Chapter 31 Cybil
Cybil
Sunday morning
of semis, a couple of night-owl drivers who are probably chugging gas station coffee to stay alert, and me—paranoid, exhausted,
and trying not to look like someone who just dumped a barely conscious FBI agent at a hotel like he was last night’s leftovers.
Athena directed me to go straight home and pack a bag—“But don’t make it look like you’re running away.” So, obviously, I
panic-packed and overanalyzed whether taking a duffel bag or carry-on looked less like a person running away. Or if taking
my lucky hoodie, extra cash, and six pairs of underwear for a two-day trip screamed “normal weekend” or “witness protection
starter kit.”
I strategically left my bed unmade, marked my calendar with a dentist appointment I don’t have for Monday, and left a half-eaten
granola bar on the counter, hoping it looked like I just stepped out for a quick trip and not because I was afraid I’d end up in an unmarked van.
My stomach grumbles. I made the wise decision to stop at Buc-ee’s and grab my favorite pecan praline coffee and the family-size bag of peanut butter M&M’s to keep me company on the drive to my aunt and uncle’s ranch. The caffeine and sugar are definitely not helping me with my nerves.
I clench the wheel, checking my mirrors again. The route to Cypress Creek is second nature, but I’ve still switched roads,
made unnecessary turns, and doubled back twice to check for a tail. No one has followed me. At least, not that I can see.
Every set of headlights in my rearview feels like a possible threat, but unless Ramirez or the FBI has resorted to using rusted-out
Camrys or lifted trucks with bumper stickers about fishing, I’m probably okay. For now.
My cell phone rings through the car speakers, and I jump. Nope, definitely not okay. Totally fine though. Super chill.
I answer. “Hello.”
“Hey, how are you doing?” Athena’s voice is as calm as ever—which is easy to be when you’re not the one whose face is about to be plastered all over the news for discarding an FBI agent at a hotel. I’m sure he’s okay.
Right? If he’s unharmed, then it’s a lesser charge, right?
“Oh, you know, just an ordinary Saturday night—kidnapping an FBI agent, spying on crime bosses, wondering if peanut butter
M&M’s were the right choice for my last meal.”
“First, you’re funny when you’re dramatic. Second, is there a better last meal than chocolate and peanut butter?”
I can’t argue with that logic.
But am I really being dramatic?
“I kidnapped an FBI agent and left him nearly unconscious on a hotel chair.” I track a suspicious-looking minivan that’s been
keeping pace with me for a few miles. “Pretty sure I’m not being dramatic enough—oh, wait, Lorenzo Ramirez might know I’ve
been spying on him.”
“You didn’t kidnap an FBI agent. We pulled the video footage, and he got into your car all on his own.”
I slow down and breathe easier when the van cruises past me. “Will that hold up in court?”
“You watch way too many crime shows.”
“I watch enough to know that circumstantial evidence can get you twenty to life in an orange jumpsuit, and orange is not in my color palette.”
“Cybil, I need you to take a breath and listen to what I’m going to tell you.”
The shift in her tone causes me to straighten in my seat. “I’m listening.”
“And breathing?”
“I’d be dead if I wasn’t.”
Silence.
“Yes.” I blow out an exhale that’s loud enough for her to hear. “I’m breathing.”
“Good, because what I’m about to tell you might make you panic a tiny little bit.”
“We’ve really got to work on your calming techniques.”
“When we were checking to see how the FBI agent got into your car, we spotted your boyfriend, Craig Miller.”
I wrinkle my nose. “He’s not my—never mind. What was he doing?”
“You said he pulled the fire alarm, giving you a chance to get away from Rook, but if he’s working for Rook and they suspect
you, why would he let you go?”
I’ve been trying to work that out too. My brain wants to explain it as nothing more than coincidence, but my heart is holding
out for the more romantic notion that he did it to protect me because he has feelings for me.
“So we tracked Craig’s movements after the fire. He leaves the parking lot and heads down the street. There’s one camera that
gives us a partial view of him walking toward some vehicles, but we can’t see which one is his. Then several minutes later,
he comes back to the restaurant and seems to be looking for someone.”
“Me?”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, but I don’t think so.”
“Then who?” I didn’t see him with anyone else at the cocktail party.
“Don’t know. He never met up with anyone, just walked back down the street again. So we started running the license plates
on all of the vehicles we could see and any that drove away around the same time we can’t see him anymore.”
Something big is coming. I can feel it and I’m not sure my nerves can handle it. “What is it, Athena?”
“Just trying to match your dramatics.”
I grip the steering wheel. “I’ve had enough drama tonight to last me a lifetime.”
“Well . . . we pulled a plate from a van. It took some effort, but we confirmed—it’s the FBI.”
It’s way too late—or is it early?—for my brain to compute what this means. “Right. He’s the one I kidnapped, remember?”
“You really have to stop saying you kidnapped him,” Athena says. “We expected that if an FBI agent is at the cocktail party
for Ramirez, he’d be there undercover and would have a team nearby—though a fat lot of good that did. But it’s interesting
that Ben is near the van. We don’t know if he’s under surveillance or if he’s . . . working for them.”
My heart stalls in my chest. “What do you mean?”
“Our team is very good at finding information on people, Cybil. Exceptionally good. We have a cyber expert who trains the
government’s cyber experts. So when he can’t dig up anything on Ben—or Craig—it sets off alarms.”
“How could you find out that the man I kidnapped was FBI so quickly, but you can’t find out anything about Ben after all this
time? Don’t y’all have them on speed dial or something? Can you just call them and ask?”
“We try very hard not to interfere with other agencies’ work.”
“If there’s ever a time to interfere, Athena, I think it might be to find out if my old childhood friend, the man who’s made
it very difficult for me to do my job for you”—the man I might’ve imagined a whole Disney moment with hours ago—“is a possible FBI agent.”
“Or under their surveillance,” Athena adds solemnly. “Given who Ben’s working for, the easy answer is that he’s on the FBI’s
radar. But here’s the bigger concern—if he is working with the FBI, they’ve buried it deep. We can trace the Bureau’s involvement, but we don’t know the what or why.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “You found out the guy I kidnapped was FBI, but you can’t find out if Ben is?”
“We did get a name for the man you briefly detained. His records were partially sealed, but there were remnants in financial crimes task force logs, older training rosters,
and a blacked-out case file out of DC.”
I blink. “So the FBI didn’t fully wipe him?”
“They wiped enough to keep him off Ramirez’s radar. But our clearance goes deeper. And they didn’t expect us to be looking.”
“But Ben?”
“Nothing. No agency logs. No case mentions. No digital fingerprints. It’s like his name was scrubbed from every channel that
could confirm his identity. And that kind of silence doesn’t happen by accident. It’s deliberate. Protective. And very, very
good.”
The implication of what Athena just said lands with all the weight of a grenade—blowing up any idea that Ben might have feelings
for me. If he’s an FBI agent, he lied. If the FBI is watching him, then he’s not who I thought he was, and I need to stay
as far away from him as possible.
I see the exit for Cypress Creek, and like magic, a restfulness settles over me, drawing me like a magnet to the long country
road.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Sit tight at your aunt and uncle’s house and let us figure out how the FBI’s involved.”
“And what about Ramirez?”
“We’ll keep an eye on him this weekend, and if I get any indication that you’ve been compromised, we’ll intervene.”
“How?”
“Let’s not worry about that now.”
I flip on my blinker and take the exit. “What about my family? Am I putting them in danger by coming here?”
“Your uncle is a former Texas Ranger, right?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be fine.”
And deep down, I know I will be. Uncle Buddy would never let anything happen to me, but I can’t squash the anxiousness that I’m bringing trouble to the only place I’ve ever felt completely safe.
The route to the ranch is second nature. With my mom’s ADHD, I didn’t have a lot of constants in my life growing up, but Buddy
and Renee, my cousin Rex, and their beautiful ranch kept me anchored.
I pull into the long dirt driveway, the sky an inky black, the house dark and peaceful against the Texas night. I feel bad
I’m arriving so late, but Athena told me to take my time getting here so they could monitor if Rook or Ramirez was looking
for me. Or the FBI.
Ben in the FBI? Is that really so far-fetched? I mean, probably less far-fetched than thinking he’s in cahoots with Ramirez.
Unless he is.
But if only one of them could be true . . . obviously I’d want him to be FBI. Right?
Unless—oh, crap.
My brain does a full, panicked highlight reel of all the times I thought I was being slick, and suddenly it’s more of a blooper
reel. The museum library, where I oh-so-casually tried to plant a listening device? He was right there. The balcony in Italy, where I almost died? He only flinched when I fed him the line about the cat because he knew I was
lying. Oh, sweet mercy, the ring excuse. He knew I’d been in Ramirez’s office and saw right through my line before I even finished making it up.
The whole time I was suspicious of him working for Ramirez, and the whole time it had to look like I was neck-deep in his
criminal operation.
But if he isn’t FBI, then I’ve been playing spy with someone who already knows the game and knows how to beat me.
When I see the main house ahead, I cut my car’s headlights and circle around the gravel drive toward the guesthouse in the
back. I park near a large pecan tree and smile when I see the tire swing still hanging from its thick branch. Getting out
of the car, I stretch my back where tightness has seeped into my muscles. I take a deep inhale of the sweet country air, and
it’s impossible not to feel the tug of yearning deep in my soul.
This is what security and stability are supposed to feel like.
Crickets serenade me as I quietly pull my overnight bag out of the back seat along with the grocery bag holding the ingredients
for peach cobbler. In my effort not to look like I was a fleeing fugitive, I swung by the only open grocery store on my way
out of town to grab ingredients for cobbler. It’s my uncle Buddy’s favorite and the one thing he requested when I asked him
what he wanted for his birthday. A familiar request from a simple man in a place that hasn’t changed in years. Which is exactly
why I’ve come here—to pretend that my life still makes sense.
The guesthouse is a cookie-cutter version of the main house. Hand-hewn oak beams and reclaimed barn siding complement the
creamy natural stone of both residences, even though the guesthouse was built just a few years ago.
Adjusting the load in my arms, I squat down to retrieve the key tucked under the edge of the mat. Set a few miles from the
interstate and deep into the hills of Cypress Creek, there isn’t much need for security—at least none Uncle Buddy and his
family can’t provide given they own nearly a hundred acres of riverfront property in all directions from here. I unlock the
door and step in, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender and cedar. Home. Or at least the closest I’ve ever known.
The second I step inside, I feel it.
Something is off.
Then I hear it—the faintest creak of a floorboard.
My stomach drops.
Someone is here.
My heart slams into my ribs. Rook? Ramirez? Have I led them straight to my family? I hold my breath, waiting for the next
sound so I can pinpoint where it’s coming from. Uncle Buddy keeps rifles near the back door of the main house, but the last
thing I want to do is make a run for it and lead whoever is in here with me straight to my aunt and uncle.
A shadow passes and without thinking, I grab the first thing in my grocery bag I can wrap my fingers around—a five-pound sack
of flour—and hurl it at the shadow moving in the corner.
I’m rewarded with a grunt. Then a muffled curse.
The moonlight reflects on the cloud of white floating in the air, coating the intruder like a ghostly specter.
“Son of a—”
A cough muffles the rest of his words, but . . . that voice.
You have got to be kidding me.