Chapter 35 Cybil
Cybil
Cypress Creek, Texas
Sunday afternoon
This is how I die. By the man who broke my heart and then in some weird way just randomly confessed to his pistol-toting grandmother
that I was the one who broke his heart. The car ride is silent except for Ben giving me directions.
“You’ll take the next left.”
It’s a dirt road in the middle of farmland and my gut is telling me to yank the wheel around and go back to town where there
are witnesses. But do I do that? Noooo. Like every solid damsel in a horror movie, I just keep driving to the destination of my murder and simply ask, “Where are
we going again?”
Ben shifts in his seat next to me. Whoever called him on the phone shifted his easygoing demeanor into tight ridges and hard
lines across his face. I should be freaked out. I still don’t know if Ben is working for the FBI or if his illegal activities
working for Ramirez have put the FBI’s spotlight on him. If it’s the former, I should survive. If it’s the latter, then I’m
praying there are federal agents watching us from the tree line a few miles away.
“My parents wanted me to pick up Buddy’s gift.”
His voice is tight, and he doesn’t look at me. Instead, his eyes are tracking the landscape around us with each passing mile like he’s watching for someone. The FBI? Or Ramirez?
This is the part where the narrator from Dateline explains, “She had no idea that the danger wasn’t in front of her—it was riding shotgun.” Why am I not pulling over and demanding
that Ben get out of my car? I’m the one driving. I see a ditch ahead. Maybe I can convince him to unbuckle his seat belt and
then hit the gas so fast it knocks his head into the dash?
My heart pinches. Ugh. The first rule in avoiding murder is not to feel sorry for the murderer. I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to die. I
want . . . answers.
Yes. This is how women survive murder, right? Get the killer talking, distract him, then run like the last deviled egg just
hit the church’s potluck table.
“Is it true?”
“What?”
“You showed up at the oak tree and waited for me?”
Ben sighs. “Until Buddy came to get me.” He looks over at me. “The whole time I was waiting I thought maybe I went to the
wrong tree or that you were still getting ready and I kept thinking how silly that was because you were already so pretty.”
Do not get weepy, Cybil Renee Langford, I scold myself when my eyes start to water and my heart begins to swoon. This is exactly how Stockholm syndrome works.
“But you left.” His voice is soft and tender. “And now I know it’s because of me.”
I blow out a shaky breath. “It wasn’t your fault. I mean, yeah, your words hurt, but I was young and clearly had my own insecurities.”
“Cybil, you have to know that I would never, ever try to hurt you. Then. Or now.”
Now? Would someone say that if they were leading me to my death?
If they did, that’s extra cruel, and nothing about who I know Ben to be is cruel.
Even when he filled my shower with worms. Ben was a prankster, annoying, a pest worse than a fly at a barbecue, but he was also kind, gentle, and, yes, ridiculously good looking and charming. But there was nothing cruel about him.
“Please believe me.”
The pleading in his voice causes me to slow down my vehicle so I can face him. And maybe make a run for it if I need to. Deep
down, I don’t think he would ever hurt me, but the men he might work for certainly could.
I put the car in Park and Ben doesn’t object. So he’s not in a hurry to see me harmed. That’s gotta be good, right? “I want to believe you.”
Ben’s hand reaches across the console and takes mine. “I was a dumb kid trying not to let his best friend know I was head
over heels gaga for his cousin. You were smart. Driven. And way too good for a boy like me with dirt on his boots and no real
plan. I watched you grow into someone who carried the weight of your family and made something out of the chaos. I never stopped
seeing you as the strongest person I knew.” His thumb runs over my knuckles and I’m hanging on to every word as if it’s a
balm to my soul. “You didn’t settle. You persevered and I wanted to be someone worthy of standing next to you.”
His eyes are soft but serious.
“What you heard that night? What I said to Rex . . . it wasn’t about you. It was about me. I was scared. Scared that I was
going to give you my whole heart, and you’d leave—because I knew you were meant for big things. You were always going to make
the world bend to your will. And I thought I’d be left behind, proud but watching from a distance.”
I stare at our hands, trying to wrap my head around what he’s saying. It sounds real. Too real. And for a second, I forget
I’m supposed to be suspicious. For a second, I just want to believe every word like it’s gospel.
“I don’t know what to do with that,” I whisper, my voice tighter than I want it to be. “You’re saying those things . . . It’s
what I always wanted to hear. Back then. Maybe even now.”
I finally look at him. Really look at him. The charming Ben who lives life like it’s a joke is a lot easier to handle than the one sitting across from me now. His eyes are steady, full of quiet intensity that feels more dangerous to me than any lie.
But in the end, there are lies. Between both of us.
“The problem is, I don’t know if that’s you talking, or Craig Miller.” I take my hand back gently. “I need the truth, Ben.
And if you care about me the way you say you do, you’ll stop hiding behind whatever or whoever you’re trying to protect.”
Ben turns away from me and looks out the window. I don’t know what he’s thinking, and for the first time I feel like I want
to take it back. Like the tides have shifted and no matter what he says, it’s going to change everything.
“Do you trust me?”
I swallow. “What?”
He faces me, reaches for my hand, and squeezes it with gentle strength. “Do you trust me?”
I don’t want to be the kind of woman who gets swept away by feelings alone. I know better than that. Trust is earned—it’s
steady and proven, not just felt. So I’ve held it close, like armor. Treating it like precious currency, knowing that once
it’s lost, it’s almost impossible to earn back.
It’s ironic. Here I am, worried about Ben’s trustworthiness, when I’m fully engaged in my own web of lies. But it’s different,
right? I spy on bad men. Dangerous, corrupt men. They’re not people I love. They’re not people who can shatter me with a single
broken promise. I know the risks and I accept them.
Betrayal from a stranger is a transaction. Betrayal from someone you love is a wound.
I didn’t go to the oak tree that night because I was afraid. Afraid that if I gave Ben my trust, I’d end up like my mom—heartbroken
and betrayed. But if I had gone, I would’ve heard the truth. That he cared. That he was afraid too.
And now I’m sitting in this car, holding the hand of the boy I once ran from and the man I don’t know if I can run toward,
wondering if I can trust him now.
Exhaustion weighs on me. No one tells you how heavy the burden is to protect yourself. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe trust is like love, not something you guard, but something you offer. Grounded not in certainty but in faith.
“Yes,” I whisper, and I’m surprised by how much I mean it.
A second of silence passes, and Ben’s expression shifts from surprise to relief. He gives my hand another squeeze before releasing
it and pointing ahead.
“See that barn? That’s where we’re headed.”
The barn he’s indicating is a dilapidated structure with peeling paint and half a roof. There’s a tractor on the side that’s
nearly buried by overgrown grass and weeds. And the kind of place the Dateline narrator would call “remote, eerily quiet . . . and the last place she was seen alive.”
“Trust me, Cybil.”
I take a steadying breath and accelerate toward the barn. My tires bump over the cattle crossing bars and I’m surprised to
see a small farmhouse tucked behind the barn. It’s invisible from the road. It looks dark and empty. Have I just made the
worst mistake of my life?
“She was blinded by old attraction and a charming jawline.”
I shut off the Dateline narration and park. Ben unbuckles his seat belt, but I stay where I am. If he’s telling the truth, I don’t need to go inside,
right?
“You coming?”
“Nah, I’ll just wait here.”
Ben’s lip quirks. “Cybil, it’s going to be okay.”
“I’m sure that’s what every murderer tells his victim right before he strangles her.”
“You think I’m going to kill you?” Ben laughs, but when he sees I’m not laughing, he stops. “You’re serious.”
“You haven’t exactly been honest with me, Craig.” I look at the farmhouse and frown. Was that movement in the window? My heart
drops into my stomach. Is Ramirez there? Rook? “What are we doing here, because I know it’s not to pick up a gift for my uncle.”
Ben looks back at the farmhouse and I’m pretty sure gives a shake of his head. The front door opens, and my jaw unhinges when Athena walks out.
“What in the world?”
“Stay here.”
Ben gets out of the car and closes the door behind him. He takes a step toward Athena and then stops, his posture rigid like
he’s preparing for a fight. I quickly unbuckle my seat belt and get out too.
“I said to stay in the car,” he calls over his shoulder.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Athena.
“Come inside, Cybil.”
“You know her?” Ben asks, confused.
“Yes, but I don’t know why she’s—”
I stop when I see another woman appear in the doorway behind Athena.
“It’d probably be safer if you two come inside now.”
Ben waits for me, and together we walk up to the old farmhouse. The floorboards groan under our steps. The scent of mildew
and old wood is thick in the air as we step inside. Sunlight filters in through the broken slats and filthy windows.
Another woman stands just behind a table—tall, blond, and serious, with the kind of posture that says she’s not here for polite
conversation. I flick a look toward Athena. She gives me a small, reassuring nod—the kind that says, “You’re safe—or at least, not dying today.”
“Hello, Cybil,” the blonde says, her voice crisp enough to chill a glass of sweet tea. “It’s nice to meet you finally.”
I don’t respond. I just move to stand beside Athena, like my body has decided who it trusts before my brain can catch up.
Ben notices. There’s a flicker of hurt in his eyes, and then it’s gone so fast I wonder if anyone else saw it.
And someone did. The dark-haired woman standing between Ben and the blonde. She looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place how I know her.
What I do notice is how carefully she’s watching me. Not with open suspicion, but with some kind of quiet scrutiny that reads
like a warning.
“Cybil.” Athena gestures to the woman staring at me. “This is Ruby Knight.” Ruby barely gives me a nod. “And this is Katherine Scott, Special Agent in Charge, Organized Crime and Counterintelligence with the FBI.”
My stomach tightens. I glance at Ben, who’s watching me. So. FBI. I don’t even have a chance to react to the relief rushing
through me or the emotion building in my chest, because Ben shifts his attention to Athena.
He steps forward, his posture tight, voice low and controlled. “And you are?”
There’s no charm, no grin.
Athena doesn’t flinch. She meets his gaze with that unbothered calm that makes people either trust her or want to run. “It’s
not necessary for our purposes here.”
Ben doesn’t blink. “That’s not a name.”
Athena arches a brow, then finally says, “You can call me Athena.”
The look on his face reveals he knows she’s not being honest. “And you work for?”
She lets a second pass. “The Strategic Neutralization and Protection Agency—Global Division.”
Ben exhales sharply, but it’s not relief—it’s wariness. “You’re private sector?”
“Yes, but we also do work for the government when necessary.” She holds his gaze. “Sometimes we’re contracted by agencies,
sometimes by individuals or corporations.” She pauses, then adds, “It depends on the mission, but our objective is the same.
Keep people safe and strategically neutralize threats.”
“And you?” He turns to me. “You’re a spy?”
“And you’re FBI.”
His brown eyes narrow on me, but they’re not accusatory. There’s a flash of amusement shining in them when he says, “It was
you in the museum.”
“It was you in the museum,” I answer back.
“You’ve been undercover this whole time?”
“Only when you’re around, Craig Miller,” I say sweetly.
“Well, this feels like a weird first date,” Ruby says, swishing her hand at a fly. “But can we get back to why we’re here?”
“Yes,” Katherine Scott says. “Let’s talk about how the two of you are going to work together to protect national security—without
letting your complicated history turn it into a classified disaster.”