Page 4

CHAPTER 4

Birdie

I text Gia the Uber car and driver’s information and description. I’m still livid that Blake could be using her to keep tabs on me—how pushy she’s become to know where I’m going and to drive me there herself arouses a lot of suspicion in me—but unlike what she’s said, my self-preservation skills are intact. If the driver turns out to be Butterfly Man…I mean, the stalker, and I end up being taken, Gia and Blake will know where to look. I doubt he’s a fifty-year old male who hangs cute pictures of who seem to be his grandchildren on the dashboard of his car, though.

GPS announces I’ve arrived at my destination as a white. A Victorian house restored into a café attached to a mini bookstore appears on the right, Sweet Home written on its book-shaped sign. It’s my favorite hangout where I can get a nice lunch or a cup of coffee, surrounded by people who appreciate books as much as I do. Today, I’m not here to dine or read. Still, it’s the perfect place to be without raising any suspicion from Blake, if he’s following me.

As I get out of my ride, I scan the area for Blake’s face or his car and find neither. The street is quiet. There are barely any cars passing by. A few people are walking on the sidewalk or entering the deli at the corner. After seven years of living in a universe where he controls every aspect, every move, I can’t shake the feeling that he does follow me, always watching, even when there is no evidence that supports my claim.

The constant sensation of someone observing me accompanies me inside the café like a disease with no cure. When I sit, and the waitress immediately brings my usual coffee, I regard, behind the sunglasses I never take off outside, the faces scattered around the tables. What if it’s not Blake who’s watching me? What if it’s the stalker that’s triggering my gaze detection?

It should have been my first thought, but when I think of the stalker, I treat him like one of the villains in my stories. Attracted to the dark, lurking in the shadows, stalks his prey at night. He won’t be following me in the middle of the day to a neighborhood where there are no crowds to blend in. And, as in my books, he ends up being the one who saves the girl. Never the hero, it’s always the villain that gets the girl.

Except Butterfly Man—sorry, but my writer mind needs a name for him—isn’t a character I’ve created from a fantasy or an unspoken need. He’s real. A man, psychotic enough to vow murder. That kind of villain doesn’t save the girl, even when he thinks he does; he kills her in the end.

The door opens with a jingle as a tall, black woman in a green suit enters the café. A blue coat dangles over her arm and cascades down to the briefcase in her hand. I watch through the line of steam as her heels echo toward me, and my heart bangs with every step. She is making a turn to her table of choice when she casts a look at me over her shoulder. I busy myself with my phone, the shake in my fingers giving me away.

“Excuse me? Aren’t you Birdie Abel? The author?”

I slightly lift my head toward the voice. It’s coming from the same woman. She’s standing closer to my table now, smiling in anticipation. I nod, worst case scenarios blistering my brain.

She’s sent by Blake or Butterfly Man to watch me.

She’s sent to give me another note from Butterfly Man.

She’s sleeping with Blake and has come to play games with me.

He’s sent her to intimidate or threaten me.

She’s—

“Oh my goodness. I’m a huge fan. If you’re not too busy,” she opens her briefcase and gets out a copy of You’re Not Alone, Darling and a pen, “would you mind signing this for me?”

I close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath. I don’t know why I’m letting my nerves get the best of me, but I am, and for all the wrong reasons. Perhaps I am too paranoid for my own good like Gia says.

You have every right not to trust anyone right now.

Morra’s words flash in my head as I take the book and pen from the woman. “What’s your name?”

She slips in the chair next to mine. “Adriana.”

It’s normal for fans to ask for my signature, especially here, but to take a seat without an invitation is rather strange. The waitress glances at me, a question on her face. Should she intervene?

“It’s okay,” I mouth at the waitress as I open the book cover, and she walks away.

“I’m sorry,” Adriana says quietly. “Did I ruin it? It’s my first time having to meet a client this way.”

“Not at all. You did great.” I sign the book. “I’m the one who should apologize for dragging you from Boston to make you meet me like this. I just… If Blake finds out I’ve been going to a law firm, it won’t end well. With this little charade, if he comes to snoop around here later, they’ll tell him you’re just a fan.”

“I understand.” Pity crosses her face. As a divorce attorney, specializing in domestic abuse cases, Adriana Lockwood must have seen many women like me. She knows what people like Blake are capable of.

After a thorough search for divorce attorneys, her firm came highly recommended. I orchestrated an accidental meet at the coffee place across the firm building where I pretended to ask her about their best coffee I could order, and then explained the situation and how much I needed her help. She was more than understanding and accepted me as a client. Her ways of keeping our arrangement as confidential and discreet as possible assured me she has the right expertise to help me. She’s the one who created an unmonitored email for our correspondence and provided me with a burner phone to contact her.

We never meet at her office. We never meet. Period. Even when she sent me the burner, I had to claim it from a post office in Edgartown, prepared to lie to Blake if he asked. It’s a card from a fan. She wrote down the wrong P.O. box. When they saw my name, though, they knew where to call. I’m so glad they did. I hate it when they return fan mail. I don’t want my readers to think I don’t receive their kind gifts or that I don’t appreciate them . Adriana did send a fake card with the burner, in case he needed proof.

“Eventually, we had to meet in person to get your signature on the papers. They’re inside the book,” she says.

The divorce papers. I sign them, too, and slip my burner phone among them as I return the book to her.

“Can I see the video you said you had? You said you wouldn’t send it over the internet, which I think is smart. Once something is out there, it never goes away.”

“Excuse my trust my issues. I’ve been going through something that has been driving me insane. I literally considered walking out of here when I saw you come in. I’m too scared. I even had crazy thoughts that you might be working with Blake—”

“Hey, let me stop you right here. All of what you’re feeling is comprehensible. Your husband has been manipulating you for years. Emotional and psychological abuse often accompany domestic violence. They are equally painful and destructive.” She gives me a kind smile. “Rest assured I’m on your side, Birdie. You know you can trust me. I can’t be working with your husband. You can have me disbarred if I were. Our firm is the best in the county, and we have a reputation to keep. You wouldn’t be working with us otherwise.”

“I know. I’m sorry. The video is on the burner. It’s inside the book.”

She pretends to be looking at my dedication while she plays the video I had of Blake. The one I used to finally kick him out of my house. A grin stretches her lips. “We got him, Birdie.”

“You think?”

“I don’t think. I know. I thought you got him screwing someone else on camera, but this…I salute you.”

I don’t feel as confident as she seems to be. “Will he go to prison?”

She plays the video again and zooms in on Blake’s face while he draws his gun at the drug dealer from whom he’s buying his psychedelic amphetamines. After Blake’s therapist cut him off last year because she suspected he was abusing the drug, he’s been getting his supply illegally. I don’t know why he was threatening the dealer with the gun, and I don’t care. Blake always has a gun on him. With his anger issues—among several others—it was only a matter of time before he used it. I was lucky enough to be there when it happened to get him on the video that would buy me my freedom. “Possession of a controlled substance while armed is a felony.”

Fear spreads under my skin. “I…I don’t want him to go to prison. He… He will retaliate.”

“Don’t worry. Domestic abuse is difficult to use as grounds for divorce if there’s no physical evidence, but with this,” she chuckles, “we won’t even have to go to court. Blake will happily sign the divorce papers and waiver any claim of any marital rights he might still have after the prenup to avoid jail time.”

“I don’t know. What if that felony isn’t threatening enough to bargain with? What if he thinks he won’t be charged?”

“Because he’s above the law?”

“Because he’s an ex-cop.” I curse the day I thought I should marry one. Protect and serve my ass. “You know how it is. The police are his friends. What if he pulls a favor, asks them to tamper with evidence, bury it, so he can walk away? Like he did when I reached out to them all black and blue?”

“They can’t. Not this time.” She looks me in the eye, smiling with certainty. “Birdie, we won.”

I want to believe her. I want to believe her so badly. Is this real? Are we really going to win? Can I finally be free of that monster? “What about terminating his contract as my manager?”

“Corporate law isn’t my specialty, but according to the contract you showed me, termination must be in writing with a minimum notice period of thirty days. All you need to do is send him a termination letter, wait for thirty days, and the contract will be terminated.”

“I’ve already done that, but what if he goes behind my back and does something unexpected or I find myself in an Elvis and the Colonel situation? I don’t want him to take another dime of my money.”

“Like I said, I’m not a corporate attorney, but I can refer you to someone trustworthy. Meanwhile, it’s best if you email the termination letter to the entities he mostly deals with, like your agent and publisher.”

My personal phone rings. The caller’s number I don’t recognize.

“I’ll let you take that call.” Adriana leaves her seat. “See you soon.”

“Thank you, Adriana.” I answer the call as she puts the book with the burner in her briefcase. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Abel?”

“Yes.”

“This is Detective Jacob Torrance, Oak Bluffs police department.”

“Detective?” I squint at Adriana, and she halts in place.

“I’d like to have a word with you, ma’am. It’s important. I stopped by your house, but it seems no one is there. Can you drop by the station? Or if you’re somewhere close, we can meet and save you the trip.”

I gulp. This must be Blake’s doing. He wants to know where I am, what I’m up to, if he hasn’t already figured it out. He’s sending a friend of his to find me.

To scare me into silence.

Putting the call on hold, cold sweat trickling down the back of my neck, I stare at Adriana. “He knows. Blake knows, and now he’ll make me pay.”