Page 14 of His Pretty Little Duet

“Butterflies live in trees. They come out of cocoons. They get to live two lives. One as a caterpillar and one as a butterfly,” she says in an almost schooling tone, a hint of surprise he asked such an obvious question.

Her tone forces a quick chuckle from me, seeing strength in her before I decide this is mostly useless information. I don’t need to know how her mother died. I crack my knuckles before finding a document detailing her family situationbeforeher mother's suicide.

I lift my whiskey glass, inhaling the fumes before swallowing the liquor, a burn chasing the cool.

After two hours of perusing, I know the girl lived in a caravan on the ocean in Carnarvon. Her mother had several arrests for trespassing. It seems she was quite the activist, living on the dole and setting her pretty daughter up to be wolf bait.

Fucksake,Fawn.

Terrible name.

“I have footage here from three months ago,” Marius says, spinning his laptop to face me.

I gaze at the footage of Fawn—looking the same age as she does now—in a similar witness room. However, this time, the man opposite her has his arms folded across his chest as he sits, swaying impatiently, slumped back in his chair, its rear legstaking most of his weight. He clearly doesn’t give a shit what she has to say.

“Let me get this straight. They're not your drugs?"

She plays with the ends of her hair. “They aren't mine, as in I didn't buy them."

“You didn't buy them?" He chuckles, condescension clear in his tone, his posture. “But your pretty little nose snorted them."

She shakes her head slowly, in a way that might suggest the information isn’t there, and she is trying to shake it free. “I told you, I don't remember." A slight hint of anger flares through her when she slams her palm on the table. "Are you seriously grilling me about the drugs? What about fucking Benji?"

He stops swinging on his chair. “You're high now.”

She shrinks back. Wraps her skinny arms around her middle, cuddling herself tightly. "Yes."

My fists suddenly ache. My fingers are balled tight, my previously broken knuckles taut and shifting with the intensity of my grip. I relax them. Crack them.

This is distasteful business.

Something niggles at the boundaries of my resolve, an emotion I rarely indulge for strangers—disappointment.

The questions now are...Is she an addict?

Who the hell is Benji?

Is this footage fake? Planted by Dustin.

Perhaps for a moment, her slight resemblance to that girl from my past caused hints of concern for her. A misguided, misplaced feeling. Or perhaps her mother's downfall reminds me of my own. Or the rotten luck she has encountered in her young eighteen years on this Earth made me give a shit.

Or her body language in that footage.

It fucking screams victim.

She could easily be an addict, being paid handsomely toactthe victim, to distract me. “She’s an addict,” I say, no, spit out, startling Marius.

“This surprises you?” he asks.Now, that assumption isn't polite.I raise my eyes slowly to meet his, watching him shrink down into his seat. He murmurs, “I only mean that she is?—"

Finished with him, I say through a warning smile, "Did little Lucy get my birthday card?"

If eyes could blanch, his just did. "Yes. She said thank you. You know we appreciate everything you do for our family."

"Of course." I gesture to the door. "Thank you for your time, Marius." He'll be at the bottom of Stormy River if he ever glances at me like that again. As he collects the documents, I demand smoothly, “Leave them.” He drops the paperwork, but the confusion shifting through his eyes is obvious. "You look confused."

"Ah, no. Have a nice day, Mr Butcher," he says as he quickly leaves the room.

"And you." Leaning back in my seat, I stare at the paused screen, at Fawn gripping herself protectively.So fragile. So uncertain.

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