Butterfly Girl Read online

  I whisper, “Go to bed, Tiger Lily.” He turns and flies into the glasshouse while my skin prickles with awareness.

  I’m being watched.

  There is no movement at the house next door, but my eyes hover over each window. I must have imagined it, until I catch the brief shift of a curtain on the first floor, and then I see a hand and wrist. It’s the boy who watches me. If I hadn’t been watching the window so closely, I wouldn’t have seen anything. The hand is gone in seconds, and now there is nothing.

  I turn and go inside to make supper.

  3

  RAFAEL

  WREN JACOBS.

  The girl looks alone, her only true friends are the butterflies. I know this to be true from the information my father has gathered. She has been kept isolated in the town of Port Michael. So has the rest of the town. No one ever leaves, and no one new is allowed to purchase or rent property without the say so of the secret town council.

  In our case, the Reverend knows exactly who my father is. He had no choice but to allow my father, a former agent with the DEA, from purchasing the house that had stood empty for years. The Reverend wouldn’t want the law sniffing around the town. He knows, though. The dictator knows my father is after him, and my father believes in the motto “keep your enemies closer,” which is what the Reverend is doing.

  As I watch Wren from the window, the photograph my father has of the girl doesn’t do her justice. Albeit she’d been fourteen at the time it had been taken, a month after my mother and brother had been buried. Three long years ago, the thought burns in the old wounds left from it. I’m surprised to find such a fragile looking girl.

  Beautiful too. Dark, curly hair flows in waves down her back and flutters under the light breeze.

  My heart had stopped when I caught my first glimpse of her with the butterflies. My mind went back to the brief unexplained appearance of butterflies on the day we buried my family. I’ve never seen anything like it since that day, until today.

  On the first-floor landing of the old house, I continue to watch. My attention hasn’t held because of the butterflies alone. It’s the girl who holds my interest. I’m fascinated.

  The girl, Wren, speaks to me in a way no one else has. She needs help and we will help her. No way can we let her stay with someone so evil. We just have to bide our time, until my father knows more and comes up with a plan. I have to be careful around her until then.

  The stairs creak behind me, so I let the curtain fall back into place, shutting her from sight. Breathing heavily over my shoulder, Dad peers through the tiny gap at the top before he gives me a sidelong look. “You can’t be that friendly with her, Rafael. You know this?” He continues to stare as she slowly moves up the porch. “You’re twenty, pretending to be eighteen. Our past is a carefully created lie. You cannot tell her the truth.”

  “The Reverend knows who we are,” I say while running my fingers through my hair in frustration. “You’ve seen her.” I drop my butt on the stairs leading up to the attic. “She’s fragile, Dad.”

  “She’s the Reverend’s daughter. You have to remember that. Do not let your guard down around her or anyone.”

  “We’ve had this discussion a million times.”

  “Because you are my son and I cannot lose you. You’re all I have left. I only allowed you to come here with me because I couldn’t trust you not to show up anyway.” Dad throws his hands up in the air and I grin.

  “I did promise to do that, huh?”

  “I have a head full of gray hair because of you.” He laughs and meets my gaze. “I’d do anything for you, Rafael.” He takes my hand and tugs me to my feet, his arms going around my shoulders. “But I am asking you to not fall for Wren Jacobs.”

  “I won’t,” I reply quickly in defense. “She’s not only the Reverend’s daughter, she’s also too young for me.” I head toward the stairs. “Trust me. I won’t be falling for her pale skin or gorgeous hair.”

  My father curses behind me and I almost feel sorry that I teased him. I did say almost because we both know I lied—like how I noticed her pale skin and gorgeous hair. I noticed a lot more than that, but that is best kept locked away in my head.

  The moment my father is out of view, I close myself in my room. The attic. The moment I saw it, I knew I’d make it mine. The four bedrooms below hadn’t caught my eye, but the attic had. It is one large room with a small bathroom. Skyline windows and few scattered around the outer walls allowing daylight in.

  Tossing my T-shirt in the small plastic tub I use as a laundry hamper, I drop my tired ass in the chair at the small table I’ve set up. It’s comfortable and both had been in the house when we arrived. Dad helped me get the heavy armchair up here.

  What I love about the setup is my view of the house where the butterfly girl lives. I know I shouldn’t look, nor should I be drawn to her, but there is something about her I don’t think I have the will to resist.

  She’d looked almost ethereal. An angel.

  4

  WREN

  THE REVEREND’S car backfires as it gets closer to the house and my heart starts to thump wildly in my chest. I have to force my feet to stay firmly planted in the kitchen because I really want to run and hide in my room. A nervous sweat breaks out along my forehead, and the back of my neck prickles with tension. I wipe the palms of my hands down my dress and quickly glance over the kitchen table: two dinner plates, two knives, two forks, two pudding spoons, two napkins, two tall glasses ready to be filled with fresh water. I haven’t forgotten anything today. Yesterday, I’d forgotten napkins and that hadn’t gone down too well. Everything has to be in a very specific place, or I wouldn’t like the consequences. I’ve learned that the hard way, and until I’m eighteen, I have to abide by his rules.

  Who am I kidding? I won’t be allowed to leave. No one is, least of all me. I remember happier times when I was little, but that’s a blurry memory now. With how the Reverend has become, I’m glad I can’t remember those times more clearly. However, on occasion, I try to remember the past, so everything now doesn’t seem so bleak.

  A loud creak comes from the front porch.

  He’s home.

  A slither of fear shoots down my back.

  Another creak, the door rattles in the old frame. That one gets me moving. I take a deep breath to steady myself, and carefully remove the chicken and dumplings, along with the mashed potatoes from the oven. I place them in the center of the table and, standing beside my own place setting, straighten my dress, and then my spine.

  The front door shudders when the Reverend slams it closed behind his tall, bulky frame. His hair has begun to thin on top, and it displeases him immensely. He wears neatly pressed navy-blue slacks and a short-sleeved button down. Sweat soaks the shirt at his armpits.

  As he shuffles forward, I notice sweat beading across his brow. I swallow around the nervousness that fills my belly when he hovers close.

  “Hmm,” the Reverend mumbles, glaring down at the table. I know he checked every last detail, but I also know that tonight, I’ve gotten it right. I even made his favorite meal, so he won’t be mean and snarky. He scares me a lot more when he’s like that.

  His eyes bore into mine. “Do you have something to tell me?”

  I fidget and try to think of an answer when he rounds the table and grabs my wrist, holding it with all his strength. Tears spring into my eyes at the pain, but he won’t relent. A large bruise will form there.

  “I asked you a question?”

  “I…I don’t know what you mean,” I stutter. “I haven’t spoken to anyone all day.”

  His face scrunches up and I sense he’s about to hit me, but I find myself free. I stumble slightly, only managing to stay on my feet by sheer will.

  “Serve the food, Wren. I’m hungry after the day I’ve had.” The Reverend takes his seat then glances at my wrist before meeting my gaze. “Wren! The food.”

  “Oh, yes! I’m sorry.” I have no strength in my right wrist, so I’m
awkward and clumsy as I try to serve supper. The Reverend snatches the serving spoons from me and serves himself before passing them back. I continue to struggle until I finally have some food in front of me.

  Before we can eat, the Reverend waits for me to place my hands together in prayer, and then he starts mumbling about blessing the food. The direct gaze coming from his black as midnight eyes tells me not to move. It tells me I’ll be punished if I don’t have my full attention on his words. What the Reverend hasn’t figured out is that I have to count to ten in my head for the ending of his prayer. “Bless my daughter with obedience.”

  I struggle not to grind my teeth together in anger. I refuse to give in to him. He waits for a flicker of emotion to cross my face, but after years of practice, I’ve learned to meet his gaze head on. He terrifies me, but as long as I don’t show weakness, he leaves me alone, for the most part at least. There is a list of ten things to remember that I recite in my head every day. If I remember just these ten things, I won’t be punished, or I won’t be punished as much. Do not answer back. Do not burn the food. Do not break anything. Do not talk to boys. Come straight home after school. Do not tell lies. Shower every night. Do laundry every two days. Press every piece of clothing. Lights out at ten every night.

  Finally, after I recite the rules in my head, the Reverend decides it’s time to eat. He picks up his knife and fork after inspecting the place setting to make sure they are evenly spaced at the side of his dinner plate—another of his rules. I hold my breath while he takes a bite of the chicken and cuts into a dumpling. He sighs and nods toward my plate. “Eat,” he commands.

  I don’t need telling twice. If the Reverend finishes eating first, it marks the end of the meal and I have to clean everything away. I’ve learned to eat quickly if I’m hungry. It usually isn’t a problem, but tonight my belly feels unsettled. It’s because of the boy next door. I’m curious because he’s unlike anyone I’ve seen before. I mean why would his dad move them to Port Michael, population one hundred and eight? Port Michael is south of Corpus Christi and overlooks Padre Island, Texas.

  A throat being cleared makes me jump and my cutlery clatters to the plate. I wince, but luckily, the Reverend is too distracted to comment.

  It only takes me ten minutes to clean the kitchen and make him a cup of freshly brewed coffee. He ignores me and disappears into his office, locking the door behind him.

  My shoulders sag in relief as they always do, and I let out a shaky breath. I glance at the stairs and move toward them. With my foot on the bottom step, I cast a quick glance at the closed office door. He will be in there for hours doing whatever it is he does. It’s out of bounds. I have never even peeked inside. The thought alone gives me jitters.

  Inhaling deeply, I climb the rest of the way upstairs and make sure I don’t make a sound as I close and lock my bedroom door. I won’t have to face the Reverend until morning, which relaxes me.

  The room is dark and still, the tick of my alarm clock breaking the quiet. The old thing sits on the corner of my small wooden desk. My schoolbooks sit to one side with a small lamp to help me see the books. My small closet holds my shoes neatly lined up on the floor. Hangers hold my dresses, skirts, and T-shirts, while the shelving holds my jeans, underwear, and pajamas. My robe hangs from the bathroom door.

  I have a small bookshelf, which only holds novels the Reverend has approved for me to read. One of those books is The Hunger Games. I’m surprised he allowed me to read it, which makes me wonder if he knows what it’s about or whether someone at the church had raved about it. It would have had to be someone who never misses a sermon, and whom the Reverend likes for him to have listened to. I’ve read the book over and over again, looking for similarities between me and Katniss, but I’d long since grown bored of that game. We weren’t alike. The other books lining the shelf are nonfiction and religious, so I ignore them. I’ve had religion shoved down my throat for as long as I can remember. Besides, reading about religion is the last thing I want to do. For appearances’ sake, I will pick one to read now and again. The lines blur into one and have done so for a while. I’m fairly sure he wants me totally brainwashed into believing his mumbo jumbo. I never will.

  Trying to lose the minutes that drag on every evening, I idly read one of my textbooks, but as the evening wears on, I wonder about the boy next door as I’m drawn to the window. If I open my window wide enough, I can climb out onto the roof—I like to lie and watch the stars on a clear night. Now I will be seen from the other house. I don’t know the new people and I would be surprised if they’re not friends of the Reverend. I can’t imagine him allowing strangers so close to the house, which means my spot on the roof will be reported back to him.

  Reaching out for the curtain, I slowly pull it to the side and look across the way. The neighbors’ house is in darkness, but just as I’m about to give up, I catch a flicker of light coming from an upstairs window. It’s difficult to focus from where I’m hiding, but then a tattoo hand appears under the light, followed by the rest of his body. It’s him—the boy. As though he senses me looking, everything in him stills and then his head turns. I feel the heat of his gaze for long moments before I become nervous and quickly close the curtain.

  My cheeks burn with embarrassment. I’m not used to being looked at, especially by boys. They all fear the Reverend. Plus, he tells me constantly that no one dares look at me.

  5

  RAFAEL

  WREN LOOKS over to the house.

  Is it me she looks for?

  I feel the heat of her gaze across the distance and I wish I’d never reacted at all. If I’d carried on without acknowledging her, would she still be looking?

  My attraction to her had been swift and sudden, and that alone confuses me. I desperately want her to be on our side—my father’s and mine.

  At the thought of my father, I hear him on the worn stairs leading up to the attic. He’d been on a phone call that lasted forever when I’d looked for him earlier, so I’d kept myself busy.

  He knocks softly.

  “I’m still awake.” I wipe a hand over my tired eyes before I face him. “Who was on the phone?”

  “Conference call.” Dad sits on the end of the bed. “John, Ken, and Jeremiah.”

  “Oh,” I mumble as Dad mentions his closest friends. John works for the FBI and the other two are still with the DEA.

  “Nothing to worry about. At least, not yet.” Dad frowns and sighs heavily. “I didn’t miss the way you looked at the girl,” he adds. “We’re going to have to use her to get to him, Rafael. You knew this might be a way to get close. He won’t like it.”

  “What if she is innocent in all of this? Everything you’ve learned says she is.” I wave my arms around. “She’s a victim too, Dad.”

  Dad sighs again. “I agree she appears innocent, but we can’t take that risk right now.” Dad pauses. “None of my contacts have any new information on Wren. It’s all years old. No one talks. There was a whisper that social services once received a call about abuse going on at the Reverend’s address. No evidence was found when they sent a case worker out to check.”

  “Has anyone spoken to the case worker?”

  “No. She died seven months after the visit to the house. Car accident.”

  “Accident?”

  “According to police records. Yes.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Son”—he sighs and leans forward—“one thing I’ve learned in this life is that anything is possible. More so if it’s a secret you’re trying to protect. It was classified an accident. I don’t believe it any more than you do.”

  My head spins as blood swirls around in anger. The Reverend is a first-class asshole and he’ll pay for everything in the end, if it’s the last thing I ever do.

  And Wren?

  “Wait.” A thought suddenly hits me. “Who made the call to social services?”

  My father holds my gaze, and I know.

  “Wren.” I answer
my own question. “She called for help, and the people who were supposed to help her turned their backs.”

  I pace, unable to keep still as the wrongfulness of the situation makes me angry. My fists clench tightly at my sides.

  My father watches me, as I do him, and I realize he’s still as determined as ever to bring justice to those who are responsible for the deaths of my mother and brother. I am too.

  “I can’t let her be harmed in this, Dad. She cried for help once. It’s about time she was listened to.”

  With a weary sigh, Dad stands and places his hands on my shoulders. “A lot could have happened between then and now.” He cups my face and kisses my forehead. “Be careful, Rafael.” He hesitates. “Make sure to always keep the chain hidden.” He steps away. “Good night, son.”

  “Night, Dad.”

  Frustrated, I go into the small bathroom and splash cold water on my face before I glance into the mirror for answers. It doesn’t give me any, only shows how angry the scar on my face looks—red and puckered. A permanent reminder of the day my life changed.

  I rub my chest before moving to sit at the window. Before I can think about the wisdom of what I’m about to do, I start to draw. I have an image in my head of Wren and it won’t leave me alone.

  The black pencil in my hand takes over and I draw as though possessed. Deep lines, fine lines, shading, it all appears on the paper without much guidance. The hum of the air conditioning unit and the scratch of the pencil on the paper are the only sounds in the room as the digits on my phone creep closer to midnight. It’s close to one in the morning when I sit back and stare down at my lap in…astonishment. I have no other words to describe the girl I’ve brought to life with pencil.