Page 195 of Bishop

“Then you need to have faith I’ll take appropriate measures to make sure she doesn’t escape.”

“But what if—”

“Abri, you know we don’t have time for twenty questions.” He crouches before me. “You have to trust me.”

“I’m scared.”

“You wouldn’t be sane if you weren’t.” He kisses my knuckles and releases my hand. “As soon as I’m gone, climb into the driver’s seat and turn your phone to silent. I’ll text you as soon as I can confirm whether or not it’s Adena.”

“Will you text my brothers?”

“You can. Tell them to stay where they are until further notice.” He stands, towering above me, making me feel so incredibly small.

He reaches out, gripping my chin.

I ache for him to kiss me again. To whisper against my lips that everything will be okay. But all too soon his fingers leave my skin and he retreats to grab the door handle, quietly closing it between us.

I watch through the moonlight as he jumps the wire fence with effortless efficiency, his shadowed form melting into the darkness of the empty field until I can’t see him anymore.

I do as he instructs, climbing into the driver’s seat, texting Salvatore with an update and letting him know I’ll keep him posted. After that, all that’s left to do is wait as time ticks by in agonizingly sluggish seconds.

Crickets chirp. The faint breeze rustles through grass in the distance. The world continues to spin while I bite at the quicks on my fingernails until a muted pop, pop, pop makes me stiffen.

My heart stops.

Then a far-off wail from a child has me frantically reaching for the ignition.

35

ABRI

I plant my foot against the accelerator, the car jerking to life before speeding down the road.

Those pops had to be gunshots.

And that wail…

Oh, God, Tilly.

I struggle not to burst into tears as I slam my foot against the brake, the tires screeching with my abrupt stop in front of the house’s dirt drive.

I kick off my heels, shove open my door, then run.

“Abri, wait,” Bishop shouts from the darkness, but not even a broken promise to my savior can stop me from sprinting toward my little girl’s continued cries inside that house.

She’s still alive. While she’s screaming, there’s still air in her lungs.

I skid onto the drive and continue across the lawn. The front door opens and a man rushes out.

One of my family guards.

My steps skitter to a stop.

He clutches a silenced gun, holding the door open to allow those innocent screams to pierce the night.

I struggle to breathe. To think. To figure out what to do as my mother follows behind him, carrying the owner of that petrified voice—my little girl, kicking and flailing in her arms.

I’d know her anywhere. The beautiful blonde hair. Those ruddy cheeks.

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