Page 5 of XOXO, Little Butterfly (The Storyteller’s Bodyguard #2)

Tristan

I jump out of the car and run to Marcus. “Where is she?”

“Locked herself up in her bedroom after she lashed out at Brandon. She said not to be bothered until your return.”

“Did you find anything?”

He marches with me past the other details swarming in front of Birdie’s house. “I only arrived twenty minutes ago, but I questioned the men and checked both the surveillance and the security system.”

“And?” Impatiently, I pass the hallway toward the control room.

“No one saw him. There is no sign of forced entry anywhere, and surveillance shows nothing. The team swept the house and the perimeter twice and found no trace of any unidentified male or female. Riley is working to find out if the system has been hacked, but so far, no breach is detected.”

“That’s not possible unless there’s a magical portal in her room that lets him in and out unseen.”

“Or he wasn’t there at all.”

My hand halts above the doorknob. “What?”

He looks around him warily and lowers his voice.

“None of the shit she’s saying makes any sense.

Like why was her door locked? Why didn’t she signal Brandon when she had the chance?

And let’s say the bastard found a breach to sneak in past all the details guarding the house, how the hell did he run out of a two-story-high window without a sound or a trace? ”

I squint at him, unappreciative of the skepticism. “I don’t know the answers to any of these, but if she says he was here, then he was.”

“Listen, I know you respect and admire this client so much. I still remember back at camp, whenever you had any free time, you huddled down with one of her books like they were your only solace in hell. But the woman spins stories on the spot so fast it’s scary.

“You weren’t there when Detective Douche first came here to interrogate her.

The way she spun everything in her favor…

And look at him now. She has him wrapped around her finger, doing her bidding.

How could you trust someone like that to be telling the truth, someone who lies for a living, and for other purposes? ”

A need to defend Birdie rumbles in me. No one talks about her like that. No one. “You’re crossing a line, Marcus. We’re here to protect her and that means we trust her like she trusts us. Besides, why on earth would she lie about something like that?”

“Who knows, but Birdie Abel is the definition of what readers like you call an unreliable narrator. You’ll understand when you see the footage from her room.”

Jaw clenching, I rip the door open. Riley is sitting behind the monitors, lines between his eyebrows, his fingers working fast on the keyboard. I stand next to his chair, following the progress. “Tell me you found the breach.”

Riley shakes his head. “All cameras are in place and working. No downtime or discrepancies. I’ve investigated all the footage we have. No signs of any intruders. Both surveillance and security systems are intact.”

“Look harder.”

“Yes, sir.”

I massage the pounding in my temples. “Play the feed from the bedroom first.”

Riley presses a couple of buttons, and Birdie’s room footage at 1:40 a.m. streams from different angles.

Marcus points at the screen. “Look. You can see there’s no one in the room but her, and the windows are closed. She stirs in bed, gets something out of the drawer, stirs some more and then bolts to lock the door.”

Riley chuckles.

My jaw aches from clenching so hard as I glare at him. “Something funny?”

Humor slips out of his face when he sees the look on mine. “I mean she…locked the door…and…used something from her drawer in bed…” His stare returns to the screen. “No, sir.”

A mix of anger and possessiveness flares hot and wild through me at the thought of him—or any man—imagining Birdie in an intimate situation. Part of me wants to forbid anyone from even thinking about her that way, while another part is tortured by the images now burned into my brain.

As I watch her sliding under the covers, her breath low and catching, all I can think about is Birdie, alone in that room, and how desperately I want to be there with her instead of watching from afar, consumed by emotions I have no right to feel.

And killing the two men watching what should be only mine to see.

I can’t think like that. My feelings for her are clouding my judgment, making it impossible to focus on the actual security threat we’re supposed to be addressing. “Speed that part up already and turn off the audio,” I order.

Marcus cocks a brow at me. I fix him, too, with a glare I hope conveys just how close to the edge I am. “What?”

Marcus shrugs, but it shows in his gaze: my professional mask is slipping, my inappropriate emotions written all over my face—jealousy, protectiveness, and a hunger I can’t contain.

“There.” Marcus points at the screen again, and Riley resumes playing the footage at regular speed. “She turns on the lights all of a sudden. She looks around supposedly in panic and says…”

Riley presses a button, and the audio is back on. Birdie’s voice comes in a whisper. “Are you there?”

“When she finds nothing,” Marcus continues, “she mumbles something to herself, turns off the lights and goes back to what she was doing.”

Heat engulfs my body when the sound of her panting fills the room again. I turn down the volume myself. “Then what?”

“Nothing,” Marcus answers.

“Nothing? What do you mean nothing?”

“Watch for yourself. For the next fourteen minutes, it’s nothing but her huffs and puffs under the sheets until Gatsby interrupts. Wonder why she was taking so long.”

Riley presses his fist over his mouth, covering another chuckle. My fist clenches and flies to his throat. He almost falls off the chair, his coughs wild, his face beetroot red. Choke on that, motherfucker.

“Tristan!” Marcus pushes me away from rattling Riley. “What the fuck?”

“Let’s see how hard you’re gonna fucking laugh now.” I yank myself out of Marcus’s grip. “If you want to keep your jobs and your dicks attached to you, I suggest you start acting like professionals instead of clueless buffoons and give me goddamn answers.”

“The answer is right in front of you, Tristan. If you don’t trust your eyes and ears, why don’t you ask Gatsby himself? She said the stalker was holding her in the middle of the room when Gatsby knocked the first time, but we hear her answer Gatsby while she’s in bed.”

“Then we’ve been fucking hacked.” I jab a finger at the monitors. “The real feed has been replaced with this bullshit.”

“That’s what she said, too. The stalker told her all we could see was her sleeping. But is that what you see? She locked the door. She turned on the lights. She turned them back off and spoke to Gatsby.” Marcus fast forwards the footage. “Listen.”

“I’m fine.” Birdie’s voice streams in while she’s still under the covers. “Just trying to sleep…Brandon. Do I need permission for some privacy in my own bedroom?”

Marcus places his hands on his hips. “According to Gatsby, that’s word for word what she told him. How could the stalker add live audio to bogus streaming while he’s busy doing God knows what to her? Let’s say that’s even possible, how can we find no trace of a breach?”

“Unless you want to guard a parking lot in Antarctica, that’s what you’re going to find out!” I storm out of the control room and head upstairs.

Brandon, as pale as the dead, paces the hallway in front of Birdie’s room. He freezes when he spots me. “I’m so sorry, sir.”

“You did your job,” I say before he shits his pants. “You followed your gut, paid attention to details and found out something was off. It’s the assholes in charge of surveillance that fucked up.”

“But I feel equally responsible. I was literally standing at her door. I just… I couldn’t hear another person’s voice in the room.”

“Walk me through what happened.”

His account matches the others. I’m tired of listening to the same story over and over again with zero answers to my questions, but I can’t ignore the facts staring me in the face.

No stranger has been in this house tonight.

With a heavy sigh, I knock on Birdie’s door. “Hey, it’s me. Please let me in.”

Soft footsteps scurry behind the door. The lock snaps open, and hope flashes on her tear-stained face. “Tristan, thank God you’re here.”

My heart clenches at the sight. I step in and close the door behind me, giving us privacy. “Of course. I’m so sorry. But I’m here now. You’re safe.”

She nods reluctantly, wrapping her arms around her waist in a protective circle. I wish I could hug her, give her the comfort and security she needs, but she’s made it clear I’m not written to fit that role in her book. “How are you now?”

She curls up on the bed, small and vulnerable. Her eyes, red and puffy, barely hold mine, and she shrugs.

“Do you want to talk to me about what happened?”

Her lip curls under teeth, and her trembling fingers hover over her mouth. “No.”

“Okay. Just know that I’m here, ready to listen anytime.”

“Thank you.”

“Birdie…we have to call the police.”

“No.” Panic floods her eyes. “No.”

“I understand your position and fears, but in situations like this, they can help. They have extensive databases. The DNA tests they will run—”

“They won’t find any. He made sure of it. The only thing I’ll get from calling the cops is credibility loss that will lead to a scandal, possible jail time, and provoking Butterfly Man in the wrong way.”

“You have a point.” We’ve been hiding and falsifying evidence. We’ve lied repeatedly to the police and the press. “But he hurt you, Birdie.” I’ll never forgive myself for it. Another sin written in a long list but somehow weighs more than all of them combined. “You need a doctor to examine you.”

“I’ll be fine. Did you find anything?”

I don’t know if I should push any further. This is a sensitive situation for any woman, and I’m only a man. I don’t want to let this go, but any word I say may lack perspective or come out inconsiderate. The last thing I want is to make things worse.