Her arms fall to her sides. “I’m not the same girl.”
The words slice through me.
She turns to go, and I step ahead of her.
“Wait.”
“Be—Craig,” she corrects herself, and the exhaustion clings to her voice. “I’m sure your mind is spinning with all the ways to tease me, but please—let this night end with a smidge of dignity.”
Guilt rips through me. Is that what she thinks I’d do? Tease her? Sure, I used to. When we were kids. But tonight it felt like slipping back into something comfortable. Familiar. Like I just wanted her to look at me the way she used to—fiery, unfiltered. With just enough teasing to give me hope.
Her posture is stiff, like she’s already bracing herself—against me. It hurts more than I want to admit. I open the door and glance down the hall. It’s empty except for a carry-on suitcase parked outside her door. I step back and gesture. “I wanted to make sure you were safe to leave my room.” I meet her eyes. “Integrity and dignity intact.”
There’s a pause—just a breath—where I think she’s going to say something. But her expression shutters and she walks out.
“Good night,” she says over her shoulder and disappears into her room, taking her suitcase with her.
I’m about to shut my door, but I see the cake. I’m not going to eat it, so I grab the plate and step into the hallway. I set it on a table and go inside my room.
I shut the door, lean against it. The weight of her ring presses into my palm. I turn it over in my fingers.
Cybil’s lying.
Keeping secrets.
And secrets get people killed.
Pulling my cell phone out, I type a message to Ruby:
Get me everything you can find on Cybil Renee Langford.
Chapter 20
Cybil
Lagoverde, Italy
Saturday morning
I’ve lost a lot of things in my life—my sense of direction, self-control around chocolate, and recently, my dignity in more ways than I want to remember. But losing my dad’s ring? That feels like I’m drowning in a lake of poor choices made worse by the fact that I can’t stop my heart from betraying me with every stubborn, foolish beat for BennettfreakingBradley.
Last night was not my finest moment. I was nearly caught snooping in Ramirez’s office and figured climbing over a second-story balcony was marginally better than ending up in a car trunk. That plan unraveled—naturally—when someone locked the office door, leaving me trapped on the balcony ledge with exactly one option: shimmy along the narrow ledge to the first open door not being guarded. Of course it would be Ben’s room.
The morning sunlight streams through the lace curtains, painting a delicate pattern on the hardwood—the same floor I crumpled to after sneaking off early this morning to search the office. The door was open, giving me the perfect chance to retrieve the ring. But after crawling around like a B-list burglar under desks and furniture? The hard truth hit me square in the chest—the ring is gone.
Heartache is currently in a cage match with fear, and fear is winning by a knockout. If someone found that ring—someone like Rook or, heaven help me, Ramirez—would they believe me if I said, “Oh, I just dropped it while doing absolutely nothing suspicious”? That feels like the kind of excuse that gets you a first-class seat on the next missing persons documentary.
It’s not like I can report it missing without also filing for witness protection. Or, you know, faking my death and moving to a goat farm in Wales.
I rub the bare spot on my thumb. My ring. The one thing I’ve held on to through every life detour, heartbreak, and late-night identity crisis. I need to find it. I need it back. And I need to figure out how to do that without tipping off the criminal network sleeping down the hall.
Someone must’ve found the ring. But who? And would they believe I lost it during the meeting? Mr. Edmond is my safest ally. Hopefully.
I push myself off the floor. I spent half the night trying to forget the smug look on Ben’s face when he caught me midfall like some action hero. Or the way his eyes glimmered with concern, confusion, and something deeper. Something dangerous. Something I used to dream about before I knew what it meant to lose.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?”
He asked it like he meant it. Like if I told him the truth—told himeverything—he’d fix it. Just like he did with the butterflies.
