Riley presses a couple of buttons, and Birdie’s room footage at 1:40 a.m. streams from different angles.
Marcus points at the screen. “Look. You can see there’s no one in the room but her, and the windows are closed. She stirs in bed, getssomethingout of the drawer, stirs some more and then bolts to lock the door.”
Riley chuckles.
My jaw aches from clenching so hard as I glare at him. “Something funny?”
Humor slips out of his face when he sees the look on mine. “I mean she…locked the door…and…used something from her drawer in bed…” His stare returns to the screen. “No, sir.”
A mix of anger and possessiveness flares hot and wild through me at the thought of him—or any man—imagining Birdie in an intimate situation. Part of me wants to forbid anyone from even thinking about her that way, while another part is tortured by the images now burned into my brain.
As I watch her sliding under the covers, her breath low and catching, all I can think about is Birdie, alone in that room, and how desperately I want to be there with her instead of watching from afar, consumed by emotions I have no right to feel.
And killing the two men watching what should be only mine to see.
I can’t think like that. My feelings for her are clouding my judgment, making it impossible to focus on the actual security threat we’re supposed to be addressing. “Speed that part up already and turn off the audio,” I order.
Marcus cocks a brow at me. I fix him, too, with a glare I hope conveys just how close to the edge I am. “What?”
Marcus shrugs, but it shows in his gaze: my professional mask is slipping, my inappropriate emotions written all over my face—jealousy, protectiveness, and a hunger I can’t contain.
“There.” Marcus points at the screen again, and Riley resumes playing the footage at regular speed. “She turns on the lights all of a sudden. She looks around supposedly in panic and says…”
Riley presses a button, and the audio is back on. Birdie’s voice comes in a whisper. “Are you there?”
“When she finds nothing,” Marcus continues, “she mumbles something to herself, turns off the lights and goes back to what she was doing.”
Heat engulfs my body when the sound of her panting fills the room again. I turn down the volume myself. “Then what?”
“Nothing,” Marcus answers.
“Nothing? What do you mean nothing?”
“Watch for yourself. For the next fourteen minutes, it’s nothing but her huffs and puffs under the sheets until Gatsby interrupts. Wonder why she was taking so long.”
Riley presses his fist over his mouth, covering another chuckle. My fist clenches and flies to his throat. He almost falls off the chair, his coughs wild, his face beetroot red. Choke on that, motherfucker.
“Tristan!” Marcus pushes me away from rattling Riley. “What the fuck?”
“Let’s see how hard you’re gonna fucking laugh now.” I yank myself out of Marcus’s grip. “If you want to keep your jobs and your dicks attached to you, I suggest you start acting like professionals instead of clueless buffoons and give me goddamn answers.”
“The answer is right in front of you, Tristan. If you don’t trust your eyes and ears, why don’t you ask Gatsby himself? She said the stalker was holding her in the middle of the room when Gatsby knocked the first time, but we hear her answer Gatsby while she’s in bed.”
“Then we’ve been fucking hacked.” I jab a finger at the monitors. “The real feed has been replaced with this bullshit.”
“That’s what she said, too. The stalkertoldher all we could see was her sleeping. But is that what you see? She locked the door. She turned on the lights. She turned them back off and spoke to Gatsby.” Marcus fast forwards the footage. “Listen.”
“I’m fine.” Birdie’s voice streams in while she’s still under the covers. “Just trying to sleep…Brandon. Do I need permission for some privacy in my own bedroom?”
Marcus places his hands on his hips. “According to Gatsby, that’s word for word what she told him. How could the stalker add live audio to bogus streaming while he’s busy doing Godknows what to her? Let’s say that’s even possible, how can we find no trace of a breach?”
“Unless you want to guard a parking lot in Antarctica, that’s what you’re going to find out!” I storm out of the control room and head upstairs.
Brandon, as pale as the dead, paces the hallway in front of Birdie’s room. He freezes when he spots me. “I’m so sorry, sir.”
“You did your job,” I say before he shits his pants. “You followed your gut, paid attention to details and found out something was off. It’s the assholes in charge of surveillance that fucked up.”
“But I feel equally responsible. I was literally standing at her door. I just… I couldn’t hear another person’s voice in the room.”
