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CHAPTER 1

Birdie

What if the only way to get your happy ending was to let a killer get away with murder?

Image after image flickers in my head, one lifeless face after another. What would the people behind them think of as they took their last breaths? I imagine I could dig my way through each of their skulls and sift through their thoughts until I find that final one. Would they know why they were going to die? Would they regret what brought them to their demise? What would they pray for, forgiveness or second chances? Would they think they could still be saved?

I hum my imagination to sleep, the cool scent of the ocean a helping hand to sooth me. I head down the stairs toward my home office. My assistant, Gia, waits for me next to my desk, holding a manila folder. A man in a navy blue suit rises from his seat. “Good morning, Mrs. Abel. Tristan Morra.”

“His face could have been forged in the wettest of dreams or the worst of nightmares.”

Gia clearing her throat alerts me this isn’t the best thing to say when I first greet a stranger, let alone the security detail I’m supposed to interview. Goddamn you, words. You always get me in trouble. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t need a bodyguard in the first place.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.” I lower my eyes from his face. He is at least a foot taller than I am, though, and my gaze hits his broad shoulders and puffed-up chest under the white dress shirt. Are you kidding me? The man is a living, breathing character begging to be written in one of my books. My brain is having a field day with all the lines I can scribble just by looking at him. “Please take a seat, Mr. Morra.”

His lips twist into a smirk, accentuating the scar above them rather than softening it. “Are you writing a new book?”

I sit at my desk. “I wish. But under the current circumstances, I…” Can’t trust the consequences of writing another book? “…prefer to take some time off. Fortunately, my publisher agrees. At least, until they find me proper security to make sure the stalker never enters my house or comes near me again. That’s why you’re here, Mr. Morra.”

He sits across from me. “Your publisher? I was under the impression your husband arranged for this interview with my firm.”

“Blake Abel is also my manager. He and the publisher serve the same interest.” Protecting the golden goose that makes them rich.

Gia sets the folder aside and gives my shoulder a reassuring touch. “Which is your safety, Birdie.”

The safety of my future manuscripts. I plaster a smile. “Of course. What else?”

Morra’s eyes, more green than hazel with flicks of gray, harden at me as he gives me a curt nod. “Noted.”

Does he understand what I’m saying between the lines or is it a mere acknowledgment of who is hiring him?

“After the incident, Birdie has become extremely paranoid,” Gia volunteers, as if she knew how I felt or what kind of thoughts were gnawing at me. “She fired all the house staff. She doesn’t trust anyone anymore.”

“Can you blame me? A man broke into my house without any sign of forced entry. He was in my bedroom. He watched me sleep and…” My stomach lurches at the thought.

Morra’s forehead creases with a scowl. “And what, Mrs. Abel? Did he touch you?”

There is an edge to his voice I don’t know whether to appreciate or be concerned about. “No.” Not that I know of.

“Did he come close enough for you to see him, his face, any remarkable features or identifiable tattoos?”

“I didn’t even know he was in the room until I woke up and found his note on the bed.”

He leans forward. His scowl seems permanent now. “I see. But how do you know he’s a man?”

I cock an eyebrow at him, unappreciative of the inquisition. First, I’m supposed to interview him, not the other way around. Second, he’s acting like the police that dismissed me once they knew what the fuss was all about . Apparently, a crazed fan that sneaks his way into a female author’s home to leave her a sick note isn’t something important enough or dangerous enough to be worthy of their precious time. I rub my fingers over my mouth, cursing myself for thinking for one moment a man could be genuinely concerned about what happened to me. “Have you signed the NDA form, Mr. Morra?” The last thing I want is some idiot spreading the details of this nightmare for money or for kicks.

“Yes.”

“Good. Before I answer any more of your questions and spill, to a complete stranger, more details about the horrific incident I’d like to keep private, let’s hear more about your qualifications and why I should consider you for the job.”

“With pleasure,” he says, unfazed by my enforcing control over the conversation, and then he babbles the information on his resume, which I already know.

Tristan Morra, twenty-seven, ex-military, honorable discharge after two tours. When his father died, he was the sole caretaker of his sick mother, until she, too, passed away. He used to work for Triad, a major security firm, where he’s been the personal bodyguard of several businessmen, celebrities and politicians. Then he left and opened his own firm, Monarca, in Boston last year. Small but efficient. Reasonable prices with the experience and the qualifications needed. Neither overwhelmed by having too many clients nor arrogant. The boss himself is here for the position. In other words, the firm and he, with his physique and record—all his previous clients are safe and sound—are perfect for the job.

If only he wasn’t mansplaining me…

The only reason I continue this interview is to see the look on his face when I reject his application at the end. I love it when I put a cocky man, who thinks he knows better than a woman, in his place.

To show him I’m not making arbitrary assumptions, I nod at Gia to show him the evidence. She opens the folder and hands him a clear plastic bag with a yellow piece of paper inside. The stalker’s ominous note.

He’s professional enough not to take it out of the bag, I’ll give him that. It’s criminal evidence that should have been tested for prints and DNA had the police believed me. But they ruled the note as nothing but a publicity stunt just like the bruises I’ve shown them before. They could be anything, Mrs. Abel, they said. You might have taken a nasty fall. You might have even inflicted them upon yourself to promote your books. Aren’t you that author who writes about abused women and the villains that save them? They laughed.

Figures of authority have always disliked me, starting with my parents. When you’re raised by narcissists who falsely believe they’re smarter, more confident, more successful than you’ll ever be, you turn into their enemy. It doesn’t matter if you’re their own blood. It doesn’t matter if you’re an innocent child who wants nothing but their love. They try to destroy your confidence and any positive image you have of yourself. They try to convince you you’re nothing without them, and you’ll never earn their love because of your many faults. Until you believe them. Until you’re broken and desperate. Until you’re forever a puppet under their control.

If, for any reason, you try to break out of their cage, you get punished in any way they see fit. And if you have the audacity to object or seek help, guess what? You get the blame. They’re your loving parents who have done everything to raise and nurture you despite your shortcomings and lack of potential. How can you not see that everything they do is for you? Is that how you repay them, you ungrateful brat?

It wasn’t very surprising I received the same response from the police when I tried to complain about my violent husband. After all, they think their ex-cop friend is the kind of husband who supports his wife financially while she writes fictional stories about ungrateful wives who dare complain about domestic violence and emotional abuse. These stories are all made up. She lied about the bruises, too, just to sell more books. There’s no way she’s making ten times more than him with that crap she writes. There’s no way he abuses and controls her to live off her, right?

Wrong.

Morra’s stare goes over the words that are now engraved in my head; I wrote most of them.

You look so peaceful in your sleep. You’re my obsession, my addiction, my salvation and my destruction as I will be yours. You’re the reason I breathe, the reason I live, the reason I kill. I love you so much that I’ll kill everyone who has ever hurt you, anyone who will ever touch you again, darling.

Morra peers at the dried off-white blobs that stain the yellow background. Then he brings the bag to his nose. “Is this—”

“Ejaculation? Yes, it is, and before you ask me how I know for sure, I’ll answer you. When the police refused to take the case seriously or even run a few tests, we did. The tests confirm it’s semen on the note.”

He hands the bag back to Gia. “Can I trouble you for some water?”

Is he nervous? I can’t help the smirk that tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Oh, where are my manners? Bring some coffee, too, Gia, please. Perhaps some hot chocolate or even something stronger? Vineyard Haven in March can be cruel.”

“Coffee is fine. Thanks,” he says.

She tucks the note away in the folder. “Sure. How do you take yours, Mr. Morra?”

“Black, one sugar.” He pauses until she leaves the room. “Mrs. Abel, I’m so sorry you had to go through this. I understand how you feel and how grave the situation is.”

Does he? Should I give him a medal or something?

“Don’t think I didn’t pick up on what you were trying to say earlier when your assistant jumped in. I just didn’t want to speak in front of her. You have every right not to trust anyone right now.”

Interesting.

His gaze pins intensely on mine. “You’re my obsession, my addiction, my salvation and my destruction as I will be yours. You’re the reason I breathe, the reason I live, the reason I kill.”

I freeze for a second, taken aback by the way my skin breaks out in goosebumps as he recites that part of the note. “Excuse me?”

“He quoted from your latest book, Twisted Obsession . It’s about a stalker obsessed with a woman prostituted by her husband. He kills the husband and kidnaps her for himself.”

“Yes… You read my book?”

“Of course.”

Blake must have briefed him about the quote. Morra read the book and came prepared. I’ll give him that...too.

“Not just because of the case,” he adds, as if he can read my mind. “I truly love your writing. It’s like you nail every emotion with a sledgehammer. The intensity and authenticity in every story are so relatable you can’t help but fall in love with them. My favorite book is The Nightingale’s Whispers .”

I blink, frowning.

“What?”

“You’re not exactly my target audience, Mr. Morra.”

His smirk makes a reappearance. “Men read, too, and not just the stereotypical genres.”

Not the men I know. Blake never reads my books, and he makes a living out of them. Have I been so prejudiced that I judged Morra too quickly?

“Is this the first note he sent you?” he asks.

I look down and shake my head. “Wouldn’t call him a stalker if it was. There have been several over the years of my author career.”

“Where did you find them?”

“Fan mail mostly. A few at signings. They’d magically appear in the merch boxes or in my books at readings. But one time I found a note slipped under the door of my hotel room while I was on my book tour. When I opened the door, no one was there.

“I told Blake. He checked the hotel security cameras, but they found nothing. We decided to put the whole thing behind us because the notes were merely quotes and words of admiration. Harmless. But now they’ve escalated to sickening violations, dark obsessions and threats of murder.”

“How do you know it’s the same fan? Do the notes have the same handwriting? And please don’t think my questions earlier or now are skeptical or condescending. I know you must get that a lot, especially from the police. I’m only gathering facts and evidence because if you choose me to be your bodyguard, I won’t only protect you. I will catch that bastard for you.”

A strange feeling washes over me, one that is as soothing as it is alarming. It’s like I can finally let go of the weight I’ve been carrying for so long. It’s a moment of strength when I can stand up to the fears that have held me back for so long. A moment of hope, of believing things can be better. It’s also a moment of vulnerability, of opening up to a new world and trusting that it will be kind.

“The other notes were typed, not handwritten. I know it’s him, though, because of the butterflies,” I answer.

“The butterflies? Like the one drawn at the end of the note you showed me?”

“Unlike other fan mail, his notes are never signed with a name, but he always leaves an illustration of a butterfly. We’ve been calling him Butterfly Man because of his signature.”

“Let’s stick with stalker . Giving him a name like the press does with serial killers legitimizes him. It’s what he’s after, creating a rapport with you, his victim . Do butterflies mean anything to you? Do they hold any significance in your life or in your books?”

“No. The only thing I can think of is that my name is Birdie. Butterflies and birds have wings, and both words start with a B .” I chuckle at how silly I must sound. “I don’t think it has anything to do with me. It’s obviously significant to him, though.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this. I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe. No woman should be afraid in her own house because of a man…stalker or otherwise.”

I stare at him for a few moments, and he respects the silence. His words sink deep, more than any have in a long time. It’s like he understands, like he truly gets it. I haven’t cried in years, not in public, but tears jump to my eyes, threatening to spill. I swallow to contain them. Is this real? Can I finally break that thick surface of fear and pain? Can I finally breathe?

Perhaps I’ve been wrong about Tristan Morra after all. “Thank you. I must say, you and your company are perfect for the position, Mr. Morra.”

“It’ll be my honor to protect you. You have no idea how thrilled I am to be your security detail.”

“Because you’re a big fan?”

“Because, for years, I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to repay you.”

“Repay me? For what?”

“You don’t remember me, but I can never forget the face of the person that changed my life. I used to be nothing but a scrawny boy whose parents whisked him from Argentina to start a new life in Miami when he was three. They couldn’t afford a good school, and I was dyslexic. At nineteen, I was unable to graduate, so I saved some money and enrolled in the adult English classes for students with learning difficulties at your school. I was lucky enough to have you as my teacher. You were amazing. You gave me an opportunity to continue my education. You—”

“You were a student of mine?”

“Yes, Mrs. Abel. Well, your name back then was Ms. Fletcher,” he continues. “I had a different name, too. I figured Tristan Morra would be much easier to pronounce than—”

“Shut up.” The gentle breeze soothing my soul turns into a cold chill down my spine, shattering every shred of hope and replacing it with dread.

“I’m sorry?”

I hurry to the door and open it with more force than necessary. “Get out.”

“I don’t understand. Did I say something wrong? I’m just showing my gratitude.”

A wave of nausea threatens to knock me out. “Do you have any idea why I quit teaching? Why I moved halfway across the country to a cold isolated island where no one knows who I really am? Why I hide behind that stupid pen name?”

He looks like a deer in the headlights. “I thought you left to start a new family with your husband. To pursue your dream as an author.”

A bitter scoff escapes my mouth. “Oh I wish it were that simple and dreamy.” But it’s dark and painted with blood. In a way, I’m glad he doesn’t know the truth, and the secrets that I’ve paid a heavy price to bury remain safe.

“Then what happened?”

“This interview is over, Mr. Morra. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Please remember that you signed an NDA, and everything we talked about can’t be disclosed to anyone at any time.”

“Of course. You can trust me. I’d never say or do anything that could cause you any discomfort or harm. Please—”

“To keep it that way, this is the last time we’ll ever cross paths. Now, get out of my house and never come back.”