She wipes tears with the back of one hand and I think they’re tears of frustration and anger even if they started as fear.
She’s at least a little right, but fuck, she has no right to be. No right to say these things.
“You don’t know us, Isabelle. You don’t know anything about us.”
“And here I am thrust into your family. I didn’t ask for this.”
I push my hand into my hair and walk away.
“What did you think I was doing?” she asks, sounding indignant now.
When I turn back to her, I find her clutching that towel again.
“What could you possibly think I would do to your little girl? To any child?”
“You’re a Bishop,” I spit and walk to the door. I need to be away from her.
“And you’re unbelievable!” she cries out. “Did you think I’d let anything happen to her? Think I’d hurt a little girl because I’m a Bishop? I’ve never heard anything more fucked up than that, Jericho St. James!”
I spin to face her, and she stumbles backward. “I know what Bishops are capable of. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.” My voice is raspy, the words sounding strange, but she shudders, and she doesn’t even know their meaning.
“I wouldn’t hurt her. What is wrong with you that you think I could?” she asks more quietly.
I close my hand over the too-small bracelet on my arm. Kimberly’s. And I remember that day. Remember the sound of the gun. The look on her face when she was jolted into my arms. Remember the weight of her body going limp there.
I make myself remember it. And I stare at the Bishop before me. And I remind myself why she’s here. What she’s capable of. What they’re all capable of.
She must feel the aggression growing inside me because she takes two steps away, wide eyes locked on me. She’s ready to make her move when I make mine. But I don’t make any move. Not toward her. I need to get away from here. Away from her. Before I do more damage than I intend.
I turn to the door again, digging out my key as I do. When I open it and step into the hallway, she runs toward it.
“Wait!”
I stop, key in hand, the door open just a few inches.
“Is she okay?” she asks, surprising me. I thought she’d beg me not to lock her in. Thought she’d plead her innocence. “At least tell me she’s okay.”
“She’s not your concern,” I tell her and before she can say anything else, I close the door and lock it, pocketing the key.
14
Isabelle
It’s hours later and full dark when I finally hear the lock in the door turn. I quickly close the notebook on my lap, shoving the pencil in the page and rubbing black smears off my hands. My eraser drops to the floor and my stomach growls loudly. I’m starving. I think part of his plan is to starve me. And for what? For taking his daughter swimming? How unbelievably ridiculous is that?
The smell of the food makes the already loud growling louder. The door is pushed open and a woman I saw helping in the kitchen earlier pushes a cart in. It’s laid with a beige linen tablecloth, topped with a dish covered by a stainless-steel dome as well as an uncorked bottle of wine, another of water and two sets of glasses, a basket of bread.
My mood would lift to see this except that Jericho St. James follows her. His gaze barely brushes over me but even in that moment he does deign to look in my direction, he manages to show his disapproval of me. He can go fuck himself. I disapprove of him, too.
He stands there with his hands in his pockets just watching the woman set up the tray. The smell is even more enticing once she removes the dome lid. I press my arms into my stomach to stop its loud rumbling at the sight and smell of vegetables roasted with herbs layered with melted cheese and potatoes.
“Thank you, May,” Jericho says when she’s finished and walks her out, locking the door behind her and pocketing his little key. Dickhead.
“You don’t have to worry I’ll try to run past you, you know,” I tell him, bending to pick up the fallen eraser and setting it on the nightstand. I don’t wait for an invitation to eat. I’m too hungry.
“It’s to make sure no one comes in,” he says calmly. “No little girls wandering into rooms they shouldn’t wander into. Not tonight anyway.”
My heart drops to my stomach at his words. At their meaning. I stop short of the table.
“Sit down and eat,” he says, lifting my desk chair and setting it in front of the tray table. He picks up the wine and pours two glasses.
“I’m underage,” I remind him, picking up my fork. I’m guessing he’s about ten years older than me. I drink wine and beer, but I don’t overdo it primarily because I don’t love it. However, with him, I feel like I need to keep my wits about me.
“As your guardian, I give you permission,” he says with a smirk as he raises the other glass in a mock toast and sips.
Fuck you Jericho St. James.
I think it but don’t say it. I should though. He wouldn’t do what he threatened earlier. I just don’t believe he would. He has a daughter. He can’t be that much of a monster.
But maybe that’s stupidity talking. And better safe than sorry.
“You’re very easy to read, Isabelle,” he says with a that same grin. “I can just about hear the fuck you you’re hurling at me.”
“Me? No. I wouldn’t dream of breaking one of your sacred commandments, oh great sir.” I pick up my glass and drink a bit. It tastes good, a deep, rich red.
“I like the sir. Very much.”
Fuck you. Fuck you. Drop dead. Fuck you.
“Eat.”
I am about to take a bite, but feel his eyes on me so I put my fork down. “Is it poisoned? Is that why you’re not eating? Is it going to make me sick?”
He walks over, picks up the fork on which I’d speared a piece of potato and sticks it into his mouth. He makes a point of chewing and swallowing before replacing the fork.
“Nope, no poison. I already ate with my family.”
“Ah. So this is part of my punishment, my humiliation. I’m to be sent to my room like a misbehaving child.” I don’t know why the thought upsets me. I’d rather be here alone than down there with him anyway. But it’s hard to swallow around the lump in my throat. Maybe it’s the part about his family. The fact that mine is gone. Because Carlton and Julia aren’t family. Not in the way that matters.
I keep my eyes on my plate as I manage the tide of emotion. I pick up my glass, drink another sip to calm my nerves then set it down.
He moves toward the bed, opens a page of the notebook. “What were you doing?”
“Dancing,” I say.
“Funny. What is this?” He flips through a couple pages.
“Music.” I get up, take the notebook from him. Feeling weirdly embarrassed to have him flip through my notebook, I set it aside then sit back down.
“Your hands are dirty.”
I look down at the heel of my hand which is still smeared with pencil marks. I shrug a shoulder, knife in hand. Leaning back against my seat, I watch him as I turn the knife over, considering the sharpness of the blade. I then shift my gaze to his and tilt my head to the side.