Panic flutters in my chest, but I push it down.This is what you chose, Birdie. This is the story you decided to tell.
Let him think he's won. Let him think he’s breaking you down, piece by piece, truth by truth. You know how this ends. You’ve written it a hundred times.
The captive always finds a way out. She just has to survive long enough to find it.
“Please,” I whisper, because that’s what he wants to hear, the performance he wants to watch. “Please don’t.”
“You shouldn’t have lied to me, my naughty butterfly.” He positions himself between my legs. I can feel him, hard again already, pressing against my entrance.
“Last chance, was Shane Fletcher your first husband?”
I look up at the mirror. At the broken woman strapped to the table. At the monster ready to violate her again. “Yes,” I confirm what he thinks is a lie. I don’t blame him for not believing me.
There’s a story in everything. Each of us has our own version. The truth… That’s a different story. Mine will never align with his.
What do you really know, Butterfly Man? I can’t wait to read your book.
He pushes inside.
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.