Butterfly Girl Read online

  CONTENTS

  Authors Note

  1. Prologue – 3 years ago

  2. Wren

  3. Rafael

  4. Wren

  5. Rafael

  6. Wren

  7. Rafael

  8. Wren

  9. Rafael

  10. Wren

  11. Rafael

  12. Wren

  13. Rafael

  14. Wren

  15. Rafael

  16. Wren

  17. Rafael

  18. Wren

  19. Rafael

  20. Wren

  21. Rafael

  22. Wren

  23. Rafael

  24. Wren

  25. Rafael

  26. Wren

  27. Rafael

  28. Wren

  29. Rafael

  30. Wren

  31. Rafael

  32. Wren

  33. Rafael

  34. Wren

  35. Rafael

  36. Wren

  37. Rafael

  38. Wren

  39. Rafael

  40. Wren

  41. Rafael

  42. Wren

  43. Rafael

  44. Wren

  45. Rafael

  46. Wren

  47. Rafael

  48. Wren

  Epilogue 1

  Epilogue 2

  Tears in the Rain

  Tears in the Rain Teaser

  Dear Reader

  Other books by Author

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 by Rona Jameson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  REVIEWS

  “Revenge, love, self-discovery, and dark secrets that can unravel a whole town. Butterfly Girl will keep you on edge to the end.”

  Nadine

  “The build up is freaking awesome even though it nearly killed me!”

  Lynne

  For my Family

  AUTHORS NOTE

  PORT MICHAEL IS a fictional town and is located south of Corpus Christi, Texas.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  PROLOGUE – 3 YEARS AGO

  Rafael

  MY BODY IS COLD.

  My chest aches.

  In front of me lay two caskets. My mother and brother.

  Taken far too early. Stolen.

  Rain soaks through my dark blue blazer and slacks while I try to avoid really looking. Instead, I move my bloodshot gaze around the old cemetery and the DeLacroix family plot located north of New Orleans. Black wrought iron gates surround the area with stone angels guarding all who rest here. It gives me an uneasy feeling, as though eyes watch me from the dark shadows. Dark-clad mourners watch us—the grieving family—but the prickle of awareness feels different.

  The sound of a motorized hum breaks into the silence and forces my fists to clench tightly at my side. My shoulders tighten and my gaze is drawn back to the walnut caskets holding Mom and Roman.

  Mourners cry and sniffle, whispering prayers and speaking in low tones as my mother is slowly lowered into the ground, followed next by Roman.

  I stand rigid next to my father trying not to remember Roman as I’d last seen him—eight years old, broken and lifeless.

  Dad reaches for my hand and peels my fingers open so he can hold onto me.

  He hurts too.

  Fistfuls of dirt clatter on the caskets as mourners pay their respects before retreating down the waterlogged path to their cars.

  Nothing will ever be the same again.

  I will never wake up to the sound of Mom singing as she takes a cloth to the mantel, the quiet conversations as we cook dinner together, the throaty laugh when she says something funny.

  I will never come home and get mad because Roman has been in my room and left a mess in his wake. Or experience those quiet moments when he’d sit on the couch, shoulder pressed against mine, and lean his head against me as we played a video game.

  I will never get the chance to bitch and moan about family time on a Sunday. Until it was all taken, I didn’t realize just how much that time meant to me.

  It meant everything.

  The home I once felt safe in no longer existed. It had been filled with happiness and love. Mom and Dad had always made sure Roman and I had that and so much more. Now it was nothing but ashes of memories I was going to forget. In the blink of an eye, it had all been taken away.

  Destroyed.

  I need to forgive myself because no matter what I could have done, nothing would have saved them. Dad told me. The cops told me. Deep in my heart I know. It still plays over and over in my head, as to what I could have done differently. Every time I close my eyes, I hear Mom and Roman crying for help. Screaming in pain. I hadn’t thought to call for help. Instead, I ran toward their distressed shouts and will probably have nightmares for the rest of my life about what followed.

  Inhaling deeply, I slowly step away from my father and swipe angrily at my tears. Dad passes me a tissue. I dry my eyes and blow my nose as I turn to stare at the large hole in the ground.

  Unconsciously, I lift my hand and trace over the red puckered scar with my cold, numb fingers. It covers half my face—a permanent reminder of what happened. If a neighbor hadn’t overheard the cries for help as he walked his dog, then my casket would have also been in the ground.

  Angry and frustrated, it has come down to minutes now.

  Minutes until I have to enter the house one final time to collect the items I want to take with me to the new house. There’s not much, but I do want the dinosaur model in Roman’s room. The kid loved his wooden models. I’d helped him with the T-Rex. Dad gave me my mother’s slim gold wedding band earlier. He attached it to the chain she always wore around her neck holding a small golden locket. The locket holds a picture of Roman, Dad, and me. Dad and Mom weren’t officially married, but in their hearts, they were.

  “Son,” my father whispers. His voice is quiet as he places an arm around my shoulders and continues, “You’re going to get sick if you stay out in the rain.” My body is already soaked. It’s the least of my problems.

  I turn my head and meet his sad, green eyes. I dig the necklace out from beneath my shirt and clench a fist around the ring and locket. “They have to pay, Dad,” I hiss with barely controlled rage. “Promise me. You will find them, and we will make them pay.”

  My father hesitates before he grasps my shoulders in a tight grip. “I promise you, Rafael DeLacroix, they will pay.” He pulls me to him and kisses my forehead. “I promise, son.”

  The moment his promise leaves his lips, the rain abruptly stops, and sun bursts through the dark clouds. My father and I turn toward the grave and watch as it’s shrouded in a halo of bright light…and butterflies. A myriad of different butterflies hover over the muddy soil before they take flight, disappearing within the blink of an eye.

  I turn to my father who blinks sharply and swallows hard.

  “Let’s keep that between us.” He glances to where the butterflies had disappeared, a frown on his face. “I’m not sure anyone would believe us anyway.”

  Wren

  Rain bounces on the ground making it difficult to see across the garden to my greenhouse, or as I prefer to call it, my glasshouse.

  If I go back into the house, the R
everend will expect me to do some other mundane chore. He’s irritated and out of sorts more than usual with the weather keeping him inside. For this reason, we are stuck at the house together, and I hate it. I want to fly free away from Port Michael and everything familiar. One day I will.

  The only thing I would miss is everything inside the glasshouse, from the green and flowered shrubs, to the beautiful tiny creatures that entrust me with their care.

  A sudden heavy thump sounding from the kitchen makes me jump and causes my heart to miss a beat. The Reverend is annoyed. No way am I staying in the house.

  The steps in the back of the house creak slightly as I inch down them. The second my foot touches the garden, rain hits me in the face. It’s not cool and refreshing, instead, it’s the worst kind of rain. Hot and sticky that only adds to the humid weather.

  By the time I reach the glasshouse across the waterlogged garden, my feet swim in my tennis shoes. I’m drenched to the skin. At least, I’ve temporarily escaped the Reverend and his wrath.

  I glance back toward the house and swallow hard with nerves. I wish I never have to step foot inside there again. One day that wish will come true.

  Blowing out a breath of frustrated air, I lean against the workbench and keeping myself steady, I empty the water from each shoe. It’s only then that the utter stillness hits me. My eyes frantically search for my butterflies. My eyes strain into every nook and cranny. My heart thuds against my rib cage in panic. Where have they gone? I move forward to the tomato and zucchini plants as I search—nothing. Not one butterfly.

  I turn in a circle and lift my face to the roof. Tears fall from my eyes and slip down my cheeks. I hold my arms out and whisper a load of nonsense, begging for them to return. My eyes close tightly, and I force myself to slow my panicked breath.

  That’s when I feel the hair on my arms prickle. The prickle grows stronger as my eyes snap open, and I watch my butterflies land on my arms, and fill the glasshouse. From what I can see, not one is wet from the rain. They should have been trampled with the heavy downpour, but they haven’t been. How is that possible?

  They are dry and unharmed.

  They are home.

  But where have they been?

  2

  WREN

  MY GARDEN IS my peace and tranquility. Here I can pretend. Alone with my butterflies. I want to call them mine, but I am theirs. They’ve chosen me. For three summers, the butterflies have followed me around the garden. My only friends. As silent as I am. Their delicate wings flutter as they rise into flight. So many beautiful colors surrounding me as the sun shines down.

  I close my eyes and turn my face up to the sun. It’s mere moments before the feeling of the butterflies landing on my hands and outstretched arms begins to lightly tickle my skin. Strands of hair move as more attach themselves to the messy bun pinned to the top of my head. What surprises me and makes my eyes snap open is the feeling of one landing on the tip of my nose. I go cross-eyed from looking at it, but my smile grows into pure delight when I focus on the unusual tiger print on the hindwings.

  Tiger Lily has come back!

  Tiger Lily arrived a month ago and wouldn’t come close to me, until it started to rain. I’d dashed into the glasshouse and the butterflies had followed for shelter. Tiger Lily had been the last to enter. It had taken me a few days to encourage him outside, but after that, we became friends. However, for the past two days, I haven’t seen him. Honestly, I thought the Reverend had done something to him. I wouldn’t have put it past him. But here he is. His delicate wingspan is larger than most of the other butterflies. I know he flew into our small town, from where, I don’t know. And it’s not like I can just look things up. The Reverend forbade any use of electronic devices in the house, which meant no computer, and no internet. Of course, he allows himself the luxury of a cellphone.

  Sighing, I slowly start to turn in a circle when I see him.

  The boy watches me from the side of a big black SUV that is parked next door. I haven’t noticed it before, so they must be the new neighbors, arriving while I was lost in my own world. I freeze not knowing what to do. Covered in butterflies is strange—I guess—but he doesn’t need to stare the way he does. It makes me feel uncomfortable having his shocked gaze on me. No one ever pays me any attention, and, even now, I think maybe he is more focused on the butterflies. People usually are.

  The boy is maybe a few years older than my seventeen years. He has tanned skin, unlike my pale alabaster. I wonder if he’s Cuban like Mrs. Garcia at the grocery store. His hair is ebony black and cropped short, but it’s his arms that really hold my attention. They are covered in tattoos. I lift my gaze back to his face and notice his mouth has slipped into an arrogant line. He thinks I’m checking him out. Maybe I am, but not in the way he’s thinking. Curiosity has more to do with me looking than anything else.

  Inhaling slowly, I gently turn my back to him and decide not to run away and hide in my glasshouse. With the Reverend, I cannot wait to get away from him, but something about the boy next door calms me. I don’t fear him like I do most people.

  I continue to feel the heat of his gaze and know he hasn’t moved. I have that effect on people when they see me with the butterflies for the first time. Feeling my cheeks start to heat, I’m relieved he is unable to see my face as I finally move toward my glasshouse.

  Once inside, the butterflies take flight and find new spots on one of the many plants I keep in here. It’s an oasis of different shades of greens mixed with colors—asters, milkweed, phlox, purple coneflower, wild bergamot, willow, and elm. A collection of host and nectar plants for the butterflies to feed from. I had done my research during computer science at school when Mr. Jenkins spent the whole lesson on his phone.

  When I planned the garden, I made sure to have lots of host and nectar plants around the outside of the glasshouse too. I also planted herbs and vegetables, which have taken over one side of the glasshouse. Tomato and zucchini plants grow in deep, long bins toward the back. Basil, parsley, thyme, and tarragon grow in a variety of pots up front. I also have four ornamental hanging baskets. Three of them are overflowing with strawberries, and the other with cherry tomatoes. The zucchini plants are pretty with the yellow and white flowers. I’ve spotted ladybugs a few times on the flowers. I keep my gardening supplies to one side of the entrance so that I won’t misplace them. The scent of the growing vegetables and herbs is an earthy welcome every time I step inside my glasshouse. It’s home.

  The Reverend has no idea I planned the garden to accommodate my friends rather than him wanting a garden to be proud of. It turned out to be both; a place to show off for him—much to my relief—and a true home for my butterflies.

  My mind wanders back to the boy. Why would his family move here? Most people move away from this town where everyone knows everyone else’s business. I’m leaving one day. I haven’t figured out how, but I’m leaving and never coming back. Going back to the boy, I decide to sneak out back of the glasshouse, and crouch down in the middle of my plants. I can’t be seen, but I can see the SUV in the driveway. A man pulls things from the cargo area and shouts to someone out of view. He doesn’t seem to have a lot of things in the car, which makes me think a moving truck will follow. He must be the father, but where has the boy gone? Why isn’t he helping? Why hasn’t he come back out so I can look at him some more? After that one glance, I feel compelled to talk to him. I hardly ever speak to anyone, so wanting to talk to the boy confuses me. The need springs up from somewhere and, thinking about him makes my heart pound against my rib cage. I shake my head hoping to get a piece of sanity back.

  Stupid girl for dreaming.

  When it becomes obvious no one is coming back outside, I slowly stretch and move out from between my plants. Tiger Lily floats around my head, so I hold my hand out and he perches on a finger. He really is pretty. When I bring my hand closer to my face, he turns and looks at me. I’m unsure as to why I have such a connection with them, but it’s one that seems
to get stronger each summer.

  Dragging my feet toward the house, I glance past the corn field to where the white church shines brightly in the distance. The Reverend is there. I can make out the bright flash of red from his car. He won’t be there for much longer. He’ll be home soon and expecting his supper on the table like clockwork. I tread carefully up the four wooden steps leading onto the back porch because they’ve needed replacing for a few years now.