Page 51 of Bishop

No kids.

Republican.

His priorities include the agriculture sector, education, and upholding the second amendment. His website boasts an image of him in a crisp suit with a gleaming shmuck of a smile.

I shouldn’t fixate on why this fucker is important to her. But I do. All afternoon and into the evening.

I retrieve the laptop I have stashed in the kitchen pantry and do a deep dive on the blond senator with the demeaning smirk.

I find his address. Then do a more exhaustive search for any dirt this motherfucker might have on his coattails. By the time dinner rolls around again, I’m no closer in discovering his connection to Abri than she seems to be in getting past his secretary to be able to chat to him.

“Have you had any luck on the phone today?” I place her meal in front of her—marinated chicken wings atop a bed of packet-made fried rice. “Has your mom reached out?”

“No.” Abri grabs her fork and pokes at a pea, the slightest tremble visible in her hand.

The lack of sleep is etched into every inch of her—the pale tinge of her skin, the tired slump of her shoulders. At least she had the energy to change out of her pajamas this morning, but the light grey suit pants and sheer white blouse are a little too tight for my liking. The sight of her white lace bra beneath isn’t appreciated either.

“She’s radio silent. I can only assume she thinks I’m to blame for what happened.” She shrugs. “Or maybe she’s dead, too.”

I take the seat across from her. “If that’s the case, you’ll know soon enough.”

She nods, then scoops a measly forkful of rice into her mouth.

“Who else have you spoken to?” I ask.

“Business associates.” She sips on a glass of water, her attention downcast on her meal. “Although the staff at Alleya run autonomously, they’ll start asking questions if they don’t hear from my parents. I’m trying to keep them distracted as long as possible.”

Right—the family fashion label. The one that’s a front for all their illegal dealings.

“And what about the senator?” I grab a chicken wing and bite into the flesh.

She keeps her head pointed toward her food, but those eyes raise to meet mine through dark lashes. “What about him?”

“You’ve been calling for more than twenty-four hours, and from what I’ve heard, you still haven’t got past his secretary. Is there something I can help with?”

“No.” She raises her chin, looking at me head on. “My issues with the senator are private and I’d like to keep it that way.”

I take another bite of meat. “I could get you a conversation with him.”

She places her fork down on the table. “How? Do you know him?”

“I don’t need to. I can get it done.”

Her eyes widen, as if correctly assuming I’m referring to violent means. “That isn’t necessary. Your type of help isn’t required.”

“Is that because you’re trying to forge a relationship with a government official in case the cops come calling?”

“No.” The adamant denial paints a picture of defense and panic. “Please just drop it.”

I wish I could, but curiosity has me by the balls. “Are you looking for money? Does he have ties to your father? Are you and the senator having an affair?”

“Stop it.” She shoves to her feet, her chair scraping loud against the tile. “I said it’s none of your business.” Her chest rises and falls, labored and frantic. Is she having another panic attack?

She may be bold enough to raise her voice to a murderer, but fear stares back at me. The question is—why? What makes this senator so important?

“Sit, Abri.” I finish my chicken wing and grab another. “You need to eat.”

Her breathing continues to labor, her fragility increasing my pulse. Is she going to crumple again? Will I need to rescue her from the brink? Is that fucking excitement thrumming through my veins?

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