Page 36

CHAPTER 36

Birdie

Tristan barks something in his native language. I don’t speak Spanish, but as a teacher for troubled boys in Miami, I had to learn cussing in several South American dialects or, at least, identify swear words even when I didn’t know what they really meant. Tristan is definitely swearing.

“He’s toying with us!” he snares, pacing the area like an angry animal. “He didn’t draw the butterflies to tell you he knew who you really were. He did it so you’d doubt me, so you’d lose your trust in me, so you’d be alone with no protection, isolated, an easy target to dig his filthy claws in.” Another curse flies out of his mouth.

I regard him, his body language, his anger. Could I have been so blind to see the truth? Can the knight sworn to protect me be the monster that terrorizes me? Or is Butterfly Man playing another sick game to make me lose the one person that’s standing between me and him?

All emotions aside, I review everything that has happened between Tristan and me. The facts. Tristan knows my real name. He’s read all my books. He knows so much about butterflies. He is very good with technology, has access to high-tech gear, and he is capable of taking lives.

And, no matter how hard he wants to ignore it and not act upon it, he has…feelings…for me. I don’t know how long he’s had them, but I doubt he’s developed such an intense crush in the span of the few days he’s spent here. It may have started with the books. It may have started earlier; he wouldn’t be the first student that was hot for teacher.

In a character bible, Tristan Morra would fit Butterfly Man’s role perfectly.

Except, since the day Tristan and I met again, every time Butterfly Man has sent one of his notes, Tristan was with me. He couldn’t be at two places at the same time. Even if he’s found a way to deliver the notes via a proxy, why would he send this message when the conclusion I’d draw would expose him? Why lose access to me? He’s not done killing the people that have hurt me. He hasn’t earned me yet.

“You’re eerily silent.” He stops pacing and clasps his hands together under his chin. “Please don’t tell me you’ll let him mess with your head. Please, Birdie.”

“I won’t be still sitting here, wrapped in your clothes, if that's the case.”

He sighs in relief and sits next to me. “Thank you.”

“You’re right. He’s trying to isolate me to make me vulnerable so that I’ll have no one else to trust but him, so that I’ll have nothing to protect me from his darkness. I’m more than familiar with the tactic, thanks to Blake.”

“I won’t let him anywhere near you.” He collects the notes and studies them again one by one. “I will find him, Birdie, I promise.”

“How? Butterfly Man isn’t a reader turned stalker or even a random guy from Massachusetts like we’ve thought. He’s someone from my past. He saw me in Florida, developed a dangerous obsession with me, and followed me all the way to this island. I don’t even know if his obsession started in Miami or earlier in Jacksonville when I used to live with my parents. I don’t even know if I’ve ever spoken to the guy or if he’s been watching from afar all these years like the creep he is. It’s impossible to narrow him down from a list. He could literally be anyone.”

“He’s been obsessed with you for so long. It’s highly unlikely he’s never interacted with you. The theory that he’s one of the people on the document you shared with me at the lighthouse is more valid now than before. We’ll do background checks on everyone on that list to find if they have any ties in Florida and take it from there.” He gives me the notes. “But you know him, Birdie. You just need to find the hidden clues.”

“You think I haven’t tried? Ever since he broke into my house, I’ve been wracking my brain to find out who Butterfly Man is to no avail.”

“He speaks to you in quotes. Each note is a chapter in a story meant for you, and only you, to read. But you’re the storyteller, not him. Who is better than you to figure out the plot twist early on?” He points at the notes. “There must be something in here, something only you can discover that will give him away.”

I take a deep breath. The cold air tightens my chest rather than easing the tension as I flip through the messages, reading between the lines, looking for hints or patterns I’ve missed before. Anything. “Let’s see. Butterflies. I’ve never had any friends or classmates who are interested in them.”

“What about boyfriends? Anybody who might have called you a butterfly or queen as a pet name? Fleeting crushes? An unrequited love?”

I scoff. “No, none of the above. Never been kissed until Shane.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve never had any boyfriends before him. He was my first…everything. Who would have a crush on the nerd who dressed like a nun, let alone an unrequited love? Too smart for her own good. Too much of a prude. That’s what they said about me. No one cared about the heart of the nerdy girl who was born to parents incapable of love, who was desperate to find it with someone else. No one realized the long sleeves were to hide the bruises.”

He scowls, and his gaze drops to his shoes. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Where is Shane now?”

“Where he belongs. Prison.”

“For long I hope.”

“Not long enough if you ask me. Sooner or later, they’re going to let him out, and he’s going to be another thorn in my back.” I shrug with a sigh. “But we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. We have a much bigger issue to deal with.”

“Have you dated anyone after him? I mean before Blake?”

I shake my head. “Just the two. I sure know how to pick them.”

“Jesus, Birdie. A woman like you doesn’t deserve this. You’ve been through a lot of pain.”

Tears clog my throat and threaten to spill from my eyes. I push them down. I don’t have time for them. “It is what it is. Can we focus on the missing clues, please?”

His eyes trail on me. I pretend to read the notes in my hand because if I so much as glance at him, I’ll break, and I can’t do that. Not now.

“What about the handwriting?” he asks.

“I don’t recognize it.”

“It doesn’t remind you of any of your friends’ handwriting? Former bosses’? Teachers’?”

“Teachers? That’s too sick, Tristan.”

“The stalker is sick. We can’t exclude your teachers because it’s creepy. You said it yourself. It could be anyone.”

I go through the shape of the letters one more time. “No. This handwriting doesn’t belong to any of my friends, bosses or teachers.”

“What about students? The school didn’t only cater to kids with special needs and reading difficulties. You taught students with behavioral issues, too, at risk youth, right?”

Students with behavioral issues , to put it lightly. They were dysfunctional and disruptive. Society rejects. My skin crawls at the memory of one of them in particular.

“Birdie?”

His voice brings me back from one of the worst nights of my life. “Yes?”

“You remember something, don’t you?”

How can I ever forget? “I…I’ve seen so much handwriting over my teaching years it starts to blend. Besides, it’s been over eight years. I can’t remember.”

“Don’t lie to me. Now is not the time to keep secrets. You remembered something. You have someone in mind. Who is it?”

It doesn’t matter. It’s not his handwriting, and it’s not him. It can’t be. “It’s getting cold, and I’d like to rest. I’m heading back inside.”

“No.” He blocks my way. “You can’t do that, not when we’re this close. You have to tell me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, the images of the person that ruined my life flashing behind my eyelids. My nails dig into my palms as I try to push the memories away, but they only grow stronger, creeping up my skin as if happening now. The predatory stares in the classroom. His cornering me every time he found me alone. The things he said he wanted to do to me. The threats if I didn’t submit to his desires. The whispers that followed me everywhere and the way my friends’ eyes changed when they looked at me—all because of the lies he spread. The suffocating feeling of being trapped in a web of deceit I couldn’t escape.

“Please, Birdie. Anything you know is gonna help us find him and end this nightmare.”

I can’t bring that name to life after all these years. I can’t dig it up after the price I’ve paid to keep it buried. So I do what I do best. “How did you get the scar on your face, Tristan?”

His eyes widen, his stare a mix of blame, fury and a plea. I expect him to shut down or run as usual, and when silence stretches between us, I, too, turn to escape.

“It was my father,” he confesses in a whisper that pierces the silence. The tremor in his voice belies the anguish he normally keeps so cautiously guarded.

My heart thrashes, and my feet halt at the threshold.

“He used to beat the crap out of me and my mother. I never stood up to him. I was too scared. Until one day I…”

Slowly, I spin to face him, apprehensive about betraying this unprecedented moment of vulnerability, but the solemn determination to open up in his expression encourages me to approach him. “Until one day, you said enough. Your fear turned into something else, something more sinister yet empowering. Finally, it gave you the courage to fight back.”

“He fought too.”

His pain infiltrates my soul. “Who won that day?”

“I’m not the one rotting in a grave.”

A shudder ripples through me at the anguished admission. I hear him, what he’s telling me. I see his hidden clues just like I see the truth of the man he is. Forged in violence and unspeakable suffering, forced to embrace the darkness just to stay alive, forever marred, carrying the mark of a survivor.

The urge to run my thumb over his scar, to show him he’s whole and beautiful, to let him know he’s understood and accepted, pulses through me, but I know better. “You’re safe with me,” I say instead, hoping it’s enough.

He bends his forehead to mine, almost touching, his breath scorching my face. “So are you. You’re not alone, Birdie. I know what it’s like to have your life derailed by evil men. To be beaten down and commit unspeakable sins because you felt you had no other choice. So whatever hell you went through, pour it down on me.”

My breath stalls in my lungs. Tristan has shattered through his walls. Now, it’s my turn to make the same leap. Shaking, I rub my fingers over my mouth. The words choke in my throat.

“You promised if I trusted you enough to tell you how I got my scar, you’d tell me about yours,” he reminds me.

He’s revealed the truth of his past so that I can share my own. If he could find the strength to bare open his most guarded wounds, then I owed him the same.

“His name was Aaron West,” I begin.