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 couldhedo that toher after what she’d been through? Was it not enough how he’d been using her since the day they met?
How couldIlet 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.”