Page 26

CHAPTER 26

Birdie

Marcus’s shadow moves behind the office door. After Tristan stormed out, the second in command has been standing guard for hours. My fingers halt on the keyboard as Marcus mumbles something I can’t hear clearly yet loud enough to interrupt my flow. I stare at the header of the chapter I’m writing, Butterfly Man , and give it two middle fingers. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t need that circus in my house.

Marcus knocks. “Mrs. Abel, can I come in?”

“I said no interruptions,” I say, doing my best not to sound angry. He is just doing his job.

“I’m sorry, but there’s a Detective Torrance for you at the front door. Should we let him in?”

My heart dips. What does Torrance want from me again? Why is he here? A regular follow up or…

“Mrs. Abel?” Marcus repeats.

I smooth my hands over my jeans as I get off my seat, and then I open the door. “Did he say what this is about?”

“No, ma’am.”

Cold sweat breaks out down the back of my neck at the possibility Torrance has connected Saldana’s death to Butterfly Man. No, he can’t. I have the book on safekeeping, and from what I’ve witnessed Butterfly Man is smart enough to cover his tracks well. I clear my throat. “Is Tristan here?”

“Performing regular premises checks. Do you want me to radio him in?”

Yes. Despite the recent tension between us, I’d feel much safer with him in the room when I meet Torrance. “No need. You’re here.”

He smiles. “Always at your disposal, ma’am. Should I tell them to let the detective in?”

“Of course. No need to be rude.”

Drawing in a steadying breath, I return to my seat. Marcus ushers Torrance inside my office, closes the door and stands within my reach.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Abel,” Torrance says, hulking over my bodyguard. I can’t get used to how tall and big this man is. His steely gaze travels between me and Marcus. “Quite the security team you have here.”

I force my lips into a welcoming smile and gesture to one of the chairs across from mine. “Detective Torrance, we meet again.”

He takes in the room, subtly inspecting every corner under a false mask of admiration, and then he sits. “Yes, we do, Mrs. Abel.”

“Would you like something to drink? My assistant isn’t in today, so the choices might be limited.”

“Thank you. I’m only here to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“About?”

His eyes, those of someone who has seen too much darkness in the world, pin me in place. “The murder of Katie Saldana.”

Every crime has a motive. Every goal needs an obstacle. Be the obstacle not the victim. I feign confusion. “Murder? Is this some kind of joke? Saldana killed herself.”

“Based on the evidence we found, we have reason to believe Mrs. Saldana was murdered.”

“That’s…shocking.” How could Butterfly Man leave incriminating evidence behind? That’s completely out of character. “Why would anyone want to murder her?”

“For starters, she’s a thief. She plagiarized your work, didn’t she?”

I arch a brow at him, fighting the urge to snort at what he’s trying to imply. “That doesn’t mean she deserves to die for it, Detective.”

He tilts his head, taking his time studying my face, and then he smiles. “Of course.”

“If I may ask, why are you investigating her case? You’re not Boston PD. You said you were with Oak Bluffs.”

He scrutinizes my expression again, and irritation surges through me. “Where were you yesterday between eleven a.m. and six p.m.?”

“Excuse me,” Marcus interrupts, “is this a formal interview? Is Mrs. Abel under investigation?”

Torrance shoots a sharp stare at him. “We’d be doing this at the station if she was. These are normal questions we ask every person that knows the victim to vet them out. Are you her lawyer, too?”

“No, which reminds you, Mrs. Abel has only allowed this meeting as a courtesy, and she is under no obligation to answer your questions without the presence of an attorney.”

Torrance sneers at me. “Do you need a lawyer, Mrs. Abel?”

I chuckle. “Thank you for having my back, Marcus. It’s much appreciated.” I direct my gaze at the detective. “But I have nothing to hide. I was here all day yesterday. In fact, I haven’t been out since we met at the café, Detective.” I gesture at Marcus. “There are multiple witnesses that can confirm my alibi, obviously.”

Torrance brings out a notepad from his pocket and scribbles something, ignoring my sarcasm as he’s ignored my question earlier. “Did she call you yesterday or initiate any kind of contact?”

I shake my head. “One minute, my assistant was showing me Saldana’s confession video, and the next, she’s showing me the car crash photos. It all happened so fast. I don’t think Saldana had any intention of reaching out to me before or after the video.”

“Except her car crashed in Oak Bluffs, heading in the direction of Vineyard Haven, and your address was the last on her GPS.”

We have just lost cabin pressure. “What?”

He leans forward, a predator poised to strike the moment I let my guard down. “You didn’t know?”

That Butterfly Man killed her a few miles from my house and put my address on her GPS so that a detective, who knows about my having a murderous stalker targeting my enemies, ends up investigating her potential murder and linking the evidence back to me? “No. I wouldn’t ask you why you were on the case if I knew it happened in your jurisdiction.”

His gaze inspects my wounded palm. “What happened to your hand, Mrs. Abel?”

“I broke a glass and cut myself last night. Again, I have witnesses.”

“Why do you think Saldana was speeding to you? To apologize in person?”

“She wouldn’t have just come to my house. We, writers, don’t do that. She’d have emailed, maybe, but after that video, the only correspondence between us would have been through our lawyers. What you’re saying doesn’t make any sense. With all due respect, none of this makes any sense. The video has Boston as the location tag. It’s shot in her home office; it’s the same setting she had in multiple other videos on her social media. How could she post that video from Boston, and within the next hour she’s driving her car into a tree in Oak Bluffs?”

“She was on drugs and speeding.”

“She wasn’t driving a jet. It’s a two-hour drive to the ferry alone on a good day. Assuming she had tickets in advance, add another forty-five minutes to that trip.”

“Unless she shot the video earlier and posted it while she was driving to you without changing the location tag. Or maybe she didn’t shoot it in Boston at all. How do you know it’s not a deep fake backdrop that makes it look like it’s shot in her home office, but she wasn’t there in the first place?”

“That…” could be exactly what Butterfly Man did , “…is far-fetched.”

“Is it?” He dips his hand inside his suit jacket pocket, gets out a bunch of photos and slips one my way. “Do you know this man?”

I peer at Saldana’s photo in a car and the back of some guy’s head. He looks like he’s kissing her. “His face doesn’t show in the photo, but judging by the intimacy, that’s probably her husband.”

“He’s not.”

My heart dips. Oh my God. Could this man be him, my Butterfly Man? Am I looking at my stalker? My hands clench on the arms of my chair. I risk a glance at Marcus, and his face echoes my thoughts; Tristan should have been here. “Well, you said it yourself. She was a thief. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was a cheat, too.”

“This photo was pulled from her security camera footage. That man was in her car with her in Boston exactly two hours and forty-eight minutes before the video was posted.” He shows me another photo of the same car but from a different angle. Saldana and the man are still in it. His face remains unclear, carefully masked by the hoodie, cap and sunglasses he’s wearing. “This one is from the CCTV as they drive in Oak Bluffs, twenty-one minutes before the post. What makes a woman like Katie Saldana post a condemning video that could end her career twenty-one minutes after having been on an intimate ride from Boston to Oak Bluffs with her alleged boyfriend?”

Because that’s not her boyfriend. It’s my stalker who somehow coerced her to ride with him to Oak Bluffs while he drove her own car. Then he forced her to post the video, pumped her veins with drugs, crashed her car with her in it an hour later to make it look like suicide and failed. “Because he was a disappointing lay?”

Marcus snorts a laugh he quickly swallows, but humor doesn’t touch Torrance.

“I don’t know, Detective,” I shrug, “neither do I know why you’re asking me that question.”

“You know what I think? Saldana didn’t post that video willingly.” His index finger tabs the man’s face in the photo. “This man forced her to do it. You know what else I think? He killed Saldana and dressed it like a suicidal guilt trip.”

The detective has figured it all out, but does he have the evidence that proves it? “Every crime needs a motive, Detective. Your theory misses the why.”

His jaw sets in a hard line, the muscle feathering with tension. His eyes bore into me, all warmth stripped away by years of interrogating criminals, leaving only an intense scrutiny that studies my every micro-expression and pierces through the lies. “Perhaps he’s a dedicated fan with violent tendencies who found out she was plagiarizing your books.”

I feel utterly exposed under that goddamn stare, all my secrets laid bare. Can he sense my cracking facade, the doubt and fear gnawing at me? He isn’t here to ask routine questions to cross me off a list of suspects. He’s vivisecting my soul for that entrance point where he can slip the knife and let the truth hemorrhage out. Torrance has me cornered, going in for the kill. One wrong move, one stray tell, and his jaws will clamp around my throat.

Stay calm. Be the obstacle not the victim. Never the victim.

“This meeting is taking longer than anticipated, and Mrs. Abel has a full schedule today.” Marcus moves and stands next to Torrance. “I’m sorry, Detective, but she has to cut it short.”

Torrance lets out a soft grunt, unconvinced. His gaze lingers on me one second too long, but, finally, he rises to his feet. “Of course. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Abel.”

“You know what I think?” I say as Marcus escorts Torrance toward the door, and my bodyguard’s eyes scold me for not taking the save. Torrance spins, and his expression lights with attention. I push my glasses up my nose and look him in the eye. “She wasn’t having an affair. She was just a drug addict, and I think the man in the photos is her drug dealer. He figured out she was famous and thought to blackmail her for sex or else he’d expose her drug addiction to the public.

“They hooked up far away from home so that her husband wouldn’t find out. She got her fix and dropped the man off. The drugs kicked in and made her think it was a good idea to clear her conscience and post that drafted video she’d saved long ago on her phone. Then she figured she was close to my house. Why not apologize in person or fish for an opportunity to make me look bad when I don’t accept her apology?

“She put my address on her GPS, but then she saw the influx of negative comments and reviews. She watched as her followers dropped by the thousands and realized her career was over. She sent her husband her suicide note over a text, another drug-induced brilliant idea, and crashed her car into a tree.”

He pauses, but then he lets out a humorless laugh. He throws a glance at Marcus, “She’s good,” and then at me, “you’re good. So quick with making up stories.”

“It’s my job. I hope you do yours.”

His jaw clenches. “Your story is good to be in some fiction that entertains bored housewives and makes you a little richer than you already are, but in reality, that’s…far-fetched,” he deadpans.

“In my humble yet professional opinion, my story is more palpable than the one you’re trying to craft about Saldana being murdered. But at the end of the day, they’re both stories, fiction like you said, backed with no real evidence except imagination. Now, would you care telling me what evidence proves Saldana was murdered because nothing you said or showed me does?”

“You’re the wife of a police officer, Mrs. Abel. I’m sure you understand I can’t reveal evidence pertaining to an active investigation. Is he around? I’d like to ask him a few questions as well.”

My lips twist as I stifle down the wave of rage the mere mention of Blake sends rippling through me. “No, he isn’t, and he won’t be, hopefully ever again. I filed for divorce.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry you’re going through this. It must be incredibly difficult,” he mocks.

I roll my eyes back to the laptop monitor. “Thank you for stopping by, Detective.”

His footsteps stop abruptly, and he leans against the doorframe. “One last question, did your stalker send any more notes recently, let’s say…yesterday?”

I freeze, his final strike to expose my guilt for all to see getting to me. I pretend to type to hide the shaking of my hands and force a taunting smile on my lips. “What stalker? It was nothing but a publicity stunt, remember?”