Page 22 of By Sin To Atone

She’ll be out for the next twelve hours. Maybe more, given her size. The sleeping pills were mixed into the little bit of whiskey in the glass she drank from.

I look at her face as she sleeps. I say her name in my head, Bluebird Smith. I could pick up the sister. That would be the surest way to get to the truth. I don’t know exactly what is wrong with her. All I know is that Oakwood Care Center specializes in brain injuries. But I’m curious about the little convict here.

I slip her well-worn sneakers off her feet. They’re bare, her toenails a blue that matches her hair. I guess it’s her favorite color. I drag the sweatpants off next. They’re bloody from her cut, as are my slacks. She’s not wearing underwear, as I already ascertained, and my gaze catches on the shaved slit of her pussy before I sit her up, leaning her against myself as I draw the bodysuit off over her head then lay her back down. I toss the scrap of a uniform onto the floor along with the rest of her things.

I take in her naked body. She’s slender with full, round breasts, her nipples a deep pink. They tighten beneath my gaze as if I were touching her. I let my gaze trace a path over her flat stomach, to the slit of her sex. I’m hard at the sight of her like this. Not sure what that says about me, so I draw in a breath and return my gaze to her face, turning it to examine the scar. I push strands of blue and black hair off her cheek.

The scar is a four-inch-long jagged line. Not a knife, more like breaking glass with your face. It’s not fresh but when I smear away more of the heavily applied foundation with my thumb, I see it’s still pink. I imagine her looking in a mirror, hands shaking as she mustered up the courage to stitch herself up. I have to give it to her. It takes balls. Which confirms to me that she’s desperate. I have no doubt she’s running and the money she tried to extort from me her last resort.

There’s some part of me that softens knowing that she’s running from whoever did this to her. Hurt her.

I trace the scar, feel the hard tissue that’s formed beneath, trace the five stitch marks, which are widely spaced and crooked. It will be visible for the rest of her life.

I have wondered for years now if it is somehow easier to bear the scars on the outside rather than the inside. Inside it’s just you all alone with your damage. Outside, as people leer and whisper, does it somehow numb the pain? Numb you?

Does it harden you as you wrap yourself in scar tissue to protect yourself from all those curious eyes? All those wagging tongues?

Getting to my feet I push a hand through my hair and force the thought away.

Zoë was built small too. Like Blue. But she’d also stopped eating for the most part. She bore her scars on her own, on the inside. Well, she tried to tell me, but I neither heard nor saw. Not until it was too late.

My throat tightens, and I turn Blue’s face away, so I don’t have to see it. I tug the blanket over her. I can’t feel sorry for her. She’s blackmailing me. She has evidence that could be dangerous for me, if she’s not lying, that is. If she truly has that duffel. But the fact that she knows about the bag at all is troubling. And then there’s the hotel manager. I’ll go over to see Jericho tonight, once I finish what I need to do here.

On the nightstand are the two things I brought over with me. A collar and a thin, but strong chain. I pick them up and sit on the bed again, taking hold of the collar around Blue’s neck. It’s part of the uniform at The Cat House. It’s similar to the one the courtesans wear but this one is just for show, so I slip it off and replace it with the new one, a thin strip of leather, soft and malleable but strong. I lock it into place and through the D-ring between her collarbones, I slip the chain. I secure that to the bed with another lock and, after checking her new stitches, I set her hand on her stomach, palm up, and stand, smiling down at my handiwork.

A lesson in submission will go a long way. She needs to learn she is not in control. I am. She needs to understand that there are consequences to fucking with a man like me. And until I figure out exactly what she has on me, she will need to learn to heel.

Just one last thing I need to do before I leave my little convict to sleep. From my pocket, I retrieve her phone. I swipe to bring the screen to life then bend down to brush Blue’s hair back before holding it up to her. Facial recognition. Much less secure than a pin code, actually. A moment later, I’m in. I smile as I add my own face to her phone, giving myself access to everything before removing her access altogether. I walk out of the bedroom switching out the light and closing the door behind me. I pocket her phone. I’ll go through the little convict’s life after.

A familiar, old gloom settles over me as I make my way through the dark corridor to the stairs and down and out the front door.

Because there’s something I need to do.

Someone I need to visit now that I’m back.

8

Ezekiel

The grounds are damp, although it’s not raining anymore. My shoes will be ruined. It doesn’t matter, though.

I walk guided by memory. The Bishop and St. James properties stand back-to-back. When Jericho took over the Bishop house after Carlton’s death, he had the wall between the properties brought down, uniting the vast grounds. Matty will be the inheritor of the estate but that won’t happen until he’s eighteen and he’s far from that. But the real reason he did it isn’t for Matty, who’s too young to know anything about the history between our families. He did it for his wife, Isabelle. She, too, is a Bishop. Ironic how life plays with us. He vowed to destroy the Bishop name, to wipe it from the face of the earth and here he is putting babies in her belly. Babies that will bear his name.

Love is a strange thing.

I stop.

Love.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve used the word. Given it any thought at all.

With a shake of my head, I continue on, the bottoms of my pants sodden from the damp earth. At least Jericho is maintaining the gardens.

It takes a little bit but soon I see the lights of the St. James house. It was my home once. It doesn’t belong to me anymore. I’m not sure it ever did. I was more of a caretaker until my brother returned. It was always going to be his. He’s first-born. And I don’t begrudge him that. That house holds far too many ugly memories for me, hanging my failures in front of me almost as if to remind me. As if I could forget.

From here, I see the curving path leading from the edge of the Bishop line to where the St. James property starts. I cross the now invisible barrier and push my hands into my pockets, the air damp and chilly. I make my way not to the house but take a turn toward the small graveyard on the property. It’s just for the family.

The chapel’s tabernacle lamp burns inside, it’s red glow visible through the narrow slit of a window as I approach from the side. I’m glad to see the graves are maintained, the small fence that had been rotting has been replaced. I enter through the gate, which doesn’t creak like it used to, and stop, taking in the fresh flowers that stand in two spots. I should have brought something, I think too late.

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