Page 58 of Bishop

I take the offering. I’m too stunned to do much else.

He has no remorse. Not one inkling of concern or baggage over the crimes he’s committed.

“Start eating.” He jerks his head toward the table. “We can talk shop once I’m finished cooking.”

I blink, slowly, unable to drag my gaze from him, finding it hard to function.

I don’t know what this new state of events means for me. Gordon shouldn’t mean anything at all now that my father is dead, but the weight of potential catastrophe bears heavier on my soul.

Nobody knows the problems I’m caught up in. They don’t know how long I’ve been drowning.

I force my feet toward the table, take my usual seat, and wade through the tangled mess of my mind while Bishop cracks eggs into the pan.

I need my mother. Why the hell won’t she call me back?

It’s true I wasn’t her favorite. Never was. That pedestal was reserved for the son who got away. The one who was smart enough to run.

But the least she could do is call. Right? Even if she suspected I was involved in my father’s death, even if she thought I was the mastermind, wouldn’t a mother need confirmation before giving up on her child?

I know I would.

I’d want crystal clarity before I destroyed my own flesh and blood in retaliation. And that’s exactly what she’ll do. Destroy me.

I pick up the piece of crispy bacon with my fingers and take a bite of salty goodness, momentarily distracted by how the meat practically disintegrates on my tongue.

At least Bishop knows how to cook—a fact I wish held more of a punch than the lengths he went to in the name of avenging the wrongs done to me… But it doesn’t. Even though I knew he was a murderer, I’d expected more emotion over the act. A little stress maybe. Or a glimpse of fear.

Yet there’s only confidence. Poise. Perfectly sculpted self-assurance.

Is he still dressed in his slaughter suit or did he change?

I swallow my first bite, the lingering discomfort from the injuries Finch inflicted following the bacon’s journey all the way down my throat.

I don’t feel sorry for the asshole. I don’t care that he’s dead. But I can admit murder doesn’t feel good when it rests on my shoulders. If I hadn’t fallen prey to the panic attack in the shower, my bruises never would’ve been exposed, and Finch would still be alive.

If my mom finds out I had anything to do with this…

I suck in a deep breath, filling my lungs to the brink before I let it out.

I’m not going to let anxiety ensnare me today.

I take another bite, my gaze covertly stuck on Bishop. He hasn’t shaved. The stubble along his jaw is almost long enough to claim beard status. He can’t have slept for at least two days.

How is he functioning?

He grabs a spatula from a drawer, shovels his eggs onto a plate along with the bacon, then turns off the stove and makes his way to the chair across from me.

Sitting face-to-face seems more intimate this morning. He’s closer somehow now that fresh blood is on his hands.

“Can you please tell me what happened?” I ask.

He uses a knife and fork to tear his breakfast into bite-sized pieces. “Do you really want to know?”

I’m not sure.

My mental state has been balanced on a tightrope for days. One wrong move could push me back into meltdown. But the more I look at him, the more I want to know what he’s capable of. I need more than just the assumptions that come with his moniker.

I nod. “I want all the details…while lucid this time.”

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