Chapter 19
Tristan
I force my expression into neutral as I approach the house. Every instinct screams at me to drag Ashford out by his throat and beat the truth out of him, but Marcus is right. I need to play this smart.
The detective stands in the foyer, examining something on his phone. Probably coordinating with his precinct, setting up the perfect alibi.
“Morra.” He looks up, and I search his face for any hint of deception. Nothing. His mask is perfect. “Any luck with that GPS hack of yours?”
I shake my head, letting frustration bleed into my voice. “System isn’t responding. Either the tracker was damaged or someone disabled it remotely. I’m running diagnostics now, but it could take hours.”
“Hours we don’t have.” Ashford runs a hand through his hair, the picture of a concerned lover. The act makes me want to vomit. “The BOLO is active. Every cop on the island is looking for her car. We’ll find it.”
My phone buzzes. A text from Marcus: Gatsby airborne. ETA 32 minutes. Ashford arrival at house: 19:53. Departure: 20:31. Total time: 38 minutes. Reviewing footage now.
Thirty-eight minutes. That’s enough time to kidnap a woman and stage a scene.
The only thing you’ll find is that the footage is tampered with. Anything on Douche and Abel? I text back.
Working on it.
Ashford narrows his gaze at me as I pocket my phone. “Who are you texting?”
“Marcus. HQ has more resources to expedite the search. Forensics find anything useful?”
A woman in her mid-twenties wearing a gray suit and a burgundy blouse marches our way. She gives Ashford a few papers. “That’s all the info we’ve gathered from her desktop search history.”
Ashford skims through the papers. “Desktop? No laptop?”
“We couldn’t find any other devices. No cellphone, no tablets or laptops, just one desktop in the home office.”
He barely lifts his eyes toward me. “How many computers and phones does she have?”
“Other than the one in the office, one laptop and one phone. She usually keeps her laptop in her bedroom. It’s the one she uses to write, not the desktop,” I answer.
“Fuck. Keep looking,” he orders the woman.
“Yes, sir.” She walks away quickly.
“If you can’t find them, that means whoever took Birdie took both her phone and laptop, too.” And it’s you, motherfucker.
“Do you happen to have any trackers in those?”
Why should I fucking tell you? To cover your tracks? Another text chimes from Marcus. You were right. Douche was Abel’s partner.
My hand squeezes the phone. I fucking knew it.
He sticks his nose close to the screen. I turn it off before he catches a glimpse.
“What’s going on, Morra? You found out something and you’re keeping it from me. You can’t do that. We agreed to work together to find Birdie. Now, what the fuck did you find?”
That you’re a lying son of a bitch from the start, and your days are fucking numbered. Ashford needs to pay for thinking he could have her, for thinking he could hurt her. For making her choose him over me.
“I found the car.” I hold up my phone, showing him the GPS coordinates. “462 Old South Road, Aquinnah.”
His face goes pale. “Isn’t that…”
“The safehouse?” The trap that has been set to capture you all along. “Yes.”
His fingers work his phone, but I don’t wait for him to bark coordinates to dispatch. I head to my car.
“Where the fuck are you going?”
“We need to move. Now.” I need you alone for this. I have a surprise for you, douchebag.
“This is police business now. You stay here and—”
“Fuck that. She’s—” I let my voice break. “I’m going now. You can choose to come with me or wait for fucking backup.”
He studies me for a long moment, as if he’s struggling to make a choice, as if that hasn’t been his plan, to send me running into his trap. Finally, he nods. “Fine. But you follow my lead. You don’t touch anything. You don’t interfere. Understood?”
“Understood.”
We’re in our separate vehicles, engines roaring to life, gravel spraying as we tear out of Birdie’s driveway. I follow his taillights when I get another text that Gatsby has landed.
My fingers fly on the screen. Told Douche car location. Following him there.
Marcus: WTF! You’re walking into an ambush. Head back NOW!
Me: Have a plan.
I call Brandon.
“Sir.”
“Ashford is heading your way. ETA eighteen minutes.”
“I thought I’d have more time to—”
“You won’t, but that’s all right. I want him to see you at the decoy.”
“Sir?”
“Change of plans, Brandon. I know how to turn the tables on that piece of shit, so listen carefully and do exactly as I say. This is how we get Detective Ashford, the real Butterfly Man.”