Page 193 of Bishop

“How’s your cheek?” he asks five minutes later as we speed along the highway.

“Aching a little.”

“It’ll hurt like a bitch tomorrow.”

“As long as I make it to tomorrow I’ll be happy.” I focus out the windshield, my heel tapping against the floor, nervous anticipation fueling my pulse.

He doesn’t placate me. Doesn’t make grand statements of positivity.

He does something far more punishing by reaching over to glide his palm over my clamped hands.

The warmth of his skin seeps into me. The affection delves deep.

I lower my gaze, my attention affixed on the point where we touch, my body feeling the contact right through to my heart.

But all too soon the GPS announces the upcoming corner, and he steals his hand away to change gears.

I try not to let the absence of his touch affect me. I try so fucking hard. I’m sure it’s the weight of what I have to soon face that makes it impossible to bear.

“What if we’re too late?” I scrunch my nose against the emotional ache climbing its way into my throat. “What if my mother has already left the country with Tilly?”

“Then we keep searching. I’ve got eyes watching from inside the airport. If she flies out of Denver we’ll know where she’s going. And Najeeb is still on top of traffic surveillance. If we don’t find her tonight, we’ll find her eventually.”

Eventually.

That could be weeks. Months. Years.

“I know trust isn’t something you give willingly,” he adds, “and I give promises with equal enthusiasm. But I promise you this, belladonna—I won’t stop until your daughter is found.”

“Take the next left.” The GPS cuts off my response.

I slump into my seat, the world passing by in road signs, darkened houses, and oncoming traffic. I obsessively glance at the navigation screen to fixate on the length of our trip.

Eighteen minutes until arrival.

I clench my palms together as we drive onto I-76. Nibble my bottom lip. Watch the train tracks beside the road.

Fifteen minutes until arrival.

We pass Brighton in silence. Then Lochbuie.

Eight minutes until arrival.

I tug at my scarf, loosening it from around my neck.

We turn off the highway and head onto bleak, bare streets leading to hobby farms and vacant fields.

Does Tilly like it out here? Will she be upset having to start over or is she too young to understand?

I know nothing about kids her age, just the brief information from childhood development books I’ve read in an attempt to understand my daughter’s milestones.

The only thing that’s certain about her future is the necessary location change that will take her farther away from me. Her adoptive parents will have to go somewhere Adena will never find them. Somewhere I won’t be able to take a thirty-minute car ride so I can visit.

Bishop retrieves his cell from his suit jacket and dials a number, the call connecting to the car speakers as it starts to ring.

“What?” Salvatore barks.

“Pull over and stay where you are. After the next turn, the roads become more isolated. I don’t want to draw attention with our convoy. Call Lorenzo and tell him to do the same.”

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