There was no doubting it: There, in his text, discovered in a forum in the dark bowels of the internet, was a photo of Betty at Grand Central. In the months since he had tracked Betty down, Julian had paid a source to keep an eye out online, suspecting it would be money well spent.Slow and steady, have patience—he’d learned that at Quantico. And here it was: Someone was looking for her, someone was hunting her. Julian was pretty sure he knew who. He pulled out a pad of paper from the CVS bag, uncapped a Sharpie pen with his teeth. This was the most he could do for now, until he figured out more. Until he figured out not just the who, but the why. Until he could tell Betty who he really was, why he was really watching. He couldn’t spook her now, not when he had finally gotten close and earned a small bit of trust. This would have to do.
In dark black permanent ink, he wrote:RUN.
34
Night Twelve
Sybil
It was pasttwo in the morning when Sybil’s phone buzzed. She and Zeke had abandoned Sudoku to watchHome Alone, “the greatest holiday movie ever,” according to Zeke. Sybil had popped popcorn, and they were sharing a blanket on his couch with their feet touching. The Christmas tree lit up the darkened room, and it was, well, perfect. Everything about it was perfect, or would have been if they had been better rested. Still, Sybil felt a little bit like she was in high school, though she hadn’t dated all that much in high school because she was so type A and also busy micromanaging her siblings while her parents ascended the corporate ranks. Then her phone rang.
Zeke hit pause. “You can take that.”
She glanced at her screen. The only people she would interrupt this moment for were Eloise or Charlie. Possibly Betty too. She didn’t recognize the number. A 312 area code.
“Middle-of-the-night unknown number? No, that feels like the start of a horror movie.”
Zeke laughed, so she laughed and dipped her head onto hisshoulder, then he hit play, and her phone quieted but then started again.
“Go on.” He nudged his chin just as Kevin McCallister was setting his first trap for the thieves.
“Sybil?” The voice, high and quaking. Sybil’s heart rate spiked so high, she would have checked herself in for observation overnight if she were an actual doctor.
“This is she, speaking.”
“It’s Simone, Julian’s daughter. I’m sorry to call so late—”
“No, Simone, don’t apologize, I’m up.” Sybil looked at Zeke, their expressions matching concern. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s my dad.” Her voice broke again. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who else to call. I tried Richard, but he didn’t pick up. I don’t know who else my dad is in touch with anymore. And we just met at Thanksgiving so I thought—”
Sybil was on her feet now, pacing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city. “No, you called the right person. Is your dad okay?”
“No,” she said, and now she was really crying. “No, nothing about this is okay at all.”
“Did something happen?”
“I’m back in Chicago,” Simone said, a non sequitur. “I can’t get there until late morning at the earliest.”
“Simone, honey, what can I do to help? Why do you need to come here? I’m sure I can take care of something with your dad.” Zeke pointed to himself and mouthed,Me too.“And I’m with Zeke actually, so we can both help.”
Simone breathed in and out on the other end of the line, and Sybil took the beat to put the phone on speaker.
“Hi, Simone, it’s Zeke. I’m here.”
Sybil sat right next to him on the couch, pressing her legs into his so there was no space separating the two of them. Sheclutched her phone in her palm while they stared at the screen and waited.
“Honey?” Sybil said. “Are you still there?”
“Yes,” Simone said finally. She audibly exhaled like she was screwing up the nerve to spill whatever she needed to. “Okay, right. I just need to say this because I don’t know what else to do. My dad—” Her voice caught again. “My dad, he was brought to the hospital a few hours ago—”
“What? No, sweetheart, he was with us a few hours ago,” Sybil said, like Simone wasn’t calling with verifiable facts.
“Well, after he left, I don’t know.” Simone hiccupped. “It was a hit-and-run near our apartment.”
“It was a hit-and-run?” Sybil said, like all she could do was mirror tidbits of information back to her.
“It was a hit-and-run,” Simone repeated, her voice slower, dropping in both volume and tone. “The police found my number in his phone.”
