I don’t believe we remember our birth on any level conscious or subconscious. I never have. But Angelique’s birth, her violent introduction to this world, maybe it left its traces in her psyche. Maybe it damaged her more than I know.
Her mother, Kimberly and I had been engaged to be married. I asked her a few months after she became pregnant. We’d been in Mexico. I’d taken her with me on a business trip that we turned into a vacation. If I hadn’t taken her, she’d be here now. Angelique would have her mother. She may not have me, but she’d have her. I have no doubt Kimberly would be an infinitely better mother to her than I am a father.
The morning we were to leave we’d been having breakfast at a café on the beach. Kimberly wanted to feel the sand between her toes one last time. She’d looked so happy. She’d glowed, with her belly beautifully rounded, her skin tanned and her smile brighter than ever. I’ve never known anyone to be as happy as she was in those last months.
I left her sitting there while I went inside to pay except that I’d forgotten my wallet on the table. When I went back to get it, she’d already realized my mistake and was bringing it to me.
I saw them just before it happened. I think I did. Or maybe I’m making that part up, a thought made into memory. I felt it though, the change in the air, the darkness coming toward us. To invade our lives. To steal hers.
She was smiling, holding up my wallet. She may have been commenting on how absent minded we both had become, so drunk were we with joy. The happiness we were sure to have.
Maybe that’s what caused it. Our sureness. As if the gods above looked down on us and shook their heads. Maybe we were too happy.
They wore black suits. That’s all I remember. Two men who stood out on that beach of blue ocean and bluer sky and golden sunshine. I saw the gun. Saw the one draw it from under his jacket. And before I could think, before I could throw my body over hers, it was done. He pulled the trigger and her body jerked. I heard her breath catch as her face lost that smile, lost all expression but shock.
There was a second shot. That bullet hit my shoulder because I was dropping to me knees with her in my arms. Wanting to catch her. To not let her fall. And then they were gone and the panicked screams of strangers rushed back into my last moments with her.
She had died by the time we got her into the ambulance, and I thought for sure I’d lost our baby too. I remember screaming at the paramedic when I saw the knife, when I saw him cut her. I remember being held back by another paramedic.
And then I heard that tiny, strangled cry.
The car slows, drawing me back to reality. I blink my eyes as we approach the front entrance of the house.
“Are you going to be okay?” Dex asks me.
I brush my hand through my hair. “Fine. Thanks.” I get out, walk into the house. It’s dead quiet. I stand in the foyer for a minute and listen to that silence, thinking about Angelique’s cry the morning she was born. How it sounded against the roar of sirens.
I think about why it happened.
Why a man who didn’t know me pulled a gun from inside his jacket but missed his target and instead killed Kimberly.
I think about Carlton Bishop. I wonder what he was doing when the assassination took place. Was he getting a play-by-play? And what did he do when he realized they had missed me but killed her? What did he do when he knew he’d killed a mother and her unborn child? Because as far as anyone knew, the child had died before ever once seeing the light of day.
And I think about the Bishop in my house now and why she’s here.
Carlton Bishop thinks this is it. Taking her as my own to punish him. Humiliate him perhaps. But my plans go far beyond simply taking her. His punishment has only just begun because when I’m finished, there will be one more Bishop in the ground. At least.
As I stalk up the stairs, my mind focuses on that thought. I reach into my pocket to take out the key to her bedroom, unlock the door and open it.
Moonlight spills in from the split between the curtains. It casts its silvery light over Isabelle’s face. I step closer. She’s asleep on her back, the blanket covering her stomach, one arm over her head the other resting on her belly. Her dark hair is spread like a raven’s wing across the white pillow. Alongside her on the bed is that same notebook I’d seen earlier. A small ruler, a worn eraser and a pencil sit on top of it. I glance at it, see the notes and the faded marks of pencil the eraser left behind. Is she writing her own music? I don’t know the first thing.
She mutters something then, calling my attention back to her face. It’s a moment before she quiets. I watch her sleep. Listen to her calm, even breathing. So peaceful. I’m envious of it. Of her peace. A peace no Bishop deserves.
As if sensing this shift in the air, Isabelle stirs, opens her eyes. It takes her a split second to register that she’s not alone and she gasps, bolting upright and clutching the blanket to her.
“Up,” I say, standing to the side.
She looks around the room, glances at the clock.
“I said up.”
She pushes the blanket away and sits up, rubs her face, then stands. The T-shirt she’s wearing comes to mid-thigh. It’s threadbare and has the faded remnants of some band on the front. She’s barefoot. If I were a better man, I’d let her get dressed.
“Shoes,” I tell her, pointing to the pair I see by the desk. Does this win me any points in the better man area? I doubt it. Not for what I have in mind.
She looks confused but slips her feet into the flats. Running shoes would be better. More appropriate. But I don’t bother telling her that.
“Not a sound,” I say and gesture for her to go out into the hallway and down the stairs.
“Can I get dressed at—”
I grip a handful of hair and tug her head backward. “I said not a fucking sound.”
She swallows hard and when I release her, she grips the banister with both hands, keeps one eye on me as she hurries down the stairs. I wonder if she thinks I’ll push her.
I can take several routes to the exit, so I choose the one that will walk us by the steel door to the cellar. She instantly hesitates but I nudge her forward.
“I don’t want to go down there,” she starts as we get nearer. “I didn’t mean to do anything.”
I don’t say a word but feel her exhale of breath when we pass that door and keep going. I wonder if she’d prefer the cellar to where I’m taking her, though. Around the next corner we arrive at the kitchen. I unlock the door and let her step outside onto the patio.
“What are we doing?” she asks, confused, as I take her arm and walk her across the patio, past the pool and onto the grass. I keep walking her toward the woods and she hesitates. But she doesn’t have a choice. Not in any of this. She should know that by now.
I follow the path. It’s lit by the moon in the moments the clouds part and casts its light on us. The cropping of trees is dense, but I know this way well enough without it. It’s well-worn and maintained. Although for the last five years only my brother has tread on it, and I doubt he’s done it often.
The only sounds are those of the insects and the branches crushed beneath my shoes. Her footfalls barely register. But her breathing grows louder as she tries to keep up. She’s not quite struggling. I don’t think she can at the pace we’re moving. But she is holding back so I have to keep a firm grip on her. It would be easier if I just hauled her over my shoulder and carried her. Kinder, too. But I don’t.