Chapter 6
Jacob
I park outside the gates of Birdie’s house. It’s almost noon, and the sky looks like a fucking bruise. To think, by the end of May the weather will be more forgiving on this stupid island…
I check my phone obsessively for a warrant that hasn’t come yet despite cashing in every favor I could. A black SUV materializes from the mist and rolls to a silent stop on the gravel opposite me. The door opens, and Tristan Morra steps out.
“How the fuck did he get here so fast from New York?” I came from Boston and it took me almost three hours.
He’s dressed in black, his posture a study in coiled violence. He doesn’t look at me. He stares at the dark, still house, at the locked gate.
I get out of my car. The slam of my door is too loud in the quiet. “You came straight from the airport?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t break stride. He walks past me to the keypad beside the door. Then he gets out his phone and taps the screen.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“The system I installed for her has a master backdoor. For emergencies.”
“No. We wait for a warrant, Morra. We do this clean, for her.”
“Fuck your warrant. Every second we waste is another second she could be bleeding out somewhere.” A soft chime sounds from inside, and the lock disengages with a smooth, electronic thunk.
“That’s the difference between you and me, Detective.
You wait for permission to save the woman you claim to love.
I become the permission. You cling to the rules to feel like a hero playing fair.
I rewrite the rules, burn the book, and salt the earth it was printed on if it stands between me and her.
You want a warrant? Get one. While you’re filling out forms, I’ll be the one saving her. ”
It’s not a rant; it’s a creed. A villain’s manifesto in three sentences that chills me to my marrow.
He steps inside and marches to the front door.
“Goddamn it!” I follow, my service weapon drawn.
He works his phone again. The alarm beeps. The lock clicks. The front door swings open.
“Birdie! Birdie, it’s Jacob! Are you here?” The foyer is still. The living room, empty.
“You take upstairs,” Morra commands, already moving toward her home office. “I’ll check down here. Call out if you find anything. Anything.”
I don’t like his orders, but I don’t have time to argue. “Which one is her bedroom?”
“Second on the left.”
I take the stairs two at a time. “Birdie!”
Her bedroom door is closed, but the one to the room next to it is ajar.
I push it open, my weapon leading. My eyes land on a toppled chair near the closet.
The carpet weave is disturbed, fibers crushed into irregular patterns.
The lamp on the nightstand is lit; it leans at an unnatural angle, casting skewed shadows across the room.
“Birdie!” My voice cracks as I rush inside. The air carries a faint chemical tang mixed with her perfume, sharp enough to sting the back of my throat. I scour the room. There’s no sign of her or anyone else. There’s only a piece of paper on the floor.
My blood runs cold as I pick it up and unfold it. I don’t call for Tristan. Instinct, dark and suspicious, holds my tongue.
Nothing is what it seems
XOXO, little butterfly
Below it, a photo. Of me and Blake. Two young cops, partners, friends before the world went to shit.
No. No, no, no.
Horror pours down my spine. How? Who has this? A calculated, protective fury ignites in me. Birdie saw the photo. She knows. She can’t see it, not like this. No one can see this. I snatch the photo from the note, fold it, and shove it deep into my jacket pocket.
Then, and only then, I turn and bellow, “Morra! Up here! Now!”
Footsteps pound up the stairs. Morra appears in the doorway, his gaze sweeping the room and landing on the note in my hand. I give it to him. His face, usually a mask of arrogance, goes pale as he reads.
“How the fuck could that be? Butterfly Man is dead. Blake is fucking dead. I made sure of it, so unless he crawled out of hell, this can’t be fucking happening.” He runs outside toward her room. “Birdie!”
I ignore the hint at the murder confession.
It’s not like I don’t know. Despite the lack of evidence and Birdie’s confirming Morra’s statement, I know Morra killed Abel and staged it as an overdose.
I could have dug deeper or pressed harder to incriminate him, but no one, not even that fuck, deserves to be punished for killing someone like Blake Abel, not after what he did to Birdie. To both of us.
I don’t follow Morra because it’s a waste of time. There’s a clear sign of struggle in this room. The carpet clearly shows something, or someone, was dragged across it. Whoever is playing the Butterfly Man game now has taken my Birdie.
“What the fuck?” I hear Morra say, his voice loud through the walls, as if he were in the room. Then noise comes from inside the closet.
I get my gun ready and approach carefully. “Morra?!”
The closet opens, and Morra comes out of it, his eyes sunken.
“Jesus. What the hell is this?” I inspect the hidden passage. “Did you know about this? Of course you did. This was your room when you lived here. Did you build this?”
“No. I’ve never seen or known of a secret door connecting both rooms.” He looks like he’s seen a ghost. “The door to her dressing room was open. A pink dress and a pair of heels were on the floor. Then I saw this. A whole wardrobe panel dislocated.” He looks around.
“She must have found it when she was getting ready to go out. It led her here, where she found the note, where she found him, before he…” He swears in Spanish.
“Do you expect me to believe that? You were her fucking bodyguard. You must have swept every inch of the house to check for threats, and you couldn’t find that passage, in the fucking room you lived in?”
“I don’t care what you believe. I care about Birdie, who has been kidnapped for over seventeen hours!” He marches to the door, but I block his way.
“It’s you. You did it. You fucking took her.”
“Get the fuck out of my way, Ashford.”
I point the gun at him. “Not until you tell me where she is.”
He pulls his gun, too. “Fuck you. Why don’t you tell me where you kidnapped her, huh? All of this, the lies, showing up at my office, pretending you’re heartbroken, is an act to cover your tracks. It’s you. You’ve been helping Abel. It’s always been you, you sick fuck.”
“Put your gun down.”
“Where were you last night, Detective? After she stood you up?”
“Looking for her. You still have your security system installed. Check the cameras. You’ll know exactly when I dropped by and when I left.
You can check with the precinct, too. They’ll tell you I’ve been there all night.
Can’t say the same about you, mister who got back from New York in less than three hours. ”
“I chartered from Westchester. It’s less than an hour from NYC, and the flight is only fifty minutes straight to the Vineyard. I have all the receipts.” He fumbles with his phone, keeping his eye on me and my gun. Then he flashes the screen in my face. “There. Do you still think it’s me?”
Fuck. The evidence on his phone seems legit. I still don’t trust him. Never will. But now Birdie is in danger, and the fastest way to find her is working with the man I hate the most. “We’re wasting time. We can tear each other apart here or we can put our hatred aside to find her.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches as his eyes search mine. “Fine. We’ll work together to find her. But if I discover you’ve had anything to do with this,” his teeth clench as he squeezes his gun tighter, “your badge won’t save you. Your gun won’t save you. Nothing will save you from me.”
“You’re threatening a police officer?”
“I’m keeping a promise to the woman I love.”
“I love Birdie.”
“You don’t even know her.”
“I know her better than you think.”
“You know the version of her she shows you. The soft parts. The hope.” His hateful gaze burns into me.
“I know the parts she hides. The nightmares. The scars. The rage she buries so deep she thinks it doesn’t exist anymore.
You see a damsel. I see a fucking warrior who’s been fighting battles you can’t even imagine.
” He says it with such certainty, such ownership, that it flips my stomach.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, I know one thing. You couldn’t keep her safe for one night.”
The rage that’s been simmering since the moment I lost her boils over. In a way, he’s right. I couldn’t protect her, and it twists my guts with a serrated blade. One night. That’s all it took for me to lose her.
“She chose me. She wants me.” I need this to be true as much as I need to be the man who saves the girl, gets the girl, keeps the girl safe. To prove I can be the hero Birdie wants me to be, when all she’s ever known is villains,
“Maybe she does, but you’re not what she needs.”
“And you are?”
“Yes, because a man like me will kill for her, and a man like you will just fill out the paperwork after she’s already dead.”
I take a step closer, looking him straight in the eye.
“You don’t know the first thing about me or what I’m ready to do for her.
” A bitter chuckle escapes me as I feel the weight of the folded photo in my pocket.
“But we don’t have time for this shit. You check your cameras, and I’ll call it in, see if forensics can pull anything.
Let’s get this motherfucker and save Birdie. ”
I lower my gun slightly, and he does the same, even though I’m certain each of us wonders if the maniac we’re hunting is standing right in front of us.