“Then, like you, I don’t know how Butterfly Man did it. All I know is that he is real, and he was in my room tonight, whether you believe me or not.”
CHAPTER 5
Birdie
Tristan scans the car he drove to Gia’s place in front of me. “See? It’s clean.”
My exhale, a misty plume, dances briefly in front of my face before it dissipates like a fleeting dream. Cold nips at my cheeks and nose. I hug myself tightly, the thickness of my coat useless against the island air at this time of the night, against the doubt swirling in my head. If you can’t trust your mind, what else is left?
Tristan opens the passenger door for me. “It’s cold. Why don’t you get inside? The box I found at your assistant’s house is in there.”
“Was she there?” I ask. “Any sign she’s been to her place since the last time she was here?”
“No, but the door was open. That’s how I got in.”
“What about Blake? Did Marcus find him?”
Tristan shakes his head. “Abel wasn’t at his office then, neither was his car.”
We climb in, and he reaches for the backseat. Then he puts a box on the center console between us. It has a butterfly drawing on the top.
I swallow. “Did you open it?”
“Not yet. I thought we’d do it together. But before we do, is there anything you need to tell me about what happened tonight, anything you forgot to mention, anything at all?”
His questioning stabs at me, but part of me knows I deserve it. I haven’t been one hundred percent honest with him about tonight. There are things I hide, things I’ll always be hiding.
I clasp my fingers in my lap, staring at them absently. “Everything we deduced about him is true. He’s someone I met a long time ago, and he knows who I am. There’s something he’s said, a confession of sorts.”
“The murders?”
“Yes. He called them the pervert and the thief. Then he promised he’d make Blake pay for what he did, just like the others, the ones I knew about and the ones I hadn’t yet.”
“Others? Is that what we’re gonna find in the box?”
Silence thickens around us, but I can feel his gaze boring into me. I drag my eyes toward his. “I think so, unless I made this whole thing up.”
He lets out a restless sigh. “Open it.”
My eyes zero in on the box. The butterfly drawing on top seems to flutter, a trick of the light or my frayed nerves. I take a deep breath, preparing myself for what I may find inside.
“Here goes nothing.” I lift the lid slowly, as if expecting something to leap out at me. Instead, I’m greeted by a neat stack of newspaper clippings. My heart races as I pick up the first one.
Principal of Troubled Youth School Dies in Suspected DUI Accident
My gaze widens at the photo under the headline. “That’s our school principal.”
Tristan snatches the piece of paper from my hand and examines it. “Oh God.”
“There’s more.” I reach for the next clipping, my fingers steady, as if they belong to someone else, someone more composed, someone who isn’t unraveling by the second.
He shifts, his impatience palpable. I pull the next piece of paper out, and my breath catches.
Fatal Car Crash Claims Life of Prominent Therapist
Bile rises in my throat. Another familiar face stares back at me from the photo. “That’s... that’s…”
“The school therapist.” His jaw tightens, the tension radiating off him. “The two men who didn’t believe you. The people who wronged you.”
