Page 163 of Bishop

“No.” His focus remains on the machine. “Like I said, she’s a grown-ass woman.”

Fuck him.

I return my attention to the darkness, growing impatient.

She needs to get back here so she can reverse whatever the fuck she said to Lorenzo. Then we’re going to have another chat about Geppet, and we’re not going to stop chatting until she gets it through her thick head that she’s not alone anymore.

“Did she walk out the back door or the front?” I ask.

Yet again, there’s no answer.

“Fucking hell, Langston,” I snap. “Front or back?”

He grabs the mugs and starts shuffling toward me. “I don’t know.”

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, unease seeping through me. Yeah, he’s tired, injured, and growing impatient with my bullshit, but he’s never been unobservant.

“It’s not a tough question.” I scrutinize his approach. “Did she leave out the front or the back?”

He stops at the dining table, placing the mugs down slowly. “Hold up a sec. My insides are giving me hell.”

Is he stalling? Attempting to keep me away from Abri until the driver shows?

“What the fuck are you playing at?” I stalk toward him.

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t look at me as he clutches the table with one hand, splaying the other over his abdomen. “Just give me a goddamn second.”

No. He’s up to something. “Where’s Layla?”

“In our bedroom.”

“Call her out here.” Everyone needs to take note of what I’m about to say to Abri. They all need to fucking listen.

“Bishop…”

“Call her the fuck out here.” I storm for the back door and fling it wide before walking outside. “Abri.”

She doesn’t answer.

The whole world is quiet, taunting me with its muted oblivion, the moon shining bright enough to highlight the stillness of the yard.

I stalk to the end of the porch and scan the side of the building, then farther across the fields. “Abri.”

There’s no movement. Not even the whistle of the breeze as my pulse kicks up speed.

Something doesn’t feel right.

I jog to the other end of the porch, doing the same visual sweep. “Abri.” This time there’s anger in my voice. Livid fucking rage.

She’s not out here.

“I’d learn how to run if I were you, Langston,” I yell, marching back to the door to yank it open.

He’s now seated at the table, coffee mug in hand, his expression bleeding with guilt.

Son of a fucking bitch.

I reach into my pocket, pull a throwing knife from its sheath, and launch it at his head.

---