Chapter 20
Jacob
The road to Aquinnah can’t get any longer. In the rearview mirror, Morra’s headlights keep pace about a hundred yards back. We’re losing daylight. I press harder on the accelerator. Every second counts.
Dispatch radios in, “Backup units are twenty-two minutes out from location.”
“I’m eight minutes out. I’ll secure the perimeter and wait for backup before entering the structure.”
“Copy that, Detective.”
My grip tightens on the steering wheel. The photo of Blake and me back when we were partners in Miami burns a hole in my pocket.
I remember that day like it was yesterday, not eight years ago. We were both working our asses off to earn our detective shields that year. There were two openings in Domestic Violence, and we fit perfectly.
But on that day, Blake had just gotten off the phone with a connection in Homicide.
There was one opening there, too, and Blake was jumping on it like a vulture.
I mean, who wouldn’t? It’s Homicide. It’s almost always full, and when there’s an opening, it’s not given to someone who’s just out of the uniform.
His connection, though, whispered that Blake could really get it.
I wasn’t happy about it, not because I wanted the position.
I couldn’t care less about Homicide. Domestic Violence was where the real work needed to be done.
I wasn’t psyched because I was going to lose my partner.
Blake Abel was my best friend. We shared a desk, a car, a backlog of reports and an equal share of secrets and dreams.
But he was happy, so he took me out to lunch to celebrate and told me, as a gift, the next incoming case he’d take solo.
It was thoughtful of him. I was buried in paperwork from a triple incident the night before. So when the call came in, female, twenty-six, multiple injuries, Blake responded solo as promised.
That’s how he met her. How we both met her. Reagan.
She didn’t see me, though. She had eyes for no one but him. Well, I did nothing to make her see me. I’d barely talked to her. He did all the talking. He did all the saving, and I stayed in the shadows watching as he stole her heart.
Reagan was his lucky charm. That’s what he called her.
Days after he met her, he made detective, got the position in Homicide, and shortly after, they got engaged.
Except that wasn’t entirely true. It was luck that put him in her path, yes, but how he got all those beautiful things had nothing to do with luck and everything to do with evil.
The thing is, Homicide is really hard to get into, and having one connection doesn’t guarantee getting the job.
Most of the time, you need to sell your soul to get it, and that’s what Blake did.
He used a vulnerable woman to do his dirty work for him and convinced her she was doing the right thing.
He crossed all lines and boundaries, stomped on all ethics and planted evidence that framed Reagan’s husband for murder, and her false testimony sealed the deal.
A win-win situation in his book. He got an unsolved case closed and put away the bastard who beat the shit out of her for life. He got the job and the girl. Everyone was happy.
Except me.
I lost my partner, my friend, along with my respect for him. And I watched an innocent woman fall into a whirlwind of deceit. When I confronted him, he knew I wouldn’t do anything about it. I wouldn’t hurt my friend like that. I wouldn’t hurt her like that.
My best friend knew me too well. He sensed my love for her when I wouldn’t even let myself believe it was real. How could it have been? Reagan was a case that wasn’t even mine, a woman I saw from a distance once or twice, a stranger who smiled at me in passing at the coffee shop.
Blake and I knew perfectly well if I opened my mouth I’d implicate her as much as I’d implicate him. He’d made sure of it. His lucky charm, his safety net, his golden goose.
He should have never used her like that. He didn’t love her. He never did. She was nothing but an opportunity. A means to an end. I begged him to, at least, leave her be. He got what he wanted. He didn’t need to use her anymore. Suffice it to say, I wasn’t invited to their engagement party.
I tried to warn Reagan about Blake, but he was always there. He wouldn’t let me anywhere near her. Come to think of it, he’d never introduced me to her as his friend or former partner, as if he’d been preparing for that day, as if he’d known it was coming.
What he didn’t see coming was the Aaron West situation. Blake wasn’t the only one who saw Reagan as prey. That motherfucking piece of shit West did, too, in a different way. A piece of ass he wanted to have just because he thought he could.
When shit hit the fan, and West was found dead in his car, foul play was on the table, and Blake was a suspect; there was a harassment complaint filed by West against Blake. The rumors about Reagan and West and the dead man’s switch message didn’t help.
The evidence didn’t stick, so Blake barely managed to dodge that bullet. It cost him everything he’d sold his soul for, though. Since he’d become a suspect, Internal Affairs came down hard, not just on him but on every case he’d touched. It turned out Reagan’s ex wasn’t the only one he’d rigged.
Blake didn’t kill West. I know that for a fact because I know who did. That message from the app, though… I firmly believe Blake sent it. A move straight out of a genius devil’s playbook.
His days on the force were numbered. He needed a fast exit, and his backup plan had always been Reagan.
That message torched her reputation. She had no choice but to settle with the school to sweep it under the rug, just like Blake did with IA, but of course, his way of settlement involved stabbing a few people in the back and burning them in exchange for his out.
That was how he’d gotten her to fall off the face of the earth with him and live at his mercy as Birdie Abel.
It’s funny how one action can seal your destiny into ruin.
What would have happened if I hadn’t taken Blake up on his offer and had just gone with him to Reagan’s house?
What if I’d been the one who showed up at her door?
What if, when the time had come to ask if she’d had somewhere safe to go, and she’d said no, I’d been the one to say, “I’ll make sure you do? ”
There hasn’t been a day when I’ve stopped asking myself that.
Until Blake called me out of the blue last year. He was wasted, rambling about how his wife wasn’t who he thought she was. How she was pulling away. How she looked at him sometimes like she was planning his murder.
Part of me wanted it to be true. I was glad Blake’s perfect life was falling apart. He didn’t deserve her. He didn’t deserve to be happy with her. And if he were dead, I could finally be with her.
Despite hanging up on him and calling him crazy, I came to Vineyard Haven to see it for myself. What I saw was Reagan in the hospital, in a condition far worse than how her ex-husband had left her.
Something ripped in my heart that night. How could that happen again to that beautiful angel? How could he do that to her after what she’d been through? Was it not enough how he’d been using her since the day they met?
How could I let it happen?
That night, I vowed to do whatever it took to get rid of everyone who had ever hurt her, anyone who would ever touch her again.
I applied for a transfer under an alias to Oak Bluffs. It took forever to get approved, but I made it. A little too late, wasn’t I? Morra was already there, playing the devoted bodyguard. Already worming his way into her life, her home, her bed.
I tried to become what she needed me to be. The concerned detective. The gentleman. The safe choice. She started to trust me, to choose me. Until that bastard Morra tried to frame me in Miami as her stalker. Manipulated her. Turned her against me with his lies.
He had her heart and her body for quite some time. Although she was smart enough to realize on her own he wasn’t the man for her, I can’t let that stand. I know his kind. He won’t stop hovering. He’ll always be a threat. I can’t let another man steal what should have been mine.
Now, I have my chance to get him out of the picture forever. Everyone will see the truth I want them to see. Tristan Morra is Butterfly Man. Tristan Morra took Birdie. And I’m the hero who captured him.
I’ll be her protector. The way it should have been from the start. And she’ll love me, and she’ll always be mine. Only mine.
You forgot one thing. Who left that photo on her bed and made it look like Blake crawled back from hell to finish what he started? For whom to see?
The turnoff to Old South Road appears ahead. I check the mirror again. Morra’s car is…not there.
“Where the fuck did he go?”
I slow down, scanning the darkness behind me. The road is empty. No headlights. No taillights. Nothing. When did I lose him? A mile back? Two?
I grab my phone and dial his number. It rings once. Twice. Three times. “Come on, pick up, you bastard.”
Voicemail.
A sick feeling spreads through my gut. Something is wrong. Morra wouldn’t just turn back. Not unless—
Unless he’s figured it out.
“No. No, no, no.” I floor the accelerator, tires screeching as I take the turn onto Old South Road too fast. The trees close in around me, branches scraping the roof of my car. The road narrows to barely more than a dirt path. Through the darkness, the outline of the cabin looms ahead.
I kill my headlights and coast to a stop thirty yards away. Approaching on foot, I have my service weapon in my hand.
Birdie’s car is right there. Doors closed. No signs of damage or struggle. I move closer, keeping to the tree line, scanning for movement. The cabin is dark. No signs of life.
I’m ten feet from the cabin when I spot a figure standing near the front door. Tall. Military bearing. It’s one of Birdie’s former security details. Gatsby.
What the fuck is he doing here? Hasn’t Morra pulled all his team back to Boston? I raise my weapon. “Hands where I can see them.”
Gatsby doesn’t flinch or reach for a weapon. He just stands there, his hands hanging loose at his sides. “Detective Ashford, please lower your weapon.”
“Not a chance. What are you doing here? How did you get here?”
“I can ask you the same thing. This is private property, Monarca’s, and you’re trespassing.”
“I’m investigating a kidnapping. Birdie Abel’s kidnapping. That’s her car right there. Now cut the bullshit and tell me what the fuck you’re doing here.”
“Mr. Morra sent me ahead to secure the location.”
“The fuck he did. Morra was right behind me. He couldn’t have—” Unless Morra located the car hours before he told me about it. “Where is he?” I demand. “Where’s Morra?”
“On his way. Should arrive any minute.” Gatsby takes a step forward, and I adjust my aim.
“Stay where you are.”
“Detective, you need to calm down. You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
“Harder than what needs to be?” My heart hammers against my ribs. “What did he really send you here to do? What the fuck is going on here, Gatsby?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” He gestures toward Birdie’s car. “Why would Mrs. Abel’s car show up at this location, a decoy meant to expose one person in particular?”
“What?”
“This cabin that only you knew about? This address where we supposedly kept Mrs. Abel weeks ago was specifically given to you to rule you out as a suspect. It’s a decoy. It wasn’t the actual safehouse where she stayed.”
The pieces click together too late. This is a trap. “You set me up. Morra set me up.”
“Did he? Or did you set yourself up the moment you left Mrs. Abel’s car here, Butterfly Man?”
“I didn’t leave the car here! I didn’t take her!”
“Then why are you here, Detective? Why did you race ahead of backup?”
“I’m securing the perimeter. Standard procedure.”
“Is it?” He takes another step closer. “Or did you need to get here first? Make sure everything is positioned correctly to frame Mr. Morra?”
“Your boss is the stalker. This is a setup,” I repeat. “He killed Abel, and he’s manipulating everything to have her. You have to believe me. He’s—”
Sirens blare in the distance, getting closer by the second. A small smile curves Gatsby’s mouth. “I’m guessing that’s not your backup.”
No. This isn’t how this was supposed to go. I back toward my car.
“They won’t find anything to incriminate Mr. Morra anymore.” Gatsby follows. “I can’t say the same about you.”
“Stop.” I raise my weapon higher, aiming at his chest. “Don’t come any closer.”
“Where is she, Detective? She was inside, her laptop and phone, too, along with enough evidence you made sure pointed at Mr. Morra, but then you moved her. Where is she now?”
The sirens grow louder. Lights flash red and blue through the trees. My finger tightens on the trigger. “I said back off. Now.”
“You’re not gonna shoot me, Detective. You’re not that stupid.” His eyes glint in the darkness. “But you are going to run. Because that’s what guilty men do when they’re caught.”
“This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong.”
“Then stay. Explain yourself. I’m sure your fellow officers will understand.”
Will they? After the way Morra has engineered this entire night? That son of a bitch must have sent his hound to stage this cabin as a crime scene with the evidence trail leading to me. My desperate rush to reach the cabin before backup, and Morra’s testimony…
I’m going to kill that fucker myself. I look at Gatsby. At the cabin. At Birdie’s car sitting there like an accusation. “You know damn well I don’t have her, but you do. Where is she? Don’t follow Morra blindly. Just tell me so we can save her. Where’s Birdie, Gatsby?”
The first police cruiser crests the hill. I have seconds to decide. Stay and fight a battle I can’t win. Or run and live to fight another day, to find a way to prove the truth.
My gaze darts back and forth between the trees and the glaring police lights. One thought takes over my mind. No one can take Reagan away from me. I won’t let anyone come between us. Never again.