45
Night Eighteen
Sybil
December 31st
They still hadn’theard back from theMacon Telegraphreporter, and when they shot an email to Caleb, it bounced an out-of-office back to them. Sybil was getting antsy, losing whatever fitful sleep she could manage, dreaming of dooming scenarios where Betty was in danger. She’d actually doze off for a few minutes, then jolt up, check her texts, as if maybe she were clairvoyant and Betty was trying to reach her in her subconscious. The flip phone charger finally showed up after holiday shipment delays and a lost tracking number waylaid it somewhere at a Los Angeles airport. Sybil was back at her house with Eloise when Zeke called to tell her. He promised he wouldn’t search the phone until she got there.
Eloise was hosting a “small” New Year’s Eve get-together with some of her high school friends, and Sybil had planned to be there, albeit tucked in her bedroom, to ensure nothing went sideways. Mark had evidently already signed off on the idea—convenient, since he wasn’t living in the house anymore—andby the time Eloise informed Sybil, she’d already invited her high school crew.
Now she had to go into the city and trust that Eloise wouldn’t burn down the house. A terrible metaphor given the circumstances but alas, the one that sprang to mind. She swiped mascara over her lashes and thought of all the things she should have said to Mark when he so blithely asked, “What’s the big deal, Eloise is only home for a few more days,” then got out of all the responsibility that came with hosting underage college freshmen on New Year’s Eve.
Her phone buzzed again. Natalie had sent an attachment.
Natalie:They decided to run a different cut of Betty’s commercial nationally. Bigger check, more residuals. No word from her? I wanted to tell her.
Sybil’s heart lurched as she clicked on the link. She hadn’t shared the details of the church fire with Natalie, of the Revivalist upbringing, the implications of where the facts were leading them. Like maybe if she told anyone else, outside her bubble with Zeke, she’d have to see the judgment on their faces, hear the judgment in their voices.Wait,she could hear Natalie say,Betty might have burned down a church? With the congregation inside? I vouched for this girl? I need to get this commercial off the air, the client will murder me.
Sybil wouldn’t blame her.
The video filled her phone screen. Betty looked so beautiful, and Sybil thought maybe she’d forgotten her face, the crystal blue of her eyes, the tapered nose, the shimmery blonde hair. She used two fingers to zoom in on a close-up. No, it wasn’t thatSybil had forgotten. It was that Betty never looked this way around them, as if she were constantly trying to blend in, wearing her own disguise. The realization nicked another piece of her insides. That maybe Betty never trusted her at all; that maybe Bettyhadbeen playing them all along.
Sybil double-clicked the video to give it a thumbs-up, let Natalie know she’d seen it.
By the time she arrived at Zeke’s apartment, she’d watched it no fewer than twenty times, even if it was just a slightly different iteration than the first one. At every stoplight, in the logjam on the bridge into the city. She didn’t have the right to feel so betrayed, and yet, she did.
Zeke greeted her at his door with a party hat, a noisemaker and a flute of champagne.
Sybil’s shoulders were up toward her ears, her jaw tight. But Zeke looked so charming, so exuberant that she didn’t want to kill the vibe. Eloise had accused her of being a “vibe killer” earlier today when Sybil put her foot down at a keg delivery.
She let Pluto off his harness, then clutched the flute stem, and he tinked her glass.
“Happy New Year,” he said, and she thought maybe he was already a little tipsy. Zeke didn’t drink very often, especially not now when his team was laser-focused on his recovery, and even though he was a solid two hundred and thirty pounds, it might not take all that much to turn him a tad swoony. “You look very pretty tonight,” he said, kissing her cheek. His hand moved to that spot on her shoulder she was always rubbing, and he squeezed, like he was letting her know that he noticed.He’d noticed.
“Should we go through the phone before we start drinking?” Sybil replied, though she knew her skin was flushed like she was having a hot flash, and she couldn’t meet his eyes. Didshe look pretty tonight? She had tried to, of course, though the sleeplessness made it a challenge. It thrilled her that Zeke noticed.
“Sure, yes, absolutely.” He closed the door behind her and disappeared, then reemerged with the phone and the type of plug that Sybil probably had in a box in her garage somewhere, a leftover relic she couldn’t part with from a decade earlier. “But in case it’s not obvious, I already started.” He shrugged one shoulder, and his mouth edged up on one side, the sort of smile Charlie, her impish son, knew exactly when to employ to get away with trouble.
In the kitchen, Sybil took a gulp of the champagne just for show, then glanced at their pathetic evidence wall and drank half the glass.
Zeke had plugged the phone in by his espresso maker. Sybil had to don her reading glasses because the screen was so small.
“The last time I had one of these,” Zeke said, “I think I was a senior in high school.”
Sybil didn’t want to tell him that she was so old, the last time she’d had a flip phone was in her residency, already a fully formed adult and heavily pregnant with the twins, while he wasn’t even legally able to vote.
Zeke pressed a series of buttons and landed on the address book.
There was only one entry.
L.
Followed by a number with an area code Sybil didn’t recognize.
“Levi,” Sybil said. “It has to be Levi. I…overheard her calling him on Thanksgiving.”
Zeke narrowed his eyes. “I don’t get the impression she’s used this phone in a while.” He clicked another button, and they returned to the analog home menu.
