“Betty?”
Sybil’s eyes flared, and she pressed herself against him and stood on her tiptoes so she could hear too. Zeke wrapped his free arm around her to pull her closer.
“No, sorry,” the woman said. “I’m sorry, is this Zeke Rodriguez?”
Zeke shot a look down at Sybil, who glanced back at him indicating she didn’t have a clue either.
“Yes, this is Zeke.”
“Right, okay, I apologize, I thought I was going to go to voice mail. It’s New Year’s Eve,” she said. “Sorry, I’m a little off my game. But this is Annabeth Collins, fromThe Macon Telegraph? Again, I’m so sorry, I honestly was just prepared to leave you a message. I didn’t mean to bother you tonight.”
Now he and Sybil were practically levitating together. She was bouncing on the balls of her feet; he was squeezing her arm.
“No, no, Annabeth, amazing! There’s no better time.”
“I just got back from vacation,” she said. “And I got your email. And…wait, is this reallyZeke Rodriguez?”
Zeke winked at Sybil as if to say,I told you this would work. He’d forgotten that just a few minutes ago, he was moored in ambivalence over his fame.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s me. Although there are other Zeke Rodriguezes, just to be clear.”
“My dad is a huge Mets fan,” she said. “God, sorry to be so unprofessional, I just had to at least say that.”
“Thank your dad,” he said.
“He’s going to freak.” Then she cleared her throat and pivoted. “Anyway, sorry, okay, with that out of the way, after I got your email, I went back through my notes, wanted to see if I had anything that could help you. Are you just curious about what happened? I heard movie producers might be interested.”
“Oh,” Zeke said. “Well, no, actually, I am friends with Betty.”
“Betty?”
Elizabeth, Sybil mouthed. They were standing outside a twenty-four-hour Duane Reade, and she nudged her head toward the entrance. Her nose was ruby red, and her cheeks even redder. The automatic door whooshed open, and the rush of heat felt something like heaven.
“Elizabeth,” he corrected.
“Oh, the youngest.” Annabeth paused. “I didn’t realize she had turned up somewhere.”
“Well, actually, she’s gone,” he said. “And we’re trying to figure out why. And also if she’s okay.”
There was a long gap on the other end of the line, and Zeke wondered if she’d hung up on him.
Finally, he heard her exhale.
“Listen, there are some rumors,” she said. “They’re unsubstantiated, and I could never print them, but you know they neverofficiallyfound Pastor Jones either.”
“Presumed dead, I thought?”
“Presumed,” she said, and let it hang there. Then another long sigh. “Look, I’d rather not get into all of this at eleven thirtyp.m.on New Year’s Eve when I’m jet-lagged and maybe being catfished by a man who claims he is Zeke Rodriguez.”
“I reallyam,” he said. “I can send you a selfie?
“Actually…look, okay, the rumors were that Jones was up to his neck with tax evasion and money laundering—his treasurer died a few years prior—and a variety of nefarious stuff—”
“Right, we’ve seen the FBI files,” Zeke said. He and Sybil had wandered into the candy aisle, which felt like a sign from Julian.
“Oh wow, okay, you may know more than I do then,” she said. “I don’t know, but it was always my theory that maybe he was the one who set the fire, his way to leave it all behind.” She hesitated again. “Look, this is going to sound nuts, I know, and I swear to god it’s not just to get your autograph for my dad, but…would you want to come down here and see everything for yourself?”
47
