“Give me the clippings and the photo.”
Swiftly, I open the lid and fish them out. He takes the car lighter out and burns the evidence. Then he throws it out of the window. “Now, it’s just an empty box. You can’t get arrested for having one of those. Not unless they test it for blood and DNA, which I don’t think they will right now, not yet.”
I swallow hard. “Thank you, I guess.”
We pull into the parking lot. Police cars and an ambulance crowd the small area. Yellow tape surrounds the perimeter. The lighthouse an accusing finger. The familiar setting now cut out of a nightmare. Tristan kills the engine, his eyes scanning the scene as two officers approach the car. My heart pounds so hard I can barely hear over its rhythm. Part of me wants to flee, but it’s too late. There’s no turning back. I must find out what Butterfly Man has done.
“Stay in the car and don’t say anything,” Tristan mutters, his hand hovering near his gun.
The gesture, meant to reassure, only amplifies my anxiety. “What are you going to do?”
His jaw tightens as he holds my gaze. “Protect you.”
An officer knocks on the car window, and Tristan half opens it, getting the license and registration documents ready. “Good day, Officer. Tristan Morra, Monarca Security. This is Mrs. Birdie Abel, and I’m her security detail. Is everything all right?”
The officer cranes his head and inspects us suspiciously. The chilling ocean breeze carries the scent of salt and something sinister. Is it the metallic tang of blood? The cloying sweetnessof death? My imagination runs wild, conjuring images of what awaits us beyond the yellow tape. He takes the papers from Tristan and examines them. “The lighthouse is closed. You need to turn back.”
“I see. May I know what happened?”
The officer twists his lips as he hands Tristan the license back. “Murder.”
Who died? Is it Gia? Just Gia? I can’t turn back before I know everything. Just as I rack my brain to find an excuse to stay, a familiar figure emerges from the crowd of officers.
Jacob.
A cold sweat breaks out down my neck as he spots us and makes his way over. My carefully constructed world of lies and half-truths suddenly feels as fragile as a house of cards in a storm.
What does Jacob know? What has he found? And most terrifyingly—what will I have to do to keep my secrets safe?
He exchanges a few hushed words with the officer, who nods and steps away. My fingers dig into my palms, leaving crescent-shaped indentations when Jacob leans down to the car window.
“Birdie?” He glances between me and Tristan, his voice a mix of surprise and suspicion. “What are you doing here? Did someone call you already?”
“C-call me?” I clear my throat. “Why?”
“To identify the body.” Jacob frowns suspiciously. “But that should be done at the morgue.”
My stomach drops.“Body? Whose body, Jacob?”
“We believe the murder victim is Gia Connelly, your assistant.”
It shouldn’t come as a shock. I knew Gia was going to die. When I came here, I expected to find her dead. Part of me even wanted it. But why when I hear Jacob’s words, the definitive finality in them, does it feel like the world has tilted on its axis?
Gia might have lied to me, failed to support me when I needed her the most and slept with my husband, but I blame Blake for it. Sweet, efficient Gia wasn’t malicious. She was naive and fell for his charm just like I did. She didn’t deserve to die like this, another casualty in this twisted game.
Or am I the naive one here? The delusional girl desperate for any shreds of love in any form, who still believes there are good people in this world whose intentions aren’t exploiting her for themselves?
A scream builds in my throat, but I swallow it down. I can’t break now. “What?” I choke out.
“I’m sorry, Birdie. I thought you knew. When her sister didn’t answer, I thought they called you. You’re listed as the victim’s emergency contact.”
“How...how did it happen?”Please don’t say she crashed her car after loading her blood with drugs.
Jacob hesitates, his eyes flicking to Tristan. “She was shot.”
“Shot?” I don’t need to feign surprise. I didn’t expect that at all. “Here?”
“I can’t say that for sure yet, but most likely not. No one heard a gunshot, and the preliminary body examination indicates an earlier time of death. She was killed elsewhere, and then herbody was dumped here.” He narrows his eyes at us. “What are you doing here this time of the day if no one called you about the murder?”