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“What do you mean?”
“I checked with the gate agent, who said she never boarded.”
“Have you tried contacting her? Wait, sorry. That was a stupid question. It’s not an excuse, but I’ve been traveling all day, and my brain is mush. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll see what I can find out.”
When I received a text a short while later, I expected it to be from her. It wasn’t.
As I read the words on the screen, sent from an unknown number, the blood in my veins turned ice cold.
I know who you are, and if you ever want to see your Butterfly again, you’ll follow my instructions to the letter. Tell no one about this message, or she will die before sunrise.
1
BUTTERFLY
PREVIOUS SEPTEMBER
“Hello, Butterfly.”
I raised my head. Even if I hadn’t recognized the man who walked into my gallery, or his sexier-than-shit British accent, I would’ve known who he was. Only Brando Ripa had ever called me by the nickname. I blinked more than once, stood, and walked toward him. “Brand? Is it really you?”
“It hasn’t been that long,” he said, winking.
My eyes scrunched as we embraced and cheek-kissed. “I thought you were in prison.”
He stepped back but still held both my hands in his. “Out on good behavior.”
I raised a brow, retreating far enough so we no longer touched. “Somehow, I doubt that was the reason.” While I winked and smiled, I wasn’t being facetious. The man hadn’t behaved a day in his life, as far as I remembered.
His eyes softened. “How are you, Butterfly?”
“Penelope—or Pen. And fine.”
“Are you? Truly?”
I retreated to the desk where I’d been sitting when he walked in, leaned against it, and looked everywhere but at him. His physical beauty had always been my undoing. Spending time in prison hadn’t diminished it in the slightest. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“May I?” he asked, pointing to a chair.
“Of course.” As I looked into his gray-green eyes, he reached up, unintentionally flexing the powerful muscles of his upper arm, and ran his hand through his sandy-brown hair. It was longer than I’d ever seen it, which likely meant he’d been out of prison for some time. I wondered how long.
When his leg brushed mine as he took his seat, I straightened and walked around the desk but remained standing.
He cleared his throat. “One of the conditions of my release was agreeing to work for Doc Butler.”
I recognized the name. Doc—or Kade, as I knew him—was Quinn’s father. Quinn and I, along with three of our other friends, referred to ourselves as the “Tribe of Five.” We’d been best buddies since we were seven years old, and were also business partners in the gallery.
Kade was a former Marine Raider who had worked for the CIA after he left active duty and now owned a private intelligence firm called K19 Security Solutions.
“What an interesting turn of events,” I commented.
He raised a brow and smirked. “As you know, my expertise lies in art forgery.”
I gripped the back of my chair, then plopped down in it as much as sat, realizing Kade must’ve somehow gotten wind of the meeting I’d had four days ago with investigators from the FBI.
From the moment the man and woman arrived at the gallery, something had felt off to me. Since I was working alone that day, I motioned for the two security guards on duty to discreetly make their presence known.
There was only one other person browsing when they came in, and when he thanked me and left, the woman approached, showed me her badge, and asked if there was somewhere we could speak privately.