Cybil stares out the windshield, unbothered. “Define ‘confess.’”
I let out a sharp breath. “Let’s start with something simple. Do you hate chocolate?”
A pause.
“Open my glove box.”
I do and it’s stuffed with bags of M&M’s. I swing a look at her. “Did you eat the chocolate cake in Italy?”
She shrugs. “You said you didn’t want it.”
“You said you didn’t like chocolate.”
She turns, a slow smile forming. “And you believed me. That’s on you,Miller.”
“And the cat you risked your life trying to rescue in Lagoverde?”
She shrugs, not even bothering to look apologetic.
“Unbelievable.” I sit back in my seat. “It was you in the museum that night, wasn’t it?”
“You saw me, didn’t you?”
“I mean, upstairs. Trying to break in. You were the one in black.”
“If you’re asking if I was the one who gave you the slip”—her lips tip up—“then yes, that was me.”
“I think I remember you not getting inside,” I say smugly, but then I sit up. “Wait, was the bike crash on purpose? Were you following me?”
“It was not on purpose.”
“Remind me to reach out to our international operations division and pull a video of that moment,” I say teasingly. “Might be my favorite memory.”
“Mine was the wolf with the hunky six-pack,” Cybil says with a sigh, and jealousy flares in my chest.
“Was it boredom?” I ask, wanting to forget that particular moment in Italy. “Or some deep-seated desire to tangle with arms dealers and egomaniacs?”
“What?”
“The reason you work for SNAP.”
She smiles, barely. “It’s the money.”
I wait.
“And the whole justice thing,” she adds after a beat. “But yeah. The money doesn’t hurt when you have a mountain of student loans and a mom with ADHD who treats impulse shopping like a coping mechanism. One bad day and suddenly we owned six Himalayan salt lamps and a Texas-shaped waffle maker.”
I laugh. I shouldn’t. But it’s her delivery. Dry. Perfect.
She sighs and finally looks at me. “When I left for college, my mom spiraled. I think she relied on me to keep her life on track—bills, work, all of it. Without me, things slipped. I used my student loans to cover her bills, worked two jobs just to stay afloat, and by the time I graduated, the debt was unmanageable. I mean, canned soup by candlelight wasn’t exactly the goal I had for myself.”
I know that. Cybil was going places, and it crushes me to hear how much she’s struggled.
“I needed a job that paid the bills, allowed me to heat my soup.” She smiles. “SNAP offered to pay me well and I get to help take down bad people.”
“And it doesn’t bother you? Lying to people?”
“Does it bother you?”
