Page 31

CHAPTER 31

Tristan

Spencer’s watch room is empty, and the lighthouse gallery is completely devoid of visitors at this time of the year. Birdie is right. The place is safe after all. My gaze drifts with the crisp wind whipping through the golden beach grass. Today should be a lesson learned. I am being overprotective of her, and not in a good way.

As I wait for Birdie and Marcus, I step back inside the chamber that houses the beacon light. It has slanted windows running along the circumference, framing a vista of ocean meeting horizon from all directions, allowing me a comprehensive visual of the perimeter. Also, I can hear them better from here as they approach.

What’s taking them so long, though?

“Marcus, do you copy? Is everything all right?” I speak into the mic.

When he doesn’t answer, I repeat, “Marcus, do you copy?”

Two more seconds pass, and nothing comes in. Shit.

I pull my gun and sprint back towards the winding staircase entrance. My footsteps thunder against the old stone floors. “Marcus, status report now.”

Static answers me. Either he’s not receiving my transmissions...or he’s choosing not to respond. What the hell is going on? My blood runs cold at the thought of Birdie being harmed in any way. If anything happens to her, I swear to God…

“Birdie! Birdie, can you hear me?!” I fly down the stairs. The only sounds I’m getting are the hollow reverberations of my own voice bouncing back at me. I redouble my pace, practically flinging myself around each dizzying curve of the stairs. “Someone answer me, Goddammit!”

“Tristan, you might wanna come down here,” Marcus says at last.

I take the remaining stairs three at a time, using every ounce of speed and strength I possess. I have a glimpse of her face, pale and hard, but she’s there in one piece. Thank God. I even my breath, willing my heartbeat to slow down the frantic rhythm. “Birdie, are you okay?”

She glances up at me, holding on to the wall as if she’s going to fall, Marcus in front of her. “Y-yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. What happened here?” I climb down the last of the steps to them and scowl at Marcus. “And why aren’t you answering? I radioed three times.”

“She said she was having trouble breathing, and she wouldn’t climb any higher. I was trying to help her. Birdie, be honest, are you afraid of heights?”

She squints at him incredulously. “What? No.”

“Claustrophobic?”

“No, Marcus. I’ve climbed to the top of this lighthouse so many times before.”

“Then what is it?” I ask firmly, holstering my gun. Something is happening, and neither of them is telling me the truth.

“Nothing. It’s just… Every time I came here, Blake was with me. This place is where we had our wedding photoshoot. It holds a lot of memories, and it overwhelmed me. That’s all.” Her eyes want to tell me something more, different from the lie she’s just spawned.

“Do you want to go home?”

She shakes her head. “I need some air. Let’s go straight to the balcony.”

“You mean the gallery, ma’am,” Marcus corrects.

My eyes narrow at him with a glare. Our client looks like she’s just come back from a panic attack—maybe because of something he did—and he cares about terminology. “Go down and secure the lighthouse entrance, Marcus.” I usher Birdie up the stairs. “And maintain comms protocol. Don’t go radio silent again, understood?”

“Yes. Sorry, boss.”

When Birdie and I reach the gallery, she looks like she’s about to cry.

I want to give her a moment to calm down, but I need to know what is wrong. “What the hell happened down there? Are you okay? Did Marcus do something to you?”

Her sunken stare alarms me. She points at the mic in my sleeve. “Can he hear us?”

“Not unless I want him to. Birdie, please, tell me what happened.”

“He lied to us. In the car, he said he’d never been here before, but as we were coming up, he said you’d think after all these years, they’d have installed some better lighting in here. He was here years ago, Tristan.”

I wait for the rest of the story, but she seems finished. “That’s it?”

“What do you mean that’s it? I’m telling you he lied about never being on the island. Does that not raise any suspicions in you?”

My hands rest on my hips while I sigh in relief. “No, Birdie, because Marcus isn’t lying.”

“Did you hear a word I said?”

“Every single one, loud and clear. But what you don’t know is that Marcus was a Coast Guard officer before he joined the Marine Corps. He’s been inside countless lighthouses, and he’s always complained about how boring they are because they all look the same on the inside. That comment was just his general impression of old structures like these.”

Her lips twist as she seems to be mulling it over. Then she rests her arms on the railing and lowers her head. “A Coast Guard officer. Is that why he was giving me a lesson in lighthouse vocabulary?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“God, I’m going crazy. For a hot minute there, I thought…”

“You thought he was the stalker?”

She nods with a scoff.

“You’re under a lot of stress, and today didn’t make it easier. I didn’t make it easier. With everything that’s happened between us, and then I go and make you suspect literally every person you know.”

“We get into each other’s heads, Tristan,” she pins me with a stare, “in the worst ways possible.”

It’s unfortunate but true. “We can’t let that happen anymore.”

“How do you propose we accomplish that?”

I must start treating Birdie like any other client, no more crossing lines, no more breaking rules or letting emotions get in the way. “I’ll step back and make Marcus your number one like you asked.” My heart squeezes as those words fall out of my mouth, but it’s the only way to keep her safe.

She purses her lips as the blue of the ocean drowns in her gaze. “I used to find such solace in this place, in the comforting rhythms of the waves and seabirds. Now it all feels tainted, unsafe.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. It was ruined long before we came today. What I said about my wedding photoshoot and coming here with Blake was true. I loved this lighthouse so much, but after what he did to me last year, I just… I thought coming here today, driving my own car, knowing I’m this close to getting him out of my life, would make me see this place as I once did. I was wrong. It’s funny how one person can ruin your favorite places and memories forever.”

“Then make new memories, ones neither he nor anyone else can ruin, and then the places will become favorites again.”

Her head bobs up and down, and then a smile tugs on the corner of her mouth. “Okay. Let’s try it your way.” She hands me her phone. “Take my picture, and every time I’ll look at it, I won’t see the pain that led to it. Instead, I’ll choose to see the day I broke free from Blake’s cage…and the moment I realized Marcus wasn’t Butterfly Man.”

She poses, and I capture the photo. Then I give her the phone, aching to let our fingers twine, to caress her face and taste her smile. I shove my fists in my pockets instead. “Good choice.”

Her fingertips zoom in on the photo, and her smile vanishes. “Wait, is this…” She spins and peers at the railing. “Oh, for God’s sake. Can you just give me a break?”

I track the spot she’s yelling at, and my stare collides with a butterfly. “That’s weird.”

“No, it’s not, not with my luck. If it’s not Blake ruining my life, it’s my freaking stalker or the reminders of him.”

“I understand your frustration, but I mean it’s weird for this butterfly species to be in this part of the country.”

“It’s a monarch, Tristan. It’s everywhere.”

“Actually, that’s a queen butterfly. See how the wings have a rich brown color with white spots along the edges? Monarchs have more of an orange-brown color with black lines forming a distinct pattern. It’s very rare to find a queen here.”

“Why?”

“They’re tropical insects, mostly found in the south like in Texas or Florida. They don’t like the cold.”

“Well, like I said, it’s just my luck. A rare insect makes its way into the one photo I take to christen my new life to remind me of my worst nightmare, as if I can ever forget.”

I stretch a hand between us. “Let me take another photo.”

“No.” She slides the phone in her pocket. “It won’t make any difference, not until Butterfly Man is gone.”

“I really wish you stopped calling him that.”

She shrugs with a snort. “How do you know so much about butterflies?”

I step back, inching up a brow. “She asks warily.”

“No. We’ve already been there, and like with Marcus, we’ve established that you are not my stalker. Besides, you’re with me twenty-four seven, busy being annoying and anal. You don’t have the time to be Butterfly Man. It was a genuine question.”

“Well, here’s a genuine answer. My mother.” I lean my arms on the railing, distracting the memories with the sight of the ocean. “She loved them. Her father owned a butterfly farm in Argentina. He died before I was born, but he taught her everything, and she taught me. It was our thing.”

“Monarca,” she says slowly, as if she’s just made the connection between my firm name and the reason behind it. “That’s monarch in Spanish, isn’t it?”

“And my mother’s name.”

“You loved her that much, didn’t you?”

“More than anything. She was the kindest person I’ve ever met.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” She reaches a hand to my shoulder but retracts it immediately, thinking I’d mind. And I don’t tell her I need nothing more than her comforting touch now. “What about your father?”

My fists squeeze the cold metal until my knuckles turn white. “Do you like butterflies? I mean…before the notes.”

She regards my face for a few moments. I can’t tell if she’s considering my question or wondering why I’ve evaded hers. A long sigh seeps from her lips as she shakes her head. “Not really. I mean, they look so mighty, so graceful, those beautiful colors, those strong wings, and yet…none of it is real. You capture a butterfly, pluck its wings, then what is left?”

“What?”

She holds my gaze. “An ugly bug to crush.”

That’s…disturbing, even for me—especially for me. “An ugly bug to crush? You’re evil.”

“I’m sorry to dump a hint of my darkness on you like that, but you asked.”

“Oh I’m used to more than a hint of your darkness. I’ve read it all. But don’t take it out on the butterflies,” I say, and she chuckles. I wish I could laugh with her, but one memory assaults my humor.

Once, I said something similar to my father, except I wasn’t joking. I was begging. I grip the railing tighter. The pain helps ground me, forcing the images down. My father’s sneering face, his cruel taunts about my failure to live up to his vision of masculinity. The way he crushed everything I cherished as easily as one might stomp on an insect.

I focus on the rhythmic crash of the waves before more memories threaten to resurface. “They’re supposed to be a symbol of hope, rebirth and freedom. How can someone like you not relate to that struggle, to emerge from the confining chrysalis, this quest to become something more, to spread your wings and finally take flight?” I know I do.

“Look, I get it. You bonded with your mother over them, and that makes them special for you. I totally respect that, but I see them differently. Those creatures are so fragile they won’t survive a second without their camouflage. What they really symbolize is…deceit.”

“Deceit is the ugly bug’s only defense against the cruel world. Can you really blame it for trying to survive?”

She averts her gaze toward the sky. “It’s going to get dark soon. I’m ready to go home.”

When we exit the lighthouse, Marcus isn’t the only one waiting for us. Brandon and the team that has come to secure the car are there, too.

Birdie takes one look at their faces, and her shoulders slump. “For God’s sake, what now?”

“When we arrived at the parking lot, this was on the windshield of Mrs. Abel’s car.” Brandon’s gloved hands hold a yellow envelope. It has a butterfly drawing on it.