“I said I got it.” Shane’s voice takes a harsh turn.
Mason holds up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Damn.” He laughs, but there’s an edge to it.
Shane doesn’t respond. He just hands me a helmet and nods toward the bike. “Let’s go, Reagan.”
CHAPTER 6
Jacob
I park outside the gates of Birdie’s house. It’s almost noon, and the sky looks like a fucking bruise. To think, by the end of May the weather will be more forgiving on this stupid island…
I check my phone obsessively for a warrant that hasn’t come yet despite cashing in every favor I could. A black SUV materializes from the mist and rolls to a silent stop on the gravel opposite me. The door opens, and Tristan Morra steps out.
“How the fuck did he get here so fast from New York?” I came from Boston and it took me almost three hours.
He’s dressed in black, his posture a study in coiled violence. He doesn’t look at me. He stares at the dark, still house, at the locked gate.
I get out of my car. The slam of my door is too loud in the quiet. “You came straight from the airport?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t break stride. He walks past me to the keypad beside the door. Then he gets out his phone and taps the screen.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“The system I installed for her has a master backdoor. For emergencies.”
“No. We wait for a warrant, Morra. We do this clean, for her.”
“Fuck your warrant. Every second we waste is another second she could be bleeding out somewhere.” A soft chime sounds from inside, and the lock disengages with a smooth, electronic thunk. “That’s the difference between you and me,Detective.You wait for permission to save the woman you claim to love. I become the permission. You cling to the rules to feel like a hero playing fair. I rewrite the rules, burn the book, and salt the earth it was printed on if it stands between me and her. You want a warrant? Get one. While you’re filling out forms, I’ll be the one saving her.”
It’s not a rant; it’s a creed. A villain’s manifesto in three sentences that chills me to my marrow.
He steps inside and marches to the front door.
“Goddamn it!” I follow, my service weapon drawn.
He works his phone again. The alarm beeps. The lock clicks. The front door swings open.
“Birdie! Birdie, it’s Jacob! Are you here?” The foyer is still. The living room, empty.
“You take upstairs,” Morra commands, already moving toward her home office. “I’ll check down here. Call out if you find anything.Anything.”
I don’t like his orders, but I don’t have time to argue. “Which one is her bedroom?”
“Second on the left.”
I take the stairs two at a time. “Birdie!”
Her bedroom door is closed, but the one to the room next to it is ajar. I push it open, my weapon leading. My eyes land on a toppled chair near the closet. The carpet weave is disturbed, fibers crushed into irregular patterns. The lamp on the nightstand is lit; it leans at an unnatural angle, casting skewed shadows across the room.
“Birdie!” My voice cracks as I rush inside. The air carries a faint chemical tang mixed with her perfume, sharp enough to sting the back of my throat. I scour the room. There’s no sign of her or anyone else. There’s only a piece of paper on the floor.
My blood runs cold as I pick it up and unfold it. I don’t call for Tristan. Instinct, dark and suspicious, holds my tongue.
Nothing is what it seems
XOXO, little butterfly
Below it, a photo. Of me and Blake. Two young cops, partners, friends before the world went to shit.
