Page 40 of By Sin To Atone

I grab the salad out of the refrigerator and carry over a bottle of wine Cynthia must have brought from the main house. I open it, pour two glasses. I set one in front of Blue and serve myself some of the gnocchi.

“No thank you,” Blue says, pushing it away. “I learned my lesson.”

“You saw me open it. It’s not drugged.”

“Nope.”

I take her glass, sip from it and raise my eyebrows.

“I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself. When was the last time you ate?”

“Before my shift at The Cat House.”

“How did you know about The Cat House anyway?”

“Same way I knew about you.”

“The Austrian guy?”

She nods, scratches her nose.

I smile, knowing this is her tell. She scratches the tip of her nose when she lies. She’s completely unaware that she does it. “I doubt that. Was your father always abusive?”

Her fork stops half-way to her mouth, and she turns to me. “Why do you want to know?”

“I told you I want to know your past as well as your present. It’s how I’ll decide your future.”

“I don’t see why it matters but not to me, until that last night. He never hurt me before that. He mostly hurt Wren and mom. What arrangement do you want in exchange for protection?”

“Where is your mother?” I ask, ignoring her question.

She shrugs a shoulder and keeps her eyes focused on her plate.

“What caused your father to hurt you if he hadn’t until then?”

“You’d have to ask him. All I know is not all fathers protect their daughters.”

“I know that.”

She looks up at me, studying me for a long moment. She sets her knife and fork down.

“Finished?” She nods and I get up. “Follow me.” I lead the way to what must have been Carlton Bishop’s study once. The fire is lit in the grate. It’s a comfortable space with a desk against one wall and a sitting area that contains a sofa and well-worn leather chairs. I’ve placed a small, three-legged wooden stool that looks about a hundred years old in front of the fire.

“Is anyone else here?” she asks.

“Would it make you feel safer if there were?”

“Not really, no.”

“No, it’s just you and me.”

“Is this your house?”

“No.” She looks confused but I’m not here to answer her questions. “Sit.” I point to the stool.

She looks at it, then at me, and rubs her arms like she’s cold. “I’m fine.”

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