Page 57 of Bishop

Grocery bags line the counter. Fresh bananas, apples, and oranges now sit on the dining table along with a carton of juice and two clean glasses. Did he go grocery shopping after committing murder?

“Did you sleep well?” he asks without looking over his shoulder.

I stiffen, disturbed by his keen senses. Even more baffled by his calm demeanor.

“Yes.” I walk farther into the room and stop near the start of the kitchen. “You?”

“Sleep is a luxury I haven’t been afforded in a while.”

Maybe because he was awake all night doing the Grim Reaper’s work and complicating my already hellacious existence. “You’ve been busy.”

“Not really.” He grabs the pan handle and gives it a shake. “It’s only bacon. I’ll crack you a few eggs in a minute.”

“I don’t want any. And I think you know I wasn’t talking about the food.”

He doesn’t react. I would’ve expected him to flinch. To look at me. To deny the underlying accusation. Yet he continues to stare at the pan, quiet, the pop and sizzle of the meat growing deafening.

Seconds pass, his silent peace confusing the hell out of me, almost tempting me to fall into the same calm. To ignore that the murder occurred. But he killed a man. Hospitalized another. How can he stand there, immaculately dressed and profoundly refined, without a care in the world?

“Are you going to pretend it didn’t happen?” I continue toward him, stopping a few feet away to hold up my cell, the online article illuminated on the screen. “It’s all here in black and white.”

He peers over his shoulder, shoots my phone a quick glance, then returns his attention to the bacon without batting an eye. “It needed to be done.”

Adrenaline floods my veins. “What, exactly, needed to be done?”

He sighs and turns to me, taking in my sleepwear with a quick onceover then clenching his jaw. “I told you last night I was leaving to kill Finch.”

“You told me while I was messed up on sedatives.”

He inclines his head and points his tongs at me. “But I told you nonetheless, just like I promised.”

Son of a bitch.

“I was barely conscious,” I grate.

“Conscious enough to fulfil my end of the deal.” He reverts his attention to the pan, pretending he’s Chef Ramsey instead of Ted Bundy.

“Do you even realize Gordon is still alive?” I want to push him. Slap him. God, how is he so composed? “He’s in hospital.”

“I’m not incompetent, Abri. I know exactly what state he’s in. I can’t kill him when I don’t know why he’s important to you, which means he lives. For now.”

My lips part, but shock leaves me speechless.

Do not be thankful, you dumb bitch.

As much as Gordon deserved a lesson in manners and Finch’s death was justified, both are complications that can only bring more problems for me. And besides, Bishop didn’t do this for my benefit. It was a job requirement. A mafia thing.

“Aren’t you worried about being caught?” I whisper.

“How will the cops figure it out?” He uses the tongs to flip over a piece of bacon. “Are you going to tell them?”

“Of course not. But Gordon might.”

“I’ve spent more than a decade honing the skill of keeping people quiet. Rest assured, he won’t say a word.”

“What about DNA? Surveillance? Your alibi?”

He grabs one of the clean plates waiting on the counter, places a few strips of bacon on it, then turns and hands it to me. “I know what I’m doing.”

---