The man who kidnapped me is the same man who was in my bedroom that night. It was never Blake.
The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced Blake didn’t kill Saldana or Gia either, not even Aaron and the others. Butterfly Man is a real, murderous stalker.Blakewas thevulture. He was the one who watched my stalker ruin my life and did nothing to stop him. Instead, he used it, gaslighting me, only to manipulate me and take my money.
If Butterfly Man wants love—his twisted, broken version of it—then I have leverage. Love wants something back. It needs reciprocation, validation, proof that the object of desire feels the same way. Love is a transaction, even when it’s sick.
And no one knows how to write fucked-up love stories better than me.
I can give him the performance of a lifetime. I can play the captive who breaks, who sees the light, who finally understands that he's been her dark protector all along.
I can be his queen. Until I find a way to put a pin through his fucking throat.
Unless Tristan is right. Blake had roped RJ in somehow, promised him something in exchange for help, and the two partners planned the whole game together. My husband had given RJ all the details, filled him in on the pet names to make it all convincing. Now that Blake is dead, RJ didn’t get whatever Blake had promised him. The detective wants either to avenge his partner or force me to make him rich to spare my life.
Fifty-four minutes.
But RJ is the one who showed me that video that incriminated Blake. RJ knew Tristan was coming for Blake. Why did RJ not warn Blake or help him escape? Why would he turn on his friend and have him killed?
Because Blake was a backstabbing asshole who backed out on his deal with RJ. Because RJ wants all your money for himself. Because perhaps you had it backwards and have been played for a fool…again.
The scenarios play in my head. A whole folder of character bibles, motives, obstacles and goals swells against my skull.
Twenty-one minutes.
Thirteen.
Seven.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Fifty seconds.
What if Blake did ask RJ for help in his twisted plan, but RJ only agreed because he had different intentions?
The ticking stops, and so does the low hum of the heater. Dread pools in my stomach and seeps out of my pores.
What if the detective wasn’t Blake’s accomplice? What if Blake was his in a totally different, yet more twisted game?
CHAPTER 11
Tristan
I’m asked to wait outside as Ashford barks orders at a tech dusting for prints near the staircase, playing the hero detective while Birdie is God knows where. The forensics team swarms through Birdie’s house like ants over spilled sugar, their white suits ghosting through rooms that should be hers alone. Mine and hers. Not theirs. Not his.
Inside my car, I call Marcus.
“Don’t tell me you’re at her house,” he says.
“It’s real. She’s missing. Well, her car is, and she’s nowhere to be found. Ashford and his badges are tearing her place down for prints and shit.”
“Puta madre. If I ask you not to get involved, would you listen to me?”
How could I? It’s Birdie. My Birdie. My Reagan. “Look, Ashford put a BOLO on her car, but off the books, he thinks I’m tracking the car GPS through our system to expedite things, which I already tried but found out it was disabled. I told him there was an emergency backdoor I could use to locate the car.”
“He bought that bullshit?”
“Yeah. What he doesn’t know is that we have a backup discrete tracker I can access.”
Marcus pauses. “Let me guess, you already found the car, didn’t you?”
