Page 48 of XOXO, Little Butterfly (The Storyteller’s Bodyguard #2)
Birdie
Some meetings are written in the stars long before we recognize their gravity.
Tomorrow, same time, same place, we write our own destiny.
P.S. In solitude, we discover who we truly are.
XOXO, little butterfly
“Your precious stalker is telling you the time for your date,” Tristan seethes. “3:17 p.m. tomorrow.”
“And he wants me to come alone.” In solitude, we discover who we truly are.
“I agreed, against all logic and protocols, to take you to Miami to see him, but you’re not walking into his trap by yourself, Birdie. I’ll lock you up if I have to.”
I take the piece of paper from Tristan’s hand and read it all over again.
“Putting the note in the keeper’s room yesterday means he knew exactly where I’d be today.
How is this possible? Who knows about this meeting other than me, you, Brandon and Blake?
” My eyes dart around in panic. Will I find another rogue queen butterfly waiting for me, too?
“He’s watching us, Tristan. He’s been following every step of the way, always one step ahead. ”
“He’s been watching, yes. It shouldn’t come as a surprise by now. But he’s not one step ahead.”
Pacing, I throw my hands in the air in frustration. “Of course he is. Every plan I’ve mapped to capture him comes to bite me in the ass with his mocking grin on top.”
“Not this time, Birdie. Because I’ve figured out who the stalker is.”
My fingers rub my lips angrily. “It’s not the detective. You said he was still on the island. How could he be in two places at the same time?”
“Because he’s not working alone.”
I stop in my tracks. “What?”
“Look at the note. It’s typed, not handwritten. You told me all the notes you had before the one you found in your bedroom were typed, not handwritten. Now, look at the butterfly drawing.”
“It’s…blue, just like the old ones.”
“Exactly. Why the sudden change, why now? Unless it’s someone else, with a handwriting that won’t match the new notes, sending this one because the stalker couldn’t.”
A chill runs through my spine. “I thought he changed the drawings into queen butterflies to send me a message, to tell me he knows who I am, but all this time he…”
“He’s been letting someone else do the work for him where he can’t be.”
“He stays on Martha’s Vineyard to deflect any suspicions while he gets someone else to send me the note…from here.”
“Think about it. The detective has lived and worked in Miami his whole life. He must have connections with other police departments around Florida. Who is better to trail someone without raising suspicion than police officers?”
“They have the right to be anywhere. He might have even told them I was a suspect in one of his cases, and he needed their help to gather enough evidence to convict me. A connection at the airport could have told him I flew to Jacksonville. Another follows me there, which leads them to Ponce Inlet.” My head spins.
“But how did he know I’d be at the lighthouse today? ”
“I don’t think he did. He just took a chance, knowing you loved lighthouses, and it would be highly unlikely you wouldn’t stop by.”
“And it’s paid off.” My head spins. “But who? I get that a police officer he knows could be following us and updating him about our location, but they wouldn’t deliver creepy notes over the years? Who could possibly agree to be a stalker’s accomplice?”
“Must be someone he trusts, a family member?”
“Or someone he knows they won’t talk.”
Tristan nods pensively. “Because he has something on them.”
“A dirty secret.” Just like Blake is blackmailing me, the detective could be blackmailing a person, a dirty cop even, into being his courier. “Fuck.”
“You still think Detective Douchebag is a red herring?”
“How could I have been so blind?” Regret slices my chest. “I should have never doubted you.”
“It’s okay.” Tristan’s gaze burns into mine, even behind our sunglasses. “Love isn’t always gentle words and soft touches. Sometimes it’s standing guard in the darkness, taking the hatred meant for someone else, being the villain in your story so you can remain safe.”
Goosebumps cover me. “Love?”
He doesn’t say anything for a while. Then he drags away his stare. “It’s what you wrote. I’m just quoting it.”
“Right… A quote,” I tell him and then murmur to myself, “not the closest thing to a love confession I’ll ever get from Tristan Morra.”
“No.” He hears me and moves closer. “It’s not the closest you’ll ever get.
It’s just the beginning.” His fingers brush against the railing spot I’m gripping, the closest he would allow himself to come to touching me in an open space.
At this moment, I want nothing more than to collapse into his arms, but I can’t.
Blake is still alive. The note and the detective being in the Vineyard are proof.
Butterfly Man hasn’t gotten to my husband yet.
That means Blake could be setting a trap for me by not showing up.
Perhaps he’s hired a private detective of sorts, one of those who hunts for evidence of infidelity among divorcing couples, and they’re fishing for compromised photos of me with any of my bodyguards.
It’s a stretch, but I can’t rule out anything.
Dirty cops, like Blake, like Reid, will do anything to get what they want.