“Lucky for us, we can be each other’s alibi any time we wish because we have animmunesecurity system with cameras to prove it.”
Is she asking me to manipulate the security footage to fake an alibi if I need to? Like the stalker did? There’s nothing Birdie Abel would stop at to prove her loyalty to him, to make him trust her enough to kill her husband for her.
But, in a way, she’s looking after me, too. I’m the one who bought the burner and faked Gia’s texts. I’m the one who burned the evidence in the box.
The realization sits heavy in my chest, a weight I can’t shake off. I’ve crossed lines I never thought I would, all for her. And, regardless of the risks, I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
“Judging by your silence, I’m sure you’ve done the math by now,” she says. “Butterfly Man may not be testing only me.”
My fists clench around the steering wheel as the pieces fall into place. Unlike her, I’m the one who leaves the house alone and might need an alibi. She couldn’t have killed those women, but I could have. “He could be trying to eliminate me from your story by framingmefor the murders.”
“Exactly. It’s his fail-safe backup plan. He knows I’ll always have your back, Tristan, even if, to do so, I must protect him, too.”
The words echo in my mind, stirring up feelings I’ve tried so hard to bury. I chance a glance at her, and the look in her eyes nearly undoes me. There’s fear there, yes, but also determination. And something else. Something that mirrors the ache in my own chest.
“Jesus Christ, Birdie. Don’t do this to me.” I shake my head in anger, stopping the car.
She turns to me, her eyes blazing with an intensity that both terrifies and captivates me. “Do what?”
“Say anything, do anything, to get what you want. You don’t have to do this with me because I’d do anything for you without asking for anything in return,” I confess, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Lie, cheat, manipulate evidence, even kill. So don’t fucking lie to me.”
“I’m not lying, Tristan. I have no reason to. I mean every word.”
The car suddenly feels too small, too confining. Her scent, the heat radiating off her body, it’s intoxicating and suffocating all at once.
She leans in closer. “Butterfly Man won’t hurt me, not like that, and you know it, but he will hurt you. I’m looking afteryou.”
“Why?”
Her face softens, dropping the mask of strength and cruel indifference she hides behind, and a hint of a smile crosses her lips as she drops her gaze. “Because we’re survivors, Tristan.” Then she stretches her hand and rests it palm up on the center console. An invitation. A seal of fate. “We are meant to survive this, together.Almost like destiny.”
“Birdie,” I start, eyes pinned to her anticipating palm, not sure what I’m going to say—I love you. I hate you. I wish I’d never met you. I’m destined to love no one but you—but needing to say something.
“I know, Tristan,” she says softly. “I know.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, shuddering, and lace my fingers into hers. Her touch sends electricity coursing through my body. In that moment, everything crystallizes. The danger we’re in, the lines we’ve crossed, the feelings we can’t acknowledge—it all comes into sharp focus. And it hits me with gut-wrenching certainty.
I’m in love with Birdie Abel as much as I’ve always been in love with Reagan Fletcher. It isn’t just dangerous or toxic—it’s a death sentence. And God help me, I’m ready to serve it.
I meet her gaze one last time, printing a kiss on her palm, before I start the car and drive. We pull up to the police station about to walk into a lion’s den of our own making, with only our wits and our lies to protect us. I kill the engine, but neither of usmoves to get out. In the silence, I can hear her breathing, rapid and heavy. Or maybe it’s my own.
“Last chance. It’s not too late to back down,” I say.
Her throat bobs with a gulp before she takes a deep breath. “It’s going to be o—”
The radio screeches with an unclear signal over static.
She frowns at it. “What is this?”
“Nothing.” I turn it off. “It must have picked a random frequency. We’re outside the police station. It’s not unusual for our radio to pick their comms.”
A line between her eyebrows deepens, and I can almost hear the gears turning in her brilliant, terrifying mind. “Can they do the same?”
I blink, following the direction she’s going with the question.
“You said earlier you and the team weren’t bugged, and you checked yourselves and the vehicles thoroughly. But what about the radio?”
“Our comms are secure and encrypted, Birdie.”