Page 50 of Bishop

“Give it a few days. Then we can call your brothers and discuss a plan.”

“No.” She meets my gaze, her eyes hard. “My future doesn’t involve them.”

I shove a forkful of spaghetti into my mouth to stop an annoyed response, opting for a more placating repeat of, “Just wait a few days,” after I swallow.

She nods, picking her meal to pieces, barely eating half her serving before she stands and disposes of the mangled wreckage in the trash.

“Leave the cleanup for me,” I mutter over my shoulder. “The cook doesn’t do the dishes.”

“Thank you.” She returns to her room, closes the door and makes additional calls, leaving unending messages, begging for her mother to answer her pleas.

The worst part is that she doesn’t sleep. Which means I can’t either.

Even though I hid the car fob, I wouldn’t be surprised if she has another stashed in her suitcase. I won’t risk her deciding to hightail it while I’m out for the count. So I’m left to nap on the sofa, my senses on high alert for her every move.

The midnight hours are marked by her journey back and forth to the coffee machine, the silence of night constantly broken by her frantic messages that grow in despair the closer the hour moves toward daylight.

Even though my eyes are closed, I see her.

I fantasize about getting into her personal space, placing a cloth over her mouth, feeling those sweet lips part over the material doused in chloroform. She’d turn limp in my arms, her grief no longer a thorn in my side as she finally fell fucking quiet.

By the time the sun rises, I’m one grumpy son of a bitch.

I update Langston with a text—

Bishop

No change here.

He doesn’t respond.

I’m tempted to call. To get my own update on his health and make sure he’s still breathing. But Lorenzo would be blowing up my phone if his favorite nephew was knocking on death’s door.

And besides, Langston needs to focus on his recovery and not his manic sister.

The day follows a similar routine to the one prior. Breakfast consists of toast thanks to the bread in the freezer. Lunch is ramen noodles. Abri remains glued to her phone in the bedroom, pleading with a mother who has successfully fallen off the face of the Earth.

“Mom, please stop ignoring me. It’s urgent that I speak to you.”

Later it’s, “At least tell me you’re okay. Where are you?”

Followed by, “I can’t do this much longer. We have to talk, Mom. Please. I’m begging you.”

But it’s the conversations surrounding Jenna and the mystery man Abri is trying to speak to that have me inching closer to the hall to overhear.

“I don’t care that he doesn’t want to speak to me. Either he does it on the phone or I come to his office. Which would he prefer? No, don’t put me on hold—son of a fucking bitch.”

A few minutes later. “Give me his cell number, Jenna.”

Half an hour after that. “If you won’t put me through, then make sure he’s prepared for me to pay him a visit.” Her voice turns viperous. “Or maybe I’ll go to his home instead. Do you think the senator’s wife will be around tomorrow?”

The senator? My, how her twisted plot thickens.

I do my research, scouring the internet for local married senators in the state with anyone named Jenna on their staff. Joe Hillier fits the bill.

Married.

Thirty-five.

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