Chapter 37 Cybil
Cybil
Sunday evening
If I had a dollar for every time I told myself, “This is probably fine,” before doing something wildly not-fine, I could pay
off my student loan. At least one of them. Okay, maybe half of one.
Still. Way too many times. But all those other times, I was the only one at risk. This time, it’s more than my life at risk.
I take a curve a little too fast, my tires skimming the gravel. A mile marker blurs by, followed by the smear of what remains
of an armadillo that clearly didn’t make a great decision today.
“You’re sure this will work?” I ask, voice low.
Ben’s answer comes too fast. Too sure. “I trust you.”
I grip the wheel tighter, knuckles paling. The plan should work. Ben’s confident tone assures me it has all the makings of a covert success, but there’s one problem.
Me.
Two weeks ago, when Ben’s smug face came back into my life, I would have had no problem with the plan. Nine days ago, when
Ben found me in Italian velour splattered with smashed fruit and tried to cover up his laughter at my expense, I might’ve
hesitated, but today?
Today, after Ben’s confession, my heart hasn’t stopped doing this swoopy, fluttery thing. Romantic in theory. Completely inconvenient when you need to fake confidence in front of a mobster.
“You’re sure I’m the right person for this?” I ask. “Because there’s a fine line between brilliantly unhinged and ‘Please
notify next of kin.’”
Ben’s laugh crackles over the line. “You’re the one I want.”
My heart swoops even though he’s not saying it in the way my heart wants to believe. “That’s brave considering you could probably
pick someone who doesn’t still daydream about payback involving hot sauce and duct tape.”
“You dream about me?”
His voice is teasing, rich, and far too smug for someone who’s trusting me with his life. I roll my eyes and will my heartbeat
back to normal. “Not in a ‘you’d enjoy it’ kind of way.”
He laughs, low and pleased with himself. “That sounds like denial, Langford.”
“That sounds like ego, Miller.”
“You wound me.”
“Not yet,” I say, but I’m smiling now. The tension in my chest eases—not gone, but quieter.
It’s crazy how easy it is to fall under his charm, but this time it feels different. I have more information. I have the truth.
Bennett Bradley cared about me—still does. And now he’s asking me to—
“Hey, I’m getting a call from the office. Text me when you make it home.”
“Sure.”
“It’s going to be okay, Billy.”
The call ends and now I’m just . . . alone. In a car. With a bag full of food my aunt Renee insisted I take with me because
nothing solves all your problems like ten pounds of smoked meat coupled with three pounds of potato salad. I promised Uncle
Buddy I’d be back to make his peach cobbler, but my promise felt hollow after the secret meeting at the farmhouse. Kind of
hard to commit to dessert when you might not live to see Sunday.
Am I really just supposed to go home, turn on a rom-com, and pretend like I’m not neck-deep in a national security threat and unresolved feelings? There should be a manual for this part: So You’ve Just Fallen for a Spy—Now What?
It would certainly include chapters like:
Chapter 1: Weaponize Flirting—When Winking Is a Tactical Risk
Chapter 2: How to Hold a Gun and a Grudge Simultaneously
Chapter 3: Always Have an Exit Strategy—For Your Mission, Your Alias, and Your Stupid, Stupid Heart
I reach for the radio—anything to drown out the spiral—when my phone rings.
My heart stutters when I see the name on the screen. Earl Edmond.
Why is he calling me?
Do I answer?
Do I not answer?
I thought I was ready for the plan, but this was not part of the plan. I’m not supposed to talk to my boss until tomorrow. When I’ve had a chance to rehearse what I’m
going to say.
Chapter 4: How to Answer a Call from Your Crime-Suspect Boss Without Sounding Like You’re Actively Having a Panic Attack
I answer. “Hello?”
“Cybil?”
“Mr. Edmond, yes, sir.”
My voice sounds way too calm for someone sweating through her tank top at a red light.
“I apologize for calling you on the weekend, and I do hope you’re feeling better.”
Lie. Tell him you’re still not feeling good and HANG UP! “I’m better.”
Ugh.
Chapter 5: When Your Southern Manners Override Your Survival Instincts
“Good. I need you to come by the lake house.”
The lake house? Before tonight, this wouldn’t be an absurd request. I’ve been to Edmond’s home, his lake house, his country
club, all in the name of collecting intel for Athena. But . . . “Tonight?”
“Yes.”
The way he says it—steady, expectant—makes my skin prickle.
Still, I try to keep my tone light. Unbothered, when internally I’m screaming, This is not part of the plan! “I—I’m actually just heading home now. I’m pretty tired, so if we can discuss this tomorrow or maybe at work on Monday—”
“No. This conversation needs to happen tonight. Between you and me.”
The words land like a fist to the gut. I grip the wheel tighter, heart thudding in my ears. I have to get out of this. “What
about tomorrow?” I try, weaker this time. “I can come by in the morning.”
“Cybil.”
That’s all he says. Just my name. Flat. Heavy. Like a warning and a test rolled into one. “You’ve worked hard to earn my trust.
I’d hate for that to change.”
My breath catches. Not loud, but enough.
This isn’t a request. This is a line in the sand. I don’t want to exaggerate my role, but the only way SNAP or the FBI gets
access to the evidence on Ramirez’s laptop is if I show up at that auction. I kind of need to be alive for that to happen.
I don’t know why Mr. Edmond wants me at his lake house or what the conversation’s about. If Ramirez is suspicious of me, it’s
possible Mr. Edmond is too. But the only way I can find out is to go.
Edmond’s lake house sits tucked along the wooded shoreline of Cedar Creek Lake, just over an hour southeast of Dallas. A long
gravel drive winds through iron gates and towering pines before revealing a sleek, low-slung structure that’s less cozy lakeside
cabin and more architectural flex. Steel, glass, and money, perched with enough space between neighbors to bury secrets—or
bodies—without anyone noticing.
It’s beautiful.
And eerily quiet.
My car crunches across the gravel drive as I try calling Ben again, but the cell signal is useless out here—too many trees, too middle of nowhere.
I cut the engine and scan the front of the house.
The sunlight is blocked by the canopy of trees, filtering down in patches that shimmer across the house’s floor-to-ceiling windows.
I can see into the home’s curated modern aesthetic, and even though I don’t see anyone, I can’t shake the feeling that someone can see me.
Before I get out of the car, I send a message to Joy and Marcos telling them where I’m at, because if this is where it ends
for me—alone, unarmed, and one bad choice away from a shallow grave—I at least want them to know where to look for my body.
I knock once and a light flicks on right before the door swings open.
“Come in,” Mr. Edmond says, stepping aside.
He’s in jeans and a linen button-down, sleeves rolled. Casual. Relaxed. The perfect uniform for someone who wants you to feel
safe right before you disappear.
Get a grip, Cybil. You’re not starring in a Netflix docuseries. Yet.
With that little self–pep talk, I follow him through the glass-paneled entryway into a sprawling open-concept living room
that blends seamlessly into a chef’s kitchen straight out of a luxury magazine. No matter how many times I’ve been here, I
can’t help admiring the place. For whatever reason, my eyes catch on a bowl of lemons sitting dead center on the marble island—so
ordinary, so bright, so aggressively cheerful.
He opens the refrigerator and pulls out a pitcher of lemonade, then takes two glasses from a cabinet. “Just made this today.”
I stay on my side of the kitchen island, counting how many steps it would take to get to the front door. Twenty-five at a
normal pace. Ten if I sprint. A thousand slow, dragging ones if I’m poisoned.
My heart stutters when he reaches for a knife from the butcher block.
“I apologize for calling you over here unexpectedly,” he says, taking a lemon from the bowl and slicing it in half, then again.
“But I’m afraid we’ve run out of time.”
He drops a lemon wedge into each glass before filling them with lemonade.
I don’t touch mine.
He takes his to the living room, settles into a chair, and waits for me to follow. I do, carefully, noting that the closest
exit now is the set of French doors leading to the lake.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Edmond?”
“Are you sure you’re feeling better, Cybil?”
It’s the look in his eyes that always undoes me—genuine concern, calm and steady. Mr. Edmond might work with unsavory business
partners, and while I don’t know the extent of his own criminal entanglements, he’s always taken a fatherly interest in me.
That’s what makes him dangerous. Not the power. Not the money. The kindness that feels real enough to make me forget who he
is.
“I’m tired, sir. Ready to get home.”
He sips his lemonade and then sets the glass on the side table. It’s then I notice a very sharp letter opener lying on a stack
of opened envelopes. It was Mr. Edmond in the lake house with the letter opener.
“You look nervous.”
Do I? Do I look like I’m not thrilled to be featured in a true crime documentary? “I’m fine.” Will that be what goes on my tombstone? “Cybil Langford—She’s fine.”
“I won’t waste your time. You aren’t who I thought you were.”
The room seems to tilt.
My pulse jackhammers against my rib cage. I don’t move. I don’t blink.
“You’ve been working for me long enough for me to notice your behavior. The way you handle my business. Your discretion. Commitment.
You’ve never given me reason to question your loyalty.”
I keep my expression smooth. Measured. Internally, I’m halfway to planning an escape route that ends with me diving into the
lake and faking my death just to stay alive.