Page 50 of XOXO, Little Butterfly (The Storyteller’s Bodyguard #2)

Birdie

The school looms before me, a monument to decay. Graffiti covers the walls, and broken windows stare down at me. The place that shamed and banished me for something I’d never done. How long has it been abandoned, left to rot?

“You’re doing great. I’ll be here every step of the way,” Tristan’s voice comes through the wide-range, wireless earpiece I’m covering with my hair.

“Are you in position?”

“Affirmative. You can go in. Remember, let me have visual on you at all times.”

I touch the back of my pants, where I conceal one of Tristan’s guns under my jacket, making sure it’s not showing. I have a knife tucked inside my boots, too. It doesn’t hurt to come prepared. “All right. Let’s do this. Let’s get that asshole.”

At 3:15 p.m., the Florida sun casts long shadows through the empty hallways. Heart in my throat, I make my way to the main corridor where it all began.

“Where are you, Detective?” Will he wait in my classroom? At the parking lot where he used to pick up his sister?

I move through the corridors methodically. My classroom first. The science lab where I used to eat lunch alone. The library where I’d hide from Aaron. The pantry where I secretly cried about the men in my life. I check every room and circle back to the parking lot. Nothing. No one.

“Tristan, do you see anyone? Any movement?”

“Negative.”

“Well,” I check the time on my phone. It’s 3:29, “he’s not here.”

A text dings from my phone. Unknown number.

Right time. Wrong place. This is not where we first met, darling.

My heart skips a beat. More messages follow immediately.

Nice rifle. Not so discreet. I can spot it from miles away.

Naughty, little butterfly. You brought a third wheel to our date.

“Shit,” I breathe.

“Birdie, what’s going on? Do you see anything?”

My phone dings again. Lose the bodyguard or your precious protector and his two friends join in the afterlife. I’m watching all of them.

Terror shoots through me. He knows about Dixon and Riley too.

I flinch with another text notification sound. Café Luna. You know the place. I’ll be waiting. Ditch the earpiece and the phone. Come alone or they all die.

Café Luna. I used to get coffee there all the time. The barista—was it Fernandez? Gonzalez—always remembered my order. That’s where Butterfly Man first saw me? That’s where the detective and I first met?

“Birdie, what’s happening? Talk to me.”

“Tristan.” I glance around the empty parking lot and go back inside. “He knows you’re here. He’s just texted me. He knows where you are. Dixon and Riley, too.”

“Fuck. Get out of here, Birdie. Now.”

That would be the smartest thing to do, but he knows I can’t do that. I have to see Butterfly Man. I have to see the face behind the mask myself.

The layout of this place I once knew by heart maps out in my head. There’s a maintenance exit near the old gymnasium that leads to a narrow service lane. If I move quickly, I can slip out without Tristan seeing me from his rooftop position.

“I’m sorry, Tristan,” I whisper into the earpiece, “but I have to do this.”

“Birdie! BIRDIE!”

I pull the tiny gadget out of my ear and drop it on the floor with my phone. Then I run.

The maintenance door groans as I push it open, rust flaking off the hinges. I sprint through the service lane, my heart hammering against my ribs. Café Luna. Two blocks east. I can do this.

My footsteps halt on the street corner where the coffeehouse sits. The place looks like it’s been closed for years, its cheerful yellow awning faded and torn. Of course—everything from my old life has rotted away. Karma is a bitch.

I approach cautiously, peering through the dusty windows. Empty tables, chairs stacked on top of each other. No sign of anyone.

“Hello?” I call out, stepping inside. “I’m here. I came alone like you asked.”

Nothing.

Evening out my breath, I walk among the tables. My eyes spot a piece of paper on one of the tables on the left. Quickly, I take it. He’s written something on it. There’s a phone behind the counter.

I rush to find it. It’s a burner, sitting right there, but there are no messages left on it or numbers saved to call. I wait for a few minutes. The phone remains silent. “C’mon. Where the hell are you, motherfucker?”

Then it pops. The text I’ve been waiting for. Back alley.

As careful as possible, I make a beeline to the kitchen and into the back alley, where delivery trucks used to unload supplies. The smell of garbage sends a wave of nausea through me.

I fight the urge to gag, my eyes darting between the alley and the phone. “I know you’re here somewhere,” I say to the shadows. “Show yourself.”

A figure emerges from behind a distant dumpster all the way down. Tall, wearing a black hoodie pulled up over their head. And the mask that freezes my blood.

Butterfly Man. I’m face to face with him. Out in the open. The final countdown.

“I know who you are,” I gasp.

He doesn’t speak. Just stands there, tilting his head like he’s studying me.

My heartbeat and breath race after each other. “It’s only you and me. No one is watching.” My hand hovers behind my back, ready to take my gun out. “Take off the mask,” I demand. “Let me see your face, Detective Ashford.”

His head tilts to the other side like a fucking creep from a horror movie. Then, abruptly, he twists and dashes away.

“Hey! Stop!” I pull my gun out and chase after him.

My feet pound against the cracked asphalt. He’s fast, but I’m not backing down. All these years of rage and fear and pain must end now.

He leads me through a maze of back alleys, past abandoned storefronts and boarded-up windows. My lungs burn, but I can’t slow down. I can’t let him get away. Not when I’m this close to ending it.

I shoot. For the love of God, I fire at him. He stumbles and ducks, dodging the bullet. Then he straightens and stares back at me, daring me to shoot him again.

“Please stop.” I hold the gun steady, pointing it at him. “I don’t want to do something we’ll both regret.”

He stands still for what seems like an eternity, and then he scoffs. I’m the one holding the gun, and he’s the one mocking me.

“Show me your face, or I swear to God, I’ll shoot.”

Butterfly Man, slowly, moves a hand up to his face. My heart beats frantically against my chest. Finally, I’ll know who my stalker is beyond doubt and speculation. Finally, I’ll see my tormentor, my dark savior.

In a flash, he springs and ducks into a narrow passage between two buildings.

“Fuck!” I chase him again, following the endless trail, but I can’t find him anymore. My head snaps up and down. My eyes roam every inch around me. He’s nowhere to be found, as if I’ve conjured him from my insanity, and now he’s vanished.

I keep running, refusing to believe I’ve lost him. I end up in a small, enclosed courtyard surrounded by high brick walls, but I can’t see the mask anywhere. I turn to the phone, praying, begging for a message, but it taunts me with more silence.

I lost. Another plan backfires and bites me in the ass.

I remove my sunglasses and share my location so Tristan can find me. Then my eyes roll heavenwards. How did Butterfly Man disappear just like that? “Where the fuck are you?!”

“Looking for me?”

With a gasp, I spin around, gun at attention. A man steps out from the shadows near the far wall. No mask. No hoodie.

“Wow, easy.” Detective Reid stands before me, his hands raised, his expression surprised rather than menacing.

“Don’t take another step,” I warn.

“Okay. All right.” He stops mid-step. “Can you tell me what’s happening here?”

“Enough games. I know it’s you. You’re the stalker. You’ve been all this time. Your new name. The flowers, the restaurant, the notes, always fishing for information… The murders.”

“What? No, Birdie. I’m definitely not your stalker.”

“I said enough lies. I was literally just chasing you, while you had your mask on. You led me down here.”

“No, Birdie. I got a text from you, asking me to meet you here so I could show you the new evidence I had.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I know who your stalker is. I found a video of him sliding down a note under your hotel room door.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. Let me show you the video—” Reid tries to reach for his phone.

“Don’t move!” I tighten my grip on the gun. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Birdie, please. You need to see this. It’ll prove I’m not your stalker.”

“How do you even know about the note he left at the hotel? That was more than a year ago. I’ve never mentioned it to you.”

“You filed a complaint, remember, the one you thought was ignored by the police? That’s how we first met on Martha’s Vineyard.

I’ve been following up on it. I went to the hotel you mentioned in the report and found the footage.

I’m surprised no one has ever asked to see the security tapes. It was literally sitting right there.”

Blake did, but he couldn’t find anything. “Nice try. You probably doctored whatever video you think you have. You’re good at forging those. You managed to alter live security feed, remember ? When you visited me in my bedroom under the nose of my bodyguards?”

“I’ve never done that, Birdie, and I didn’t doctor anything. The hotel manager gave me access to their archived footage from the night of the incident. The timestamp matches, if you’d just look at the video…” His hand starts to move.

“One move, and I’ll shoot. You know I will.”

He freezes. “Look, I understand why you don’t trust me, but I’m trying to help you.”

“Really? Then explain why you changed your name.”

His expression shifts, more sinister. “My name is Reid Jacob Ashford. Changing last names for security reasons is more common in our field than you think. For me, I had to change it because of what happened with my partner here in Miami.” He pauses.

“There was an incident. He got involved in something dirty and left the force. I had to transfer under an alias until it’s resolved. ”

“You followed me to Martha’s Vineyard!”

“No, Birdie. Once you see the video, I swear you’ll understand everything.”

Who is in that video? Who else could Butterfly Man be if not the detective?

I don’t know what to believe anymore. How can I trust a single word Reid Jacob Ashford says?

I keep the gun trained on him, my hands shaking.

“Tristan will be here any minute. You will throw your phone in his direction, and he’ll show it to me. ”

His jaw clenches, but he nods once. “Fair enough. Can you put your gun down now?”

“No! Just so you know, Tristan is so adamant about killing you. If you so much as think about trying anything, he will shoot.”

“Okay.” He keeps his hands raised this time. “I’ll just wait here.”

I keep my eyes on Reid’s. He doesn’t falter. He just stares back at me with something like…care. How does he do it?

Footsteps echo through the courtyard, quick and purposeful. Tristan appears at the entrance, gun raised, his face a mask of deadly intent. “Step away from her,” he commands.

“Tristan, wait. He has something we need to see first before—” I start, but he’s already moving closer, Dixon and Riley in tow.

“Don’t tell me you fell for his lies again!” Tristan doesn’t take his hateful gaze off the detective. “You led her into a trap, you sick fuck. You’re not getting out of here alive.”

“No, Tristan!” I position myself between them, my gun still pointed at Reid but my body shielding him from Tristan’s. “He says he has evidence. A video.”

“Evidence he fabricated. Birdie, get out of the way.”

“Please, just…let him show us first.”

Reid’s voice is steady despite having four weapons pointed at him. “The phone. I need to reach for my phone.”

Tristan’s finger hovers over the trigger. “One wrong move—”

“I know.” Reid’s eyes pin on mine. “Birdie, I’m going to move very slowly.

” He moves his hand inch by inch toward his jacket pocket.

Every muscle in my body coils tight. He pulls out his phone with deliberate care and holds it up so I can see it.

“I’m going to open the video now. Don’t shoot me for moving my thumb.

” He works the screen and then tosses the phone toward me.

It skitters across the cracked concrete.

With trembling fingers, I bend and take the phone.

“Watch the whole thing, Birdie. Look at who has really been torturing you,” Reid says.

The timestamp reads from over a year ago—the night at the hotel. I tap play. The grainy security footage begins. A long, empty hotel corridor. Then a figure appears at the edge of the frame. Someone in all black. A hoodie. They’re walking toward my room. A black mask covers their face.

My breath catches in my throat as they pause outside my door, sliding something underneath. The note. Then they straighten their back with a flinch, as if they heard someone coming, afraid to get caught.

Quickly, they take off the mask and look behind them. They move down the hallway, checking the right and left passages. That’s when the camera catches their profile.

My gun wavers in my grip. The world tilts sideways as recognition crashes over me. “No.”

“Birdie?” Tristan’s voice sounds distant, muffled by the vertigo wave threatening to take me. “What is it? Who’s in the video?”

I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. I rewind the video to watch again, praying I’m wrong. But there’s no mistaking that walk, that build, that face.

Sobs tremor through me, and my knees give.

“Birdie!” Tristan and Reid shout at the same time, both hurrying toward me.

“Don’t move!” one of my other bodyguards bark.

“Leave the detective alone. He’s not Butterfly Man,” I whisper through the uncontrollable sobs.

Tristan’s hands help me up. “Birdie, talk to me.” He lowers his gun, concern replacing aggression in his voice. “Who is it?”

The name won’t come out. I can’t bring myself to believe it even though it makes perfect sense. I hand him the phone. He can see it for himself.

Tristan plays the video until the end. “Son of a bitch.”

Reid takes a cautious step forward. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”