The Butterfly Code

S
o much goes
into making a book, and I’m grateful to all the people who have put their time and hearts into The Butterfly Code.

Thank you to my insightful, fantastic writing buddies, Sharon Brown, Ellie Crowe, and Adria Estribou, who lived inside this story with me and helped me find my way. And to my long distance writer friend, Amanda Budde Sung, for her smart, helpful critiques.

Thank you to my husband, Scott, who’s always there to root for me and continues to believe in me. What more could a girl want?

Thank you to my professional dream-team: story editor, Julie Scheina, whose in depth questions blew me away and forced me to dig deeper than I ever thought possible; jacket designer, Liz Casal, who deserves an award for her brilliant design that grabbed me and wouldn’t let go; and copy editor Christine Ma, whose incredible eye for detail makes a writer look good. Hurrah! And thanks to my proofreader Christine Sackey for her incredible kindness and generosity.

Thank you to my cheerleader and sounding board, Claire Elizabeth Terry, and to all my kind friends—old, new, and FB/Goodreads/Twitter acquaintances—who have kept me going with their words of encouragement.

And thank you to my family, Mom, Dad, Jill, Sarah, Raine, Alden, Olivia, Glenn, and Joan. Your support means more to me than you’ll ever know. I love you!

F
or
Scott

Who fills my world with sunshine

I
stumble
through the red-tinged nightclub haze and wonder if this is what purgatory looks like. Ella and Gage are nowhere to be seen.
Did they leave?
I hurry out the club door and cold air engulfs me. A gasp bursts from my lips, half relief, half shudder, as the night’s damp fingers creep through my fluttering dress.

Shivering, I wind my arms around my ribs.

That’s when I see him. Dr. Hunter Cayman.

The man the town has been whispering about. The man no one really seems to know. The man my father despises.

He’s across the street, leaning against a steel monster—a low-slung black car, its curves somehow wicked in the night. Rain sparkles like fire on the front hood under the glow of the orange streetlamps. His startling, magnetic intensity pulls at me so hard that I can’t seem to look away.

For a doctor in charge of a research facility, he’s young. Late twenties, maybe. His dark gray T-shirt stretches across his muscular chest. His thumbs are hooked into the pockets of his well-fitting jeans, and his strong forearms are bare to the relentless drizzle. In fact, he seems to enjoy the misty wetness. Like he’s in his element. The way I would be on a beach in Hawaii, a million miles away from this tiny, nowhere town.

Despite the midnight sky, he’s wearing dark glasses. Like the car, they, too, sparkle with rain. His face is rugged, more handsome than beautiful. His strong jaw is shadowed faintly with stubble. I wonder what he looks like when he smiles. If he does smile.

Why is he here? Is he debating whether to go in? Or is he waiting for someone?

For one dizzy, strange moment, I wish he were waiting for me. Aeris Thorne.

Where did that come from?

He has no idea who I am. And even if he was interested, he’s certainly not my type. From here I can tell he’s hardheaded and probably used to getting his way.

I break off my gaze and stare at the glistening pavement. After a pause, I shift my chin and peek sideways. My eyes drift slowly up his body. What is it about him? The authoritative air? The mysterious aura that almost crackles around him?

Despite the suggestion of a sharp wit residing behind those dark shades, there’s a wildness to him. It’s as though his long, powerful legs and sturdy shoulders possess some superhuman strength. I imagine that if an army of foes descended right now, he’d happily take them on as a way to pass the time.

What am I doing? Ogling some guy on a street corner? This is ridiculous. I feel like I’m sneaking a glance at a demigod. Or maybe a devil.

Because as his stubbled jaw faces me dead-on and makes it clear I’m not the only one who’s been staring, I realize he’s one or the other.

Of that, I’m sure.

I stand frozen, caught in his crosshairs.

Music drifts from his car softly, but I hear it over the muffled noise of the Zenith Club. Mozart’s Sinfonia Concertante in E-Flat Major, K. 364: II Andante. It’s unexpected. I’m strangely delighted. That was my very first solo violin performance. I remember the nerves. The stage fright. The terror and the exhilaration. I’m like that now, with him studying me. The music blends with the sensation. It’s in my fingers, which know every chord; in my wrist, which knows every pull of the bow. Every note soulful and yearning and spilling into this moment, so heightened and real as if time is standing still.

And I imagine he knows what I’m experiencing, can see the music in me, even though that’s silly; he can’t read my mind, my emotions, a stranger across an empty street. But then Mr. Olympian reaches into the car and turns up the volume. He smiles into me and I smile back into him. We’re caught like two souls in a tiny eddy of reality.

The song ends. I wait for the next piece, but nothing comes on.

My gaze falters and I glance away.

He’s a stranger and I have no idea what I’m doing.

Muffled dance music vibrates the slick wall behind me. The rhythm grips the air with unspent tension that’s unleashed when the Zenith Club door flies open. Ella pushes outside onto the curb, all shimmery eye shadow and smudged mascara. She looks from Hunter to me. Then Gage strides out after his sister, his heavy-duty
Gore-Tex
jacket gripped under one arm.

"What a scene," Gage says, shaking his bright blond head. "Too much."

Ella laughs. Her cheeks are flushed. "Tourist season, gotta love it."

"Yeah, intense," I say. I hadn’t expected the crush way out here in Deep Cove. I’m too embarrassed to admit that even after four years of New York crowds and subways, the fear of being trapped in a cramped place with no way out sends my heart into overdrive.

From across the street, I sense Dr. Cayman still watching me through his dark glasses. My skin prickles.

"How can he see through those?" Ella hisses, so quiet I can barely hear.

Maybe Dr. Cayman—Hunter—can read lips, because as soon as she turns away his mouth curves up in a grin. He’s grinning—at me. Then he slides the shades from his face. His eyes, dark beneath strong brows, meet mine. They’re the kind of eyes that can convey a whole world in just one glance.

My legs go off balance; it’s these teetery heels—they’re way too high. I reach for the wall. I’m suddenly aware of the dress sticking to my skin, which is damp despite the rusty awning overhead. I feel as if he can see right through the fabric.

I wind my arms tighter around myself.

A car thunders around the corner. The headlights shoot blades of light, pinning him in their beams. His pupils flash—it’s as if they’re mirrored. Or a wild animal’s whose eyes light up when it’s caught on the road. I breathe in sharply, astonished.

The car passes.

What was that? What just happened?

His attention takes in my startled mouth, and he freezes.

I feel my chest rising and falling too fast under the thin white fabric of the dress Ella insisted I borrow.

Because you’d be pretty if you just dressed up once in a while
, Ella said.

To which I’d replied,
What’s wrong with my sweater? I love it and it’s vintage. And these are my favorite oxfords.

We’re going to a dance club. Pretty please?

Which is how I ended up in heels so high I have to hold on to the wall, and a few flimsy strips of fabric held together with plastic wrap.

It’s not my dress Hunter’s examining, however. It’s me. He holds his shades halfway to his face, yet he doesn't replace them. His hand practically crushes the frames, as he looks at me the way you look at someone you’ve seen before. Like he’s certain he knows me. Knows me well.

But he doesn’t. I would’ve remembered. Of that I’m sure.

Ella staggers a little, and I loosen one arm to steady her. She smells of Stoli and cranberry juice. Personally, I downed more than my share in an attempt to be less of a claustrophobic nerd. And now I’m hallucinating because, for a moment, I really thought Hunter’s eyes actually flashed.

Eyes don’t flash.

She jostles me with her elbow as she digs in her purse.

"Do you have to smoke those damn things?" Gage asks.

She clicks her lighter and takes a deep drag. "Maybe I should ask the good doctor over there to help me quit."

Gage glowers. "Sure. Head on up to his castle. You can be his first female Franken-girl."

Ella laughs. "It’s not a castle, it’s his research lab."

"Yeah," he growls. "There’s what we need."

Why is everyone so down on Hunter and his research?

Quietly, I murmur, "I don’t see anything wrong with trying to save people’s lives."

Thunder rumbles in the distance. A salty breeze tugs at my hair. I picture his facility, the Phoenix Research Lab for Highly Contagious Diseases, several miles up the road out of town. I imagine the ocean, dark and choppy against the bluffs. High above, the secured compound’s vast estate stretches along a jutting finger of land. From a distance, the old buildings, once home to a wealthy family, look both foreboding and beautiful.

The place is well protected—like an island with only one road in. Maybe that’s why the researchers chose it. The hard-to-reach promontory provides a natural barrier against accidental infection of the surrounding population. Given people’s reactions, it’s still too close for comfort. Gage turns quiet and brooding whenever the lab is mentioned.

Just like Dad.

Yes, he’s been touchy lately, which makes me wonder if he’s back on the trail of Mom’s death again. We both desperately want the truth, even though the case has been cold for twenty years. But this business with Cayman is different. The one time his name came up in passing, Dad made his feelings more than clear.
That doctor’s a menace.
I’d rarely heard him speak in such a grim tone. It was strange, because under his gruff exterior, Dad is a softy.

What had Hunter done to deserve Dad’s animosity?

Now, standing a hundred paces from Hunter on this cold, two-lane street, I long to know.

We’ve never exchanged a single word, me and this man with his fancy car and brash grin who’s making me nervous and attracted all at once. He looks like trouble. According to Dad, he is trouble. Yet no one has ever caught my attention with such electrifying power.

A fresh gust of wind tears at my dress and sends sparks flying from the ember of Ella’s half-smoked cigarette.

"Done yet?" Gage asks. He won’t let her smoke in his truck.

"No. I’m not," she snaps.

Gage groans and leans back against the wall.

Clouds roll across the sky, revealing a partial moon. The light is gray and eerie and cold. In the murky flower shop window behind Hunter’s car, streetlight reflections twinkle.

The club door opens once again, and a young woman strides out. Her long, dark legs jut from a micromini, and her high, rounded cheekbones are tinted an electric shade of peach. On anyone else the color would look bizarre. On her mocha skin, it’s stunning. Hers is the kind of face you can’t stop looking at. She was easily the most beautiful person in the club tonight. Maybe the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.

Then I realize—she’s why Hunter’s here. She’s the one he’s waiting for. My heart sinks.

What is the matter with me? Am I crazy? He doesn’t even know me.

The woman’s eyes are as baleful as a cat’s. I detect something else, though, something almost world-weary beneath her shield of glamour. She crosses in front of Ella, Gage, and me as if we don’t exist. In this moment, I want to go home and forget this night. I want to forget the Zenith Club and its crushing crowd. I don’t fit in. I never should have come.

Across the street, Hunter straightens at the young woman’s approach. One corner of his mouth tips up. "I have no idea why you’d voluntarily go in there."

"It’s called fun. You should try it sometime."

He lets out a short laugh. "I’ll take your word for it."

"Let’s go."

"As you wish." His tone is amused.

The car door releases a few inches, rimmed with cold sapphire light. Instead of opening out, the door slowly hinges upward. Butterfly doors—that’s what they’re called—but they don’t look like the wings of a butterfly to me. Instead, this looks like a bird of prey. A raptor.

He guides her around to the passenger door. "Have a good time?"

"Not good enough," she replies.

"It never will be, Vic." It’s said in a strangely gentle way, her name spoken as if he’s known her forever.

"Don’t get all poetic on me," she snaps, pouting up at him like an irritated angel who’s unhappy about being stuck on earth.

I strain to hear his reply.

"Me? Poetic? Never." He laughs. It’s a low rumble. A kindhearted noise that somehow surprises me. He makes me want to hear it again. Makes me wonder what it would feel like to have him laugh with me like that.

I watch him help her into the low seat. He bends and speaks quietly to her. As he does, the girl turns and stares at me through the driver’s window. It’s brief and piercing. Then she leans back against the seat.

They couldn’t have been talking about me, could they? But then why else had she given me that quick, sharp study?