Page 32 of Bishop

“And you could’ve minded your own goddamn business.” She pushes past me and into her bedroom, raising the collar of her blazer to hide her neck as she quickly changes the gold scarf for the navy.

“I thought one of your colleagues from last night’s meeting might have hurt you.”

“I know what you thought.” She ties a knot in the navy scarf, throws the golden one to her bed, then lowers her collar back in place. “And even if they had, it’s not your concern. I don’t understand why you’re still here.”

I don’t either.

I told myself I’d stick around until Matthew showed. Then after he called, I wanted to repay the favor for the sedatives and picnic blanket.

But I should’ve left hours ago.

“I wasn’t kidding earlier,” I say, breaking the lengthening silence.

“About?” She walks into the bathroom and out of view.

Yet again, I fucking follow. This witch has me on a leash.

I stand in the doorway as she grabs one of the numerous beauty products from the organizational unit on the counter, pours some sort of liquid onto her palm, then rubs it over her face.

“About your father’s death.”

She doesn’t bat an eye as she places the product back where it came from and reaches for a tube of expensive-looking sunscreen.

“I’m serious, Abri. Emmanuel is dead. I spoke to Langston earlier.”

She places the product back in its place, then meets my gaze through the reflection in the mirror. For long heartbeats, that’s all there is—her eyes on mine, her expression curious. “How?”

“I don’t have specifics. Your brother and I never chat shop over the phone.”

“But somehow you know my father is dead?” she counters, unconvinced.

“Langston got the point across without being incriminating.”

She raises her brows, then snatches for a tube of mascara. “And how did he do that?”

Jesus Christ. This woman is a pain in my ass.

“With fucking words. Call him if you want. Or don’t.” I shrug. “I don’t give a shit. Remy and Salvo will be here to corroborate soon enough.”

She flicks the mascara wand over her lashes, seeming disinterested in the conversation. “They’re coming here?”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

She pays both lashes equal attention, then discards the tube. “Fine. I’ll make some calls.” She swings around and walks toward me.

I step out of her way and let her stride across the room to swipe her clutch from the bedside table. She retrieves her cell from inside and starts pressing buttons.

“Who are you calling?” I ask.

“My dad.” She holds the phone in front of her almost as if in defiance, the ringtone loud as it trills once. Twice. Three times. Then it cuts to voicemail. She tries again. One ring. Two. Three. Then voicemail.

“You can call him all you like, belladonna, but I’m pretty sure there’s no cell reception in hell.”

She shoots me a scathing look then taps the screen a few more times, connecting another call.

The same thing happens. Ring. Ring. Ring. Voicemail. This time Remy’s voice kicks in with his scripted message before the obnoxious beep.

“Call me,” she grates. “Now.”

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