I nod, and we all move to our destinations. In the hotel, I place my phone on the table and wait.
Butterfly Man has no idea that his perfect prey has finally learned the truth about her perfect predator.
And she’d do anything to be freed.
CHAPTER 43
Tristan
The city folds around me like a hunting ground. I know its shadows better than Blake Abel ever will. He’s sloppy when he runs, arrogant when he hides. Men like him always are. They believe the rules always bend for them because they’ve bent them before.
The apartment complex where Reagan used to live squats at the end of a forgotten street, all rusted fire escapes and windows sealed with cheap paint. The place that marked the beginning of her end. The first time Abel wrapped his leash around her throat and called it love.
Abel doesn’t deserve a clean death. He deserves to feel the weight of his sins grinding down on him while the walls close in. But Birdie’s voice echoes in my head.I need to be there. I need to see him dead.And she will. I’ll give her that.
I park across the street and scan the area. Third floor, apartment 3B. Windows dark. No movement. The front door will be a trap—if Abel remembers his training. Odds are he’s holed up like a coward, a syringe dangling from his arm.
Not worth the risk. Time for another diversion. I call the nearest pizza joint and place a big order for 3B. Payment: cash. No tip.
When the delivery kid shows up, I check my gear and move toward the building. I circle around to the fire escape, climbing the rusted metal like it’s second nature.
I reach 3B, crouch and wait.
The doorbell rings. Footsteps. Hesitant. Abel won’t open the door as expected. He’s paranoid, twitchy. The kid pleads—he’ll have to eat the cost if Abel doesn’t pay. Abel starts shouting, voice sharp and defensive: he didn’t order anything.
That’s my cue.
I pull a glass cutter from my thigh pouch—diamond-tipped, military-grade. With practiced ease, I trace a clean circle into the glass, press the suction grip, and lift the pane free. No sound. No resistance. I reach in and flick the latch. It gives with a soft click. Inside, Blake is fighting with the helpless delivery boy. I make a mental note to compensate him later. Now, I slip through the window into the bedroom like a shadow.
The apartment is small, cramped, and smells of stale sweat, liquor, and copper pipes. A place Reagan Fletcher once thought she could turn into a happy home. Her little piece of heaven until it became another nightmare in hell.
The things we’d settle for when we don’t know our worth…
Abel scares the boy away with his gun and snaps the door shut. He moves a few steps, but then he freezes. His head jerks toward the bedroom door.
He might be a junkie, but his instincts are intact. Mierda.
I press my back to the wall. The floorboards creak beneath his feet as he inches closer. I count the steps. Three. Four. Then silence.
I hold my breath.
The door swings open just enough for him to peek inside, and that’s when I strike. I grab him by the collar and yank him into the room, slamming him against the wall. His gun clatters to thefloor. He lunges for it, but I kick it under the bed and drive my forearm into his throat.
“You.” He claws at my arm, gasping, eyes wild. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“You’re just her new dog. She sends you to do her dirty work for her. But when she gets tired of you…” He elbows me in the rib. Then his foot does a number on my shin.
We crash to the floor, tangled in sweat and fury. He’s stronger than he looks—desperation makes men dangerous. I let him swing, let him burn out his rage, then I twist his arm behind his back and pin him down.
“You think you’re the hunter, pulling all the strings,” I whisper into his ear, “but the truth is the moment I stepped into her house, you’ve been the prey.”
Abel thrashes under my hold. His shoulder pops, and he bellows, feral and raw. With a surge of rage, he bucks hard, slamming me into the edge of the nightstand. My vision flares white. I lose my grip just long enough for him to twist free.
He comes at me like an animal. Fists, knees, elbows. He catches me in the gut and knocks the air from my lungs. Pain blooms sharp. My knees buckle. He fights like a man with nothing to lose. His weight pins me. His fingers claw toward my throat.
I twist, slam my knee into his side, but he surges forward again, teeth bared in a nasty grin. We’re wrestling on the floor. My hand scrabbles against the floor, until I feel it—the cold weight of his Glock beneath the edge of the bed.
