Page 46 of Bishop

“Mine and Langston’s.” He meets my stare with a hardening gaze. “Nobody else knows this exists and it’s going to stay that way.”

A safe house.

A secret hiding place I’ve been entrusted to keep.

Gratitude seeps into my anxiety, giving me a slight breather from the potent mania.

I nod, trying to piece together more of the puzzle of my estranged brother’s life. There’s so much I don’t know about Matthew—like pretty much his entire existence since he ran away at eighteen.

Why would he have a safe house in Denver when he escaped our parents to live on the other side of the country? Why here? Why now?

We drive over a grate and into the wire-fenced house yard, the garden beds framing the wraparound porch spattered with unruly flowers that dance alongside weeds in the breeze. But the home looks fresh. The paint on everything from the tin roof to the porch rails is bright and clean. The windows are wide with contemporary curtains pulled closed on the inside.

Bishop stops in front of the closed garage and cuts the engine. “It might not be the fairytale dream house you’re used to, but it should do until you pull your shit together.”

“Thanks for the heartfelt sensitivity,” I murmur.

He unclasps his belt. “I’ve given you my protection, patience, and restraint. Expecting anything more from me would be a mistake.” He shoves from the car and slams the door behind him.

He’s right. Expecting anything from him is a bad idea when his actions thus far have been unpredictable.

I remain in place as he stalks barefoot up the few steps to the porch, yanks open the screen door, then sets to work on the small keypad locking the main entry. It isn’t until he’s inside that I follow, taking my time to retrieve my suitcase from the trunk before climbing the few steps onto the porch.

Security cameras point at me from both ends of the house, the round white domes with their black lenses seeming entirely out of place amongst the dust and cobwebs.

The clink of a belt carries from inside. A rustle of movement. Then Bishop’s footsteps as his silhouette moves into the hall.

“If you’re waiting for an invitation you’ll be standing out there a while,” he calls.

“You’re not going to welcome me inside with mojitos and a friendly smile?” I open the screen door, finding him waiting at the threshold to what I assume is a bedroom.

He’s changed clothes, now straightening the collar of a black business shirt that rests beneath a matching suit, his feet covered in leather business shoes.

“If you ever catch me smiling I suggest you run. The things I enjoy aren’t for the faint of heart.” He jerks his chin at the room. “You can dump your stuff in here, but everything you need should already be in the wardrobe.”

“What do you mean?” I approach, my brows knitted.

“Langston always hoped you’d reach out to ask for help to escape your parents. So he stocked this place with all the shit you and your brothers would need in an emergency—clothes, food, girlie shit.”

“Excuse me?” The question whispers from my lips as I peer inside.

The furniture is simple. A four-poster queen bed with a ruffled white quilt cover and numerous pillows. There’s a dresser along the wall. An armchair in the corner.

“Don’t get excited. There’s no designer gowns or Gucci labels in there.” He leads the way inside as I stop at the threshold. “And we both took a wild stab at sizing years ago.” He yanks open the curtains, sending a wave of dust bunnies bouncing through the sunlight. “There’s one bathroom and we run on tank water, so keep that in mind if we hang around long enough to use the shower.”

His eyes harden. His jaw, too.

Is his mind like mine, assailing him with unwanted memories of the last time he was stuck under the water’s spray? When his strong hands held me in an unflinching grip? When I trembled against his chest like a goddamn fool?

“I promise not to be a diva when it comes to water usage.” I glance away, dumping my suitcase on the floor before walking for the cupboards to pull the doors wide.

Cotton shirts are folded and stacked on the shelves, both male and female.

There are jeans. Sweatpants.

The hanging side of the closet contains a few blouses and business shirts, and numerous styles of jackets. On the floor is an array of shoes. Chucks. Vans. Sneakers.

“I don’t remember any scarfs being amongst the shit your brother ordered,” he mutters. “But everything else should be there.”

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