“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, butthe 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.
