“I may be terrible at choosing the men in my life, but if there’s anything I’m good at, it’s my job.”
I can sniff where this is going from inside her brain.
“The detective is the ideal suspect,” she muses. “His trustworthy camouflage, his ability to manipulate evidence and access to equipment designed to track comms. Add that to his history, and you’ve built yourself the ideal suspect. Do you know what we call those in books?”
Red fucking herrings.
“Red herrings.” She doesn’t wait for my answer. “They are—”
“False misleading clues designed to distract readers from the truth,” I say through my teeth.
“Exactly.” Her reflection in the mirror is haunted. “In my book, Reid Ashford remains a red herring until I reveal his face from under the butterfly mask.”
I mutter a curse. How could she still think like that?“The truth knocks on the door and you say, ‘Go away, I’m looking for the truth,’ and so it goes away. Puzzling.”
She pauses for a few seconds. “Robert M. Pirsig.”
“You know him?”
“I readZen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenancewhen I was thirteen. Not a fan.”
Another swear flies from my mouth. The exit for Ponce Inlet appears ahead. I take it, needing something to focus on besides the rage building in my chest. “Fine, Birdie. I give up. We’ll do it your way. Abel first, then Miami. We meet your stalker and finish it once and for all.”
CHAPTER 36
Tristan
The inn blue and yellow colors come into view, a modest place near the inlet. Brandon’s rental car is in the parking lot. I pull up beside it and kill the engine.
Brandon jogs over from the lobby before we get out. I climb out of the driver’s seat. “How did it go?”
He scratches his head. “Well, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I took the scenic route, stopped for gas twice, made myself as visible as possible, but…”
“What? Spit it out. I don’t have time for this shit.”
“Nothing. Nobody followed me. It’s like those MC guys just...didn’t care.”
I frown. That doesn’t make sense. If they don’t care, why did they try to scare Birdie? Why was she so terrified that she wouldn’t stay in the city a second longer? One-percenter clubs don’t just let go of a grudge.
Birdie gets out of the car. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, ma’am. The bike is secure and so are the rooms,” Brandon continues, and then he whispers to me, “top floor, suite covered by the security cameras from all angles. I’ve already swept for devices.”
“Good work.” I grab our bags from the trunk. “Get some rest. Tomorrow is gonna be a long day.”
Brandon nods, helps with the luggage and heads back inside. Birdie and I follow in silence. There’s no elevator, so we take the stairs. It’s only two floors, but the stair flights seem to stretch endlessly. Birdie’s perfume clings to the air—sharp yet threaded with something sweet. I can’t breathe without tasting her.
I keep my eyes forward, jaw locked, but every nerve in me strains toward her. My mind loops with one poisonous thought: she’s let the detective too close. She’s let him get to her head, touch pieces of her that should have been mine all along.
I should shove her against the wall and take her right here, lay her on these stairs and brand her with my cock so deep she’ll never again think of herself with anyone else.
Instead, I dig my nails into the suitcase handle, veins standing out on my hand. I storm into the hallway, checking the security protocol on the go. Brandon points to our units. A two-bedroom suite and an adjacent room.
“Cozy,” Birdie mocks.
