Page 198 of Bishop

He’s lying.

For me.

“He’s been by my side for years,” he continues, “earning a brutal moniker, yet his father’s actions haunted him. It’s no surprise he took the chance when he could.”

“Bishop, don’t,” I beg.

My mother’s gaze narrows, his admission clearly getting to her even though skepticism wrinkles her features. “That girl died a lifetime ago.”

“She did.” He nods. “And it took fucking baby steps to get him to retaliate. At first I convinced him to skim a few thousand from your accounts. Do you remember that? The banks blamed it on an international scam. Then there was the fire at your Seattle warehouse that reporters quoted you blaming on a competitor. News flash—it was us. And more recently, Emmanuel had a slight mishap with the brakes on his Bentley.”

I suck in a breath. Maybe he’s not lying.

“Bishop.” I shake my head, unable to look away from my mother’s murderous face.

“Matthew never had my taste for revenge,” he continues, “but I wore him down.”

My pulse grows frantic. My hands tremble.

“Don’t do this.” I don’t want him to die, yet I can’t bring myself to protest more. I don’t know what else to do other than wait for those cars. Play along with his charade. Let him risk his life while the guilt slaughters me.

“I’m going to put my gun down.” Bishop crouches.

No. No. No.

My mother grins, her weapon leaving the back of Tilly’s head, her chin high with superiority as the slow arc of the barrel moves to pin him in its sights. “You’re a stupid man. Do you think I won’t kill you?”

“I know you’ll at least try. But I suggest you make it quick. You’re about to be surrounded.”

She stiffens, her gaze snapping to the darkened street.

Bishop charges, rushing the porch.

I gasp as my mother’s attention swings back to him, her eyes widening as a scream pummels my throat.

She glares. Realigns the gun’s aim. Then shoots.

36

ABRI

Bishop doesn’t stop. He bounds up the stairs.

“No.” My mom backtracks, firing again as she holds Tilly like a rag doll.

Bishop’s head violently lashes to the left while he barrels forward, his feet stumbling. He strikes out with a fist. Knocks the gun from Adena’s hand. His momentum continues as he rams her with his shoulder, grabbing Tilly from mid-air as my mother drops her.

I scramble for his gun, intent on snatching the weapon from the grass even though I can’t drag my gaze from Bishop as he crashes to his knees with my daughter in his arms, then falls face-first to the floor.

Tilly’s cries stop abruptly. Bishop doesn’t move.

My mother scrambles to escape the porch as I point the weapon at her.

“Stop.” My demand is fractured. Broken.

She doesn’t listen.

“I said stop.” I fire three shots in her vicinity. Quick succession. Threatening yet loosely aimed.

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