yesterday, Mr. Edmond informed me I’d be accompanying him and Sebastian to Italy. Meetings with
suppliers, he said. Routine. Nothing I haven’t sat through before—except this time, Ramirez’s name came up. Briefly. Casually.
Just long enough to let me know this trip is important.
Mr. Edmond and Sebastian were locked in meetings the rest of the afternoon, which left me with too much time to spiral. If
Ramirez is involved, then it’s possible Ben is too. Which means there’s a very real possibility I’m not just walking into
a tense business trip. I’m walking into a distraction in a tailored suit.
“Craig freaking Miller.” I glare at the water stain on the ceiling over my bed. It’s starting to morph into something between a sloth and my emotional stability. I close my dry eyes and exhale all the breath from my lungs. “This cannot be happening.”
I need chocolate. And caffeine.
I kick at the sheets tangled around my legs, roll to my side, and squint toward the kitchen. The hum of the refrigerator calls
to me like a beacon of hope. Chocolate cake. Dragging myself out of bed, I pad barefoot toward the fridge.
Last night after work, Joy insisted we go out for dinner. I think it was her attempt at redemption for abandoning me in my
hour of need—aka getting trapped in the revolving door like a malfunctioning Roomba.
When I finally made it back to the car, still trying to unmelt my brain, she took one look at me and wordlessly handed over
a bag of M&M’s from my glove compartment emergency stash. She at least had the courtesy to look apologetic . . . in between
the hysterical laughter.
My bank account wasn’t exactly on board with eating out, but Joy declared the day officially worthy of chocolate cake. And
who am I to argue against chocolate? We splurged at a steak house where everything is à la carte. It’s not the kind of place
I’d ever drop sixty-five dollars for a piece of meat, much less eighteen dollars for mashed potatoes, no matter how deliciously
creamy they claim to be. It is, however, the place I’d allow Joy to order a fifteen-dollar piece of chocolate cake that melts
in your mouth and makes all your problems disappear.
Unless your best friend insists on bringing them up. Again.
“What are you going to do if Ben goes to Italy too?” she asked as casually as someone commenting on the weather and completely
unaware of the emotional earthquake she’d just triggered.
I didn’t have an answer. And because nothing pairs with chocolate like unresolved teenage drama, I didn’t finish my cake.
Tragic.
Italy. With Ben?
Only it’s not Ben. It’s Craig Miller.
“‘A forgettable name for a forgettable person,’” I mutter in a mocking tone as I yank open the fridge door. “‘You were way
too good for Craig Miller.’”
There was a moment—just a flicker—when he said those words that I almost believed there was something deeper behind them.
Nope. Not going there.
If there’s one thing I know about Bennett Bradley—he’s a schmoozer. It didn’t matter if he and Rex were filling my boots with
mud or setting off firecrackers outside my bedroom window—Ben knew exactly how to flash that crooked smile and get away with
everything.
And no one was immune. Not my aunt Renee. Not the server at Dairy Queen.
Not. Even. Me.
I pull out the leftover cake, start the coffee, and fall into the morning routine—showering, brushing my teeth, getting dressed
for work—trying not to think about Italy. Trying not to think about Ben. Or what it’ll mean if he goes to Italy.
The scent of brewing coffee fills the kitchen. My stomach grumbles. I pour my coffee into a travel cup and take a bite of
the cake.
Joy’s words echo in my head: “Breakfast of champions.”
“Or the financially burdened,” I murmur around another bite.
My circle of friends is tight. I have two. Joy and Marcos. Joy is the unassuming public librarian who took actual joy in challenging
our professors—usually just to prove she could outsmart them before lunch. She doesn’t talk much about her family, but I’m
starting to think her family tree has deeper roots in espionage than in the Dewey Decimal System. Her lockpicking skills,
knack for cloning key fobs, and casual ability to vanish from security cameras weren’t exactly covered in Legal Ethics. Most
of what I know about novice spycraft, I learned from Joy.
Those skills have come in handy with our friend Marcos Delgado. After graduating, he took over his uncle’s business, ProSecure
Investigative Group, and occasionally outsources the legwork on some of his insurance fraud cases to Joy and me. It’s not
glamorous, but with student loan bills looming, I’m not picky. I’m grateful.
Marcos and Joy don’t know everything I do for Athena, but they’ve known about my financial mess since college—back when they caught me utilizing the campus food pantry.
They didn’t say a word, but the next week I had an anonymous grocery delivery at my apartment that included several party-size bags of M&M’s, and it pretty much sealed my loyalty to them.
My gaze drifts to the suitcase I pulled out for Italy. I groan. There has to be a way out of this. I touch my throat. Is that a tickle? Yes. I think I feel something. I cough. It’s pathetic. But
I’ve got sick leave saved up. Mr. Edmond wouldn’t force me to go to Italy if I’m not feeling well, right?
And if Mr. Edmond and Sebastian were out of the office, I’d have full access to snoop. I could go through their files, emails,
accounts. I don’t need to fly halfway across the world to find intel for Athena, do I? I mean, sure, I’d love a business trip to Italy. I’d just really prefer more of a gelato and gondolas vacay than a guns and cannoli one.
A sharp knock breaks into my thoughts.
I’m halfway to my door before I realize something isn’t right. It’s not even seven in the morning, and I’m not expecting anyone.
My pulse ticks up. I glance around my apartment. For what, I don’t know. But after the last few days, my nerves are on edge.
Another knock. “Maintenance.”
I frown. Maintenance? I peek through the peephole and see a person wearing a hat with a maintenance company logo, but the
brim is pulled too low to see the face.
“I didn’t put in any service requests,” I say.
“A neighbor reported a leak in the apartment above you,” the voice says. “It’s sewage.”
Ew. I think about the water stain over my bed. I unbolt the door and open it—only to find Athena standing there. Wearing a
blue maintenance shirt. A hat. A patch that says her name is “Bob.”
“Morning,” she says breezily, walking past me like she owns the place. She drops a tool bag on the floor without breaking
stride.
“Come on in?” I close the door behind her, stunned.
This is not protocol. Athena has never come to my apartment before. Our meetings have always been in public—casual drop-ins at a coffee shop or library. Places where the exchange of information can pass unnoticed.
But this? This isn’t casual. This is a flag on fire.
Especially since I’d messaged her twice—and got radio silence in return.
“Sorry to surprise you,” she says, scanning my cramped apartment with those sharp, assessing eyes.
The scrutiny of my meager furnishings makes me feel uncomfortable. My apartment is mostly essential. Items collected at garage
sales and thrift stores. There are only two things I purchased absolutely brand-new, my mattress and couch. Somewhere around
the age of ten, after my mom and I had moved eight times, I learned the value of sleeping on furniture that didn’t host a
colorful display of stains and odors.
Her gaze lingers on the stack of bills by the microwave. I swipe them into a drawer, suddenly unsure if I’m embarrassed, annoyed . . .
or just alarmed.
“What are you doing here”—I raise an eyebrow at the fake name tag on her shirt—“Bob?”
“I wanted to catch you before you left for work,” Athena says, moving to my window like she’s casing the street. “We need
to talk about your trip to Italy.”
“I don’t think I’m going.”
Her head whips toward me. “Why not?”
“I was thinking I’d get more done here. With Mr. Edmond and Sebastian out of the office, I could go through files. I overheard
Sebastian and his father arguing over finances. Sounded like it might have something to do with Sebastian’s crypto company.
It felt off. I can dig around, see what’s going on—”
“You’re going with them,” Athena cuts in. Her voice is calm but firm. “There’s been a development.”
She shifts the blinds again. I cross the room, more uneasy than before. Outside, a neighbor is tossing trash into the dumpster.
Totally normal. Which only makes this weirder.
“What kind of development?” I ask.
“We lost the museum lead,” Athena says, crossing her arms. “Whoever stopped you from getting into the museum library the other
night stopped us from getting the information we needed about the deal Ramirez is making with Edmond.”
Guilt scrapes the back of my throat. If I’d gone upstairs sooner, figured out a better way to plant the listening device.
If I hadn’t been distracted by . . .
“We’re still working to identify them,” Athena continues. “But based on other intel, we’re working under the assumption that
someone else wanted access to that office for the same reasons we did—for information about the deal. That’s your assignment.
We’re not just interested in Ramirez. We already know he’s a criminal. We want the details behind the deal. What it is. What
Edmond and Ramirez’s role is. And who else might be involved.”
It didn’t surprise me that she had more intel than I did. As a covert asset, I wasn’t looped in on the full scope of a mission.
My original assignment was simple: Find out who Edmond was meeting with. But now it sounds like the focus is shifting—from
tracking Ramirez to dissecting the actual deal. Which means this isn’t just another financial scheme. It’s bigger. The stakes
higher.
Who else might be involved? Ben’s stupid smug face pops into my mind. He’s involved. But how involved? “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say slowly. “Because of—”
“The financial advisor, Craig Miller,” she finishes for me.
Even just hearing the name makes my stomach knot.
“Or should I say Ben Bradley,” she adds, and that name punches harder.
I swallow.
“He said he uses aliases to protect his clients,” I offer apologetically.
Athena shrugs, too casual. “That’s not unusual with his clientele. Politicians. CEOs. Oil magnates. He’s built a career helping
the wealthy, powerful, and criminally connected hide their money.”
Hearing her describe what Ben does sounds a lot different than the way he described it to me yesterday in the restroom. He’s a financial advisor, which in and of itself is a solid career choice, but then you add in his clients . . . and that’s where it gets confusing.
The Ben I remember was always jumping headfirst into whatever scheme he and Rex came up with, without a thought to the consequences
that might follow. More than once, their tricks on me earned both of them extra chores from Uncle Buddy.
“There are still some things we’re working out.” Athena’s gaze goes distant. “But for now, we think Craig Miller might be
useful.”
My jaw tightens. “Useful how?”
“Given your history, I think he could be an . . . asset.”
The word lodges like glass. An asset? I glance down at the ring on my thumb—my dad’s ring. When we were twelve, the chain
I wore it on snapped while I was playing near the edge of a ravine behind Aunt Renee’s house. I watched it tumble down, hitting
rock and brush before disappearing into the undergrowth.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. That ring was all I had left of my father.
Before I could even react, Ben was already scrambling down the slope. No rope. No plan. Just a twelve-year-old boy with dirt-crusted
sneakers and zero survival instincts. He came back bleeding from a cut above his brow, covered in scratches, and grinning
like he’d just won a medal.
Ben earned two stitches, a lecture from Uncle Buddy, and a weeklong grounding. “Worth it,” he told me.
Back then, I thought he did it to show off. That he was seeking attention by doing something risky, but it was just his personality.
He’s always been the kind of person who jumps straight into the ravine and doesn’t stop to wonder if he can climb back out.
Is that what’s happened here? How did he get tangled up with Lorenzo Ramirez? Does he see the edge to pull himself out?
“You want me to use him?” I ask, still looking at the ring. “To get information?”
“We want you to do exactly what you’ve been doing,” Athena says.
“Stay close to Mr. Edmond. He’s your alibi.
But keep your ears open. Ben—Craig Miller—doesn’t make his money working for the good guys.
He’s working directly with Ramirez on this deal.
If he trusts you, he might let something slip. That’s the information we
need.”
My stomach churns.
Athena watches me carefully, like this is some kind of test. I peek at the drawer holding my bills. This is a test I literally
cannot afford to fail.
“On these kinds of trips, I’ll be coordinating meetings and managing paperwork,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Is
there something I need to be looking for specifically?”
Athena exhales, just long enough to let me know she doesn’t have all the answers either. “We’re still working to confirm a
few things, but at this point, just be yourself. Watch. Listen. Do what you’ve been doing and there shouldn’t be any problems.”
My throat tightens. No problems? There’s already a problem, and he’s tall, dark, and exactly the kind of handsome that ruins
your common sense.
I twist my father’s ring again and let out a slow breath.
Ben doesn’t belong in this world—but what if I’m wrong? What if the boy who once climbed down a ravine to rescue a piece of
my heart has climbed into something darker . . . and stayed?
I look at Athena. “Can I trust him?”
She doesn’t even blink. “Trust is optional. Results aren’t.” She grabs her tool bag and heads for the door. “If it helps,
we don’t trust anyone.”
That doesn’t help, but I keep it to myself and watch Bob the maintenance worker walk out of my apartment, leaving me to pack
a suitcase, chase down intel on a criminal empire, and possibly stab a childhood friend with a dessert fork.
Two days in Italy.
What could possibly go wrong?