Sybil woke updisoriented, her head resting against the car window, a spot on her shoulder damp from drool. Her shoulder and neck were throbbing, as if sleep hadn’t been what they needed, or at least, sleeping in a clunky sedan for a couple hours wasn’t what she needed. She was parked in a strip mall parking lot in front of a dicey-looking Mexican restaurant with a shattered window. A donut shop with a half-illuminated sign was next door, a shoe repair on the other side. Her neck ached, her temples throbbed, and it took her a moment to recalibrate. Levi was gone, and when she reached between her legs for her phone, that was gone too. She unclipped her seat belt, tilted upside down and checked under her seat, in her purse, in the cup holder.
Is this what Betty felt like? Alone? Untethered? She tried not to panic. One of Sybil’s pride and joys was that, had she ever had the chance to be Chief Resident, to be one of America’s Best Doctors, she would never panic.Shewas the person she wanted in her foxhole.
She was unprepared for the biting air outside, and her skin prickled in rebellion. She’d packed for Los Angeles. Not for—she checked the plates on the car next to hers—Nevada. So they really had landed in Nevada, and she had slept on the way. If the circumstances weren’t so bizarre, so nerve-racking, she’d be elated. Maybe she just needed to plop herself in a moving vehicle overnight, like a baby in a stroller, and at last she would rest. She could pay an Uber driver, ride the subway, start taking Amtrak.
The sun was dull behind a thick blanket of clouds. She reminded herself that Levi hadn’t murdered her. So that was good. He probably would have done so already if he planned to. Sybil squinted, pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her head. The bell clanged as she entered the donut shop, and an older woman with a poof of gray hair and fuchsia lipstick appeared from the back.
“Excuse me,” Sybil said. “Do you mind if I ask where we are?”
“You’re in Nevada, honey!”
“Right, but…are we in Reno?”
“About twenty miles outside, give or take.” The woman narrowed her eyes. “Are you okay? Do you need me to call someone?”
Sybil wouldn’t even know whom to call. She hadn’t memorized anyone’s number in years, and what could she even say? That she was in a donut shop twenty miles out from Reno on a wild-goose chase with a former cult member to find his missing sister? And the star pitcher from the New York Mets was supposed to be joining her as part of their daring detective duo? That she’d fancied herself an armchair detective who got herself stranded at a dilapidated strip mall and had her phone stolen?
“Let me get you a coffee,” the woman said, then poured from one of those old-fashioned glass pitchers with an orange rim that Sybil hadn’t seen since the 1990s.
“Do you happen to know how long that car”—Sybil took the coffee, then gestured to Levi’s Honda—“has been parked there?”
“I come in around back,” she said. “This is the first I’m noticing it.”
The coffee was better than Sybil had expected, so she asked for a powdered donut, which was similarly delicious.
“I’m surprised you’re not busier on a weekend morning,” Sybil said. “This is excellent.” She had sugar all over her fingertips, which she dipped in her mouth to ensure she got every ounce into her bloodstream.
“Weekend mornings are slow.” The woman shrugged. “Half the county is getting ready for church lunch. Pray on Saturday, commune on Sunday. Or something like that.”
Sybil felt her face fall, her pulse race.
“Saturdays for church?”
“Oh, I know. A few years ago, a new church set up shop, one of those aspiring megachurches, you know? Anyway, the pastor keeps Sabbath, and like sheep to the slaughterhouse, all of the parishioners fell in line.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how he did it. It’s like he arrived one day, and everyone decided that he was the second coming of Jesus. From what I understand, he basically claims that he is.” She blew air out of her nose. “Can you imagine? Claiming that you are the second coming of Jesus?”
“No,” Sybil said. “I cannot.”
She needed to reach Zeke. She was desperate to reach Zeke. She closed her eyes, leaned back against the wall. What was she doing here? She was a middle-aged empty nester who hadmistakenly thought that she could somehow turn into an amateur detective because she had too much time on her hands and had watched too many depressingly bleak documentaries. She got into a car with a stranger who drove her eight hours across state lines, then absconded with her cell phone. She was divorcing her husband of twenty years and fantasizing about sleeping with one of the most famous men in the country who had been onPeople’s Sexiest Man of the Year short list, and all of it—all of it!—felt suddenly absolutely ridiculously preposterous. Betty hadn’t asked her to find her! Betty hadn’t asked her to help her! She’d embarked on this wild-goose chase because she mistakenly thought Betty needed saving, and she hadn’t even considered thatshewas the one she should have thought about saving.
“Here you go, honey.” The donut lady placed a plate of three on the table. “You look like you could use a few more.”
Sybil fished around in her purse for some cash and didn’t hear the bell ding when the front door pushed open.
“Syb,” a voice said, and when she turned, there was Zeke.
65
Morning
Zeke
“I got atext with this address,” he said. “I was waiting at the airport, then drove straight here.” She looked worn down and strands of her hair defied gravity. Part of him hoped she’d leap into his arms, like they hadn’t spent two weeks in a silent fight. She did not.
“Levi,” Sybil said.
“I don’t understand?”
“Levi took my phone. He texted you from it. Which, I mean, I guess it’s good that we have confirmation that he’s not a kidnapper. Just a thief.”
