Page 94 of Shadowed Whispers

“Why?”

“To make you more comfortable.”

“Know what would make me comfortable?” I snap, standing up without my nervous system malfunctioning. “Knowing what the fuck is going on.” I spin in a circle, taking in the room again. “There are no windows in here, Bishop. That’s weird.”

He nods slowly, audibly gulping, caught off guard by my observation. “I…” His mouth opens and closes, but no words follow.

Snorting, I spin around and begin to march to the door. I’ll find Tori on my own.

“I regret putting you on that train every day,” he blurts out.

I pause with my hand on the door, dropping my head to my chest as I close my eyes. My heart rate spikes, thumping wildly as if trying to escape. Licking my lips, I blow out a slow, steady breath before turning to face Bishop again.

Standing in the middle of the vast room, wearing jeans and a Shadow Locke hoodie, Bishop looks like a normal young man perched on the precipice of adulthood, yet his gaze tells a different story—one of a soul racked with remorse as he looks at me, as though his actions toward me have ruined his entire world.

Good.

That action ruined me in ways I’ll never be able to explain to him.

All I do is stand here, because clearly, he needs this moment more than I do.

He saw what our stepfather did to me that night—or at least some of it. If I’d known it would only go downhill from there, I’d have… What? Shaking my head, I breathe through my clenched teeth.

“I don’t know what happened that night,” he begins, his voice laced with regret. Seeing my bewildered expression, he takes a deep breath before continuing. “When I walked into the kitchen and saw you there, trembling and trying to clean up that spilled lemonade, something inside me panicked. You looked so terrified, so unlike yourself. I knew something terrible had happened, something I couldn’t even begin to understand, and in that moment, all I could think of was getting you to safety. The train to Morrow Bay wasn’t just a random choice—it was the first thing that came to mind.”

Bishop’s confession hangs in the air between us, each word weighted with regret and a plea for understanding. His eyes, normally so guarded and cool, now reflect a turmoil that seems to churn deep within him.

“I should have done more,” he continues, his voice thick with emotion. “I should have fought harder for you. I don’t know what happened to you, but that day I saw you in Morrow Bay, I just… I just needed to know you, know you survived, but the haunted look in your eyes tells me that day I put you on the train altered your entire life.”

It did.

I remain silent, my own emotions a tangled mess I’m not ready to unravel—not here, not now. I’ve lived through the confusion, hurt, and rapid changes that swept through my life since that night. Bishop’s regrets can’t alter the past, nor can they soothe the scars those events left on my psyche.

He steps closer hesitantly, as if unsure whether to bridge the gap between us. “Frankie, I need you to understand. I thought I was helping. I thought I was protecting you by sending you away.”

“Protecting me?” My voice is a whisper laced with bitterness. “Or was it easier? You have no idea what I went through and who I had to become to survive.”

I will not cry. Now is not the time for this.

He flinches as if I struck him. “No, Frankie, no. I... I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I was just a kid too.”

The raw honesty in his voice pierces through my building anger, reminding me that Bishop was just a teenager himself, thrust into a role he was unprepared for. We were both victims of circumstance, reacting out of fear and confusion.

Taking a deep breath, I allow my hand to fall away from the door handle. Turning to face him fully, I see him in a new light—a child who made a desperate choice out of a misguided attempt to do the right thing.

“Bishop,” I say, my voice steadier now, “I can’t do this right now.”

He nods, relief and sadness mingling in his expression. “I need to.”

The room suddenly feels stifling, the walls closing in as the reality of our conversation settles around us. I need air, I need space, but most of all, I need answers.

My heart palpitates as he takes a tentative step toward me.

“I can see what that time did to you. You had to hide and be someone you didn’t want to be,” he says gently, but he doesn’t know. He has no idea. “If you stayed, I would have asked Mom to adopt you. Done something more.”

I can’t let him in, not like this. Not now. Now is not the time to spill my secrets, and even if I wanted to, when I open my mouth to tell him, the words just won’t leave my mouth.

How does one even describe the person they had to be to survive if that isn’t who they are? I can’t.

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