Page 43 of XOXO, Little Butterfly (The Storyteller’s Bodyguard #2)

Tristan

Knuckles white against the steering wheel black leather, I navigate through Jacksonville night traffic.

In my rearview mirror, Birdie curls up in the backseat, eyes blocked by sunglasses, breathing too controlled to be natural sleep.

She’s avoiding any conversation. She hasn’t even asked where we’re going.

I keep my eyes on the road. “I know you’re not asleep.”

She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even twitch.

“As a diversion, Brandon is taking the bike to Daytona. He’s making sure he’d be seen.

If those MC punks decide to follow, he’ll know how to lose them.

Then he’ll leave the bike there with a trusted friend of his, a girl,” I laugh under my breath, “and meet us at the new hotel. It’s in Ponce Inlet, by the way. ”

No response.

“You’re into lighthouses, right? Ponce de Leon is the tallest one in Florida. I figured you’d wanna see—”

“We’re not on a vacation, Tristan,” she hisses.

But I got her to talk to me. I glance at the rear mirror. “It’s also where I texted Abel to meet us tomorrow at ten a.m.”

Her head shifts a little. I can’t see her eyes behind her dark shades, but I know she’s looking at me.

“Thank you, Tristan.” That’s all she volunteers.

Thank me? I count the numbers Birdie has ever thanked me for something she’s been pushing for against my will, and I come short. She must be really sad, defeated. I don’t like it. I hate it.

That ass doesn’t deserve a second of her distress. He doesn’t deserve a second of anything hers. Where is her sass? She should be angry, plotting her revenge, not moping over that useless prick.

Silence stretches for a mile or two. I turn on the radio.

A mindless pop song plays. Maybe, I should give her some space, time to process and lick her wounds, but I can’t.

I can’t keep quiet. “I’m sorry, Birdie. I should have dug deeper.

When he evaded every question about where he transferred from, my first thought was Miami.

I looked up his name, pulled some strings at Miami PD, but there were no police records of a Detective Torrance anywhere in Florida.

It threw me for a loop. I should have done better. ”

“You have contacts in Miami PD?” she asks without moving.

“I do, several other precincts too. In my line of work, it helps to have connections in the police.”

“Did you ask them about Detective Reid Ashford?”

“Yes. I pulled his complete file. Apparently, he’s been working there the entire time you lived in Miami.

” He’s had years of access to Birdie’s—Reagan’s—life, her routines, her vulnerabilities.

Years of laying groundwork. “Specialized unit for domestic violence and stalking cases. Can you believe it? Perfect cover.”

A shaky breath hums out of her mouth. “Did your contact tell you why the detective transferred under an alias?”

Is she still hoping for a different explanation than the obvious? “There is no legitimate reason for Detective Douchebag to change his name and hide in plain sight at Oak Bluffs PD except to feed his obsession and claim you, Birdie.”

“Did they tell you why he transferred under an alias?” she raises her voice.

“Jesus Christ. No, because there are no secret missions where he has to go undercover in Oak Bluffs or a legal reason to change his name. Nothing. He just woke up one day and asked to leave.”

“Not that they’d tell you if he was undercover…”

Fuck this shit. I merge onto I-95 South. “He’s been planning this for a long time, Birdie. Years.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“He knew your routines, your fears, your vulnerabilities before he ever introduced himself. He studied you like a case file.”

“I said stop.”

“No. You need to hear this. That predator is—”

“Enough!” She sits up straight, ripping off her sunglasses. Her eyes are red-rimmed, furious. “You think I don’t know what he is? You think I don’t realize what I’ve done? I let him into my house. I went on a fucking date with him.”

The speedometer climbs past eighty. I force myself to ease off the gas.

“I trusted him. I handed him everything he needed to go on with his plan. Me.” Her voice breaks.

“I should have seen that plot twist coming miles away. I should have followed the breadcrumbs, the tiny hints that get past the average reader, but not me. I put those goddamn clues and hide them in plain sight for a living for fuck’s sake. ”

In a way I’m glad she’s stepped into the angry phase, but it still breaks my heart. Birdie has been through enough. She should spend every second of the rest of her life in peace and happiness, and I’ll make it my life mission to see it happen.

“I may be terrible at choosing the men in my life, but if there’s anything I’m good at, it’s my job.”

I can sniff where this is going from inside her brain.

“The detective is the ideal suspect,” she muses. “His trustworthy camouflage, his ability to manipulate evidence and access to equipment designed to track comms. Add that to his history, and you’ve built yourself the ideal suspect. Do you know what we call those in books?”

Red fucking herrings.

“Red herrings.” She doesn’t wait for my answer. “They are—”

“False misleading clues designed to distract readers from the truth,” I say through my teeth.

“Exactly.” Her reflection in the mirror is haunted. “In my book, Reid Ashford remains a red herring until I reveal his face from under the butterfly mask.”

I mutter a curse. How could she still think like that? “The truth knocks on the door and you say, ‘Go away, I’m looking for the truth,’ and so it goes away. Puzzling.”

She pauses for a few seconds. “Robert M. Pirsig.”

“You know him?”

“I read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance when I was thirteen. Not a fan.”

Another swear flies from my mouth. The exit for Ponce Inlet appears ahead. I take it, needing something to focus on besides the rage building in my chest. “Fine, Birdie. I give up. We’ll do it your way. Abel first, then Miami. We meet your stalker and finish it once and for all.”