Page 48 of Bishop

From what I understand, the other woman is gatekeeping Abri from speaking to some guy of importance—whether it’s regarding the family fashion label or Emmanuel’s death I’m not sure. But the building panic in Abri’s tone has me invested.

Occasionally she escapes the confines of her bedroom to grab another coffee or a granola bar, her cell still attached to her ear.

Lunch consists of the mozzarella sticks and chicken strips I find in the freezer.

She doesn’t eat much. She says even less.

Then it’s back to her room for more disgruntled conversations with Jenna and innumerable messages left on her mother’s voicemail.

It isn’t until the sun begins to set that she comes in search of me on the back porch, her hair loose around her shoulders as she takes in the view. The hours haven’t been kind to her. Her features are drawn and weary, her skin no longer glowing with its usual radiance. She’s still manipulatively beautiful, though. Only now she’s human. A real woman with real problems instead of the synthetic Barbie doll.

She walks to the few steps leading down to the backyard, her attention casting over the rolling hills. “Do we have to leave for dinner?”

“We’ve got enough food for now.” I take a drag of my cigarette and lean against the far corner of the porch railing, exhaling the smoke away from her. “I found some ground beef in the freezer along with spaghetti sauce and pasta in the cupboards. It won’t be fine dining, but it’ll be edible.”

She nods, wrapping her arms around her middle.

It’s quiet, nothing but the far-off caw of a bird trying to get home before dark and the lightest rustle of the wind through the trees. But I hear her. Her grief toward an unworthy piece of shit remains loud between us. The upheaval she keeps hidden rings like static in my ears.

“I wish I’d known about this place years ago,” she says quietly. “It would’ve been nice to think I had options.”

I take another drag, hating that the scenic view no longer holds the peace it did moments ago. It only took a second for my body to become finely attuned to hers. The slow movements. The way her scarf dances in the breeze. I notice her more than I need to. More than I want to. It’s a sickening compulsion. “Would you have asked Langston for help?”

“No.”

“Because Emmanuel had you trapped?”

She turns to me, her dark eyes heavy with exhaustion. “Because I realized the brother I thought I knew was only an illusion after he left me behind. And that reality only became more apparent the longer time stretched between us.” She moves closer, stopping a few feet away to cock her hip against the railing. “Can you imagine my shock when I heard the rumors that my sweet, overprotective older brother had become one half of the Butcher Boys of Baltimore?”

Is she baiting me? Trying to get a reaction? To start another fight?

I hold her gaze, unflinching as I take another inhale of smoke-riddled death. I keep my expression unreadable. No remorse. No anger.

“How does one go about getting that sort of moniker?” she asks.

I raise a sardonic brow, wordlessly asking if she’s naive enough not to assume the broad strokes of violence.

“You’ve killed a lot of people,” she murmurs.

I take another drag, unapologetic and calm, silently blowing the smoke out one side of my mouth. I let her imagination run wild with the carnage. I’m sure the quiet paints a vivid picture.

“Did you mutilate them?” She cocks her head to the side, scrutinizing me. “Is that where the butcher reference comes from?”

“Hardly.”

“Then why? How did the two of you earn such a sickening reputation?”

I keep staring at her, unblinking, unfazed, wanting her to know her presence has no hold on me even though the facts paint a different picture. “Because a blade makes less noise than a gun, belladonna.”

“That’s it?” She frowns. “That’s the only reason?”

No. Not the only reason, but the one that’s most palatable. “There was a time or two where we needed to make an example of those who went against your uncle. Where fear needed to be created and a lasting impression left on anyone who dared to cross him. But don’t worry—Langston never took point on those jobs.”

She stands taller, hearing the words I don’t speak. Understanding that those atrocities fell on my shoulders.

That I’m the brutality. The horror behind the moniker.

I wait for revulsion to morph her pretty face. For terror to stare back at me from those ocean eyes. That’s what I want. Her fear. Her disgust. Something to sever my curiosity in her.

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