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.Imade 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’tyoutell 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.”
“Ilove 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.