Page 21 of Z For Butterfly Man
“Because, at least, the piece-of-shit ex who got that car for her was dead.”
The urge to put my fist through his perfect jaw threatens to override every rational thought I have left.Focus. Find her. Kill him later.
“It’s my job to think of all possible scenarios, Morra. I’m not ruling out the abduction theory, but I can’t dismiss the possibility she wanted us to think exactly what you’re thinking—that she was taken against her will when she wasn’t.”
“You’re just jealous and bitter because she dumped you, and you’re putting her in danger out of spite.”
“Nobody wants to find Birdie more than I do! That’s exactly why I’m doing my job by following procedure.” He moves toward the front door. “I’ll put out a BOLO on her vehicle, check traffic cams again to see if I missed anything, see if we can track where—”
“By the time your procedure locates that car, she could be dead.” I’m already working on my phone. “I can find it now.”
“How?” But he knows how. I can see it in the way his jaw sets, the way his hand moves unconsciously toward his badge. “That’s illegal.”
“Relax. The GPS system I installed in the car has password-protected user access. If she hasn’t changed it, I can track the car. More reason to know she wouldn’t have taken the car if she didn’t want to be found.”
“Why do I have a feeling you already tried and failed?”
He’s right, but it won’t stop me. “There’s backdoor access for emergencies.” My fingers fly across the screen. “It just takes a little time.”
“You can’t just—”
A bunch of vehicles and police cars stream in. “Go dust for prints with your forensics, Ashford, whileIfind Birdie.”
CHAPTER 10
Birdie
He left. He told me to think about the answer carefully, set an old kitchen timer for two hours, placed it on the bench and left. I’m alone with the butterflies and the pins in my flesh and the steady warmth bleeding into my spine from the table beneath me.
When he left, I couldn’t see where he was going or how big this room was. It’s too fucking dark. I can barely see anything beyond my feet. But his footsteps sounded like they were climbing stairs. A lock clicked open and then shut. Then keys rattled. The sounds came straight from the front. I must be in some sort of basement.
I turn my head toward the bench, slowly, examining the limits. My neck fully obeys now. My hands and feet, not so much. I test the strength of the straps again, stifling a scream as I look for weaknesses in his setup, in his words, in the mask he won’t remove.
The straps hold firm. I pull against them anyway and burn with their bite. It seems the only thing I’m testing is my pain threshold. “Fuck.”
Sweat trickles down my hairline and the back of my neck. Why am I too numb to move and yet I can feel all the pain? “Okay. Breathe.”
In. Out. In. Out. The heat pools under my shoulder blades and spreads across my ribs. My muscles unknot slowly, accepting his gift. I hate that it feels good, but my body doesn’t care when it’s this cold, this afraid.
Think, Birdie. Every crime has a motive. Every goal needs an obstacle. Be the obstacle, not the victim. Never the victim.
Let’s start with the basics. Where am I? Where is he keeping me? It must be a place related or significant to our history. The sneaky smell of the ocean is a glaring clue. I’m very close to a beach. Which one, though? Jacksonville? Miami? Or are we still on the island?
Considering the fact that he drugged me to get me here, he couldn’t have put me on a plane in that state. We are still on the Vineyard. Okay. Good. If Butterfly Man isn’t RJ, there’s a good chance the police will find me.
The timer ticks loudly. The butterfly cases watch me. Dozens of them, mocking me, as if saying, “Can’t you see? You’re not meant to see outside these walls. No one is going to find you here.” All those wings, frozen mid-flight. Did they know? In that last moment before he pinned them, did they understand what was happening?
I do. But I’m not going to end up dead in a jar.
Ninety-eight minutes left on the timer. I must find a way to get out of these straps before he comes back.
The bench. There must be something there I can use to cut the straps. If I can just reach it, I can grab one of his pins with my teeth or something. I strain my neck forward, lifting my head as far as the angle allows. My chin juts toward the bench. The distance is impossible—at least two feet of empty air between my mouth and the wooden edge.
The movement pulls at the pin in my shoulder. Fire lances through the puncture wound. A whimper crawls up my throat. I bite it back, clench my jaw, and stretch further.
The strap across my chest digs in. The leather creaks but doesn’t give. My neck tendons stretch so hard they threaten to snap.
Just. A little. Further.
