“I have permission to tell her the truth?”
“Just get her here.”
My fat lip and bruised nose tell me Cybil might be more dangerous than Kentucky Fried if I try to get her to Dallas without telling her why.And she can shoot.“She’s not going to get into the car to go with me to Dallas without knowing why.”
“You don’t have to get her to Dallas.” The line crackles. “There’s an abandoned property at the end of Highway 39. I’ll send you the address.”
Highway 39? “You’re here?”
“Take the back road to pull in,” Ruby answers without answering. “See you soon.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone, then at Cybil.
If Ruby’s here in Cypress Creek, it’s not a check-in—it’s because something went wrong, and fast. And all I need to do is get Cybil to the edge of town without her asking any questions I can’t answer.
Sure, no problem.I should’ve taken my chance with Kentucky Fried.
Chapter 35
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 thatIwas the one who brokehisheart. 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 fromDatelineexplains, “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.”
