Page 13 of XOXO, Little Butterfly (The Storyteller’s Bodyguard #2)
Birdie
Tristan ushers me out of the station. We exchange a glance, my heart rumbling in its cage. What the hell is going on? What evidence have the police found that connects Saldana’s murder to Gia’s? Why do they insinuate Blake killed my assistant? With a gun I have?
What story are you writing, Butterfly Man? Because it certainly isn’t mine. He controls the narrative again, and I can’t figure out the twist or even when it’s going to hit.
“Birdie,” Jacob’s voice echoes behind my back as Tristan opens the car door for me.
“Get in the car,” Tristan orders and stands behind me, blocking the way, before I turn. “Are there any more questions you need to ask my client, Detective?”
“I’m talking to her, not you,” Jacob says, his voice laced with animosity. “Get out of my way.”
When Tristan doesn’t budge, I move aside and incline my head just enough to see Jacob. “I think we’re done here, Detective. Unless you’d like to interview me again, with my lawyer present.”
“Birdie, please,” Jacob’s gaze wanders between Tristan and me, “I can’t reveal sensitive information about the case, but please trust me. I don’t think you’re safe, and I can’t help you unless you stop making up stories and start telling me the truth.”
Truth or story doesn’t matter. As long as you end up where you need to be, all is fair. “I’ve already told you everything I know.”
“No, Birdie. You lied to me,” he whispers gruffly. “The stalker, he’s not a made-up story or a prank. Your nemesis and your assistant were murdered. Your husband is tangled in their stories. All three are connected, and you hold the missing pieces to this mystery.”
What exactly do you know, Jacob? And how? How long before all the lies we’ve spun twist around our necks? I glance at Tristan and climb inside the car. “Good luck solving your crime, Detective.”
“You’re making a huge mistake. Let me protect you before it’s too late.”
Protect me? He gives quite the performance with his persistence. Pure intentions or a mask for the red flags I’ve been blind to all this time? I stare at Jacob, Tristan shutting the door. “I have all the protection I need. Thank you for your concern, though.”
Tristan drives us away from the station. I start humming to ease my nerves.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“I will be. Sorry about the humming. I know it’s annoying, but it—”
“Stimulates the vagus nerve, which helps regulate emotions and lower heart rates. They teach us this technique in the military. Where did you learn it?”
“Something I picked up from research, I guess.” I swallow, my eyes pinned to the radio. “Is it safe to talk?”
“Yes. I’ve shut down all comms.”
“The police think Gia was shot by Blake’s gun. The one I have in my dresser. If they search the house, I’m—”
“It’s being taken care of. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“What do you mean it’s being taken care of?”
“When you said we were going to the police, I had a feeling… My protective instincts flared, and I told Brandon to keep the gun in a safe place, out of the house.”
Relief courses through me, not only because Tristan is so intuitive and protective he’d do anything for my safety, but also because he entrusted Brandon with the task.
Right now, Brandon is the only one on the team I can fully trust; he was outside my door when Butterfly Man was in the room with me.
“Thank you, Tristan. I don’t know what I’d do without you. ”
His lips press into a thin line as his gaze narrows at the horizon. Then the intensity in his eyes bores into me. “You’ll always have me, Birdie.”
A chill runs through me. I don’t know why that sounds more sinister than tender. “Wait,” I look down the road, “this isn’t the way to the house. Where are we going?”
He doesn’t answer, the lines of his jaw sharp and unyielding. His grip tightens on the steering wheel, and he slams the gas pedal.
“Tristan?” I try again.
His gaze flickers toward me, unreadable, before returning to the road. Then the car veers off, tires crunching gravel as we pull onto a secluded path shrouded by trees. The sky darkens and casts eerie shadows on his face, carving his features into something almost unrecognizable.
My instincts scream at me to act, to do something, anything. I get my phone out, but Tristan grabs it before I can unlock the screen.
“What the hell are you doing?! Give me my phone back! Now!” My voice rises, panic bubbling underneath.
He turns my phone off and pockets it. “No phones.” Then he taps something in his sleeve. “I’ve just jammed the cell service so no one can track us.”
“What? I don’t understand. Tristan, you’re scaring me.”
“You need to trust me, Birdie.” His tone is soft but steely, like a velvet-wrapped dagger. “You said you trusted me, didn’t you?”
I did, but now I wonder if it’s the worst mistake I’ve ever made. “Tristan? Where are you taking me?”