“We need to find out who this guy is, Cybil. Someone could be looking for him—maybe Ramirez?”
My eyes flash to my surroundings. Dark, isolated, perfect spot to kill me. I look back at the unconscious man and groan. “Sir, I’m just going to check your pockets for identification,” I say in case he can hear me. He lets out a snore and I jump, smacking my head against the car frame. “I hate this.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“You’re not the one groping an unconscious man.” I decide to check his suit jacket pockets first. Sliding my hand between his jacket and chest, I’m not prepared for the heat radiating off his body. It’s like I stuck my hand inside a sauna. I quickly search the first interior pockets and find nothing. My gaze slides to his pants pockets.
Just do it fast.
With a deep breath, I reach for his back pocket and squeeze my eyes shut as I pat them down. “I’m so sorry, sir.”
“Cybil, can you hurry instead of apologizing?”
“I’m going as fast as I can.” I grit my teeth and give his front pockets a G-rated patting. “He doesn’t have a wallet.”
“Cell phone?”
I back away from the car. “Nothing.”
“Take a picture of his face and send it to me.”
I snap a quick photo, send it, and begin pacing. If I’ve ever had any delusions about being some kind of elite undercover agent, this disaster has just smacked me upside the head with reality. Hard.There’s an unconscious man in my back seat.
How has my life gone so completely sideways?
I was just supposed to get names. That’s all. Simple. Easy. Or at least it should’ve been—until Ben showed up. Ever since his perfectly smug face showed up at the museum, my carefully laid-out plan has turned into a chaotic mess of close calls, unexpected complications, andwaytoo much eye contact for someone who’s working for the enemy.
Have I been duped?
The question sends bile into my throat, and I don’t feel well.
“Cybil, I need you to listen to me andnotpanic.”
“Whywould you say that?” My voice shoots up an octave.
“Because I need you to stay calm.”
My heart is racing. “You don’t tell someone with an unconscious man in their back seat not to panic unless there’s areallygood reason to panic.”
Athena exhaled. “He’s an FBI agent.”
The world around me tilts, my knees turning to jelly, and I lurch for the back of my car, puking.I will never eat fettuccine ravioli again.Who am I kidding—they don’t serve that in prison. I’m going to prison. I heave again, emptying what’s left in my stomach on the side of the road.
“Cybil, you’re going to be okay.”
Tears sting my eyes. “I kidnapped an FBI agent, Athena. Nothing is going to be okay.”
“Technically,hegot into yourcar,” she says dryly.
“That won’t hold up in court,” I say, repeating her earlier words. “I’m going to jail. This is it. This is how I go down. They’re going to put me in handcuffs, a jumpsuit. I don’t even look good in orange—”
“Cybil.” Athena’s voice cuts through my spiral. “You’re not going to jail. Focus. Why would an FBI agent be at the cocktail party?”
I wipe my mouth and lean against the car, feeling unsteady. “How would I know?”
“Think. You were at a cocktail party with a curated guest list. You got names, right?”
It takes a few seconds for my brain to focus on what Athena is asking. “Yes, a few.”
