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“I’m not going to bite you,” Seri says with a laugh. “Open up a little, Bishop.”
Open up.
It’s a phrase I’d heard many times before, usually out of the mouth of some shrink assigned to me while I was incarcerated. They all seemed to believe if I just “opened up” and talked about my life that everything would be all right again—as if talking about shit was going to make it all go away.
Then again, I’d been intimate with her, and that did change things. Margot ended up learning about me through newspaper articles she found on the internet though she still pressed for more. I never told her much, but sometimes I wondered if I should have.
Maybe I should open up.
“What do you want to know?” I ask quietly.
“You said you never graduated from high school,” Seri says immediately. “Why was that?”
I steady my breathing before I go on.
“I didn’t graduate from high school because I was incarcerated instead. I didn’t get out until I was twenty-five. Being in that environment wasn’t the greatest when it comes to socializing with people. When I got out, I didn’t have any marketable skills, and being an ex-con isn’t exactly great on a resume, so I couldn’t get a job. As soon as someone ran a background check, they’d pass me up, even at fast food places. I did a little construction work, getting paid under the table, but my parole officer found out about it, and he threatened to put me back in prison for some parole violation.
“With my record, I couldn’t get a legitimate job without a diploma, not in that state, anyway. As part of my parole, I also wasn’t allowed to leave the state, and I had to see my parole officer every week. I was living in a shelter with absolutely no prospects. Ultimately, I gave up and took off. Ended up crossing the Canadian border a few months later and eventually found my way here.”
“Didn’t anyone ever come looking for you?”
“If anyone bothered, I don’t know about it. I assume I’m on someone’s list of wanted fugitives, which is why I don’t live in Yellowknife or somewhere like that. All the business I do is in cash, so there’s no record of me anywhere. I don’t have a phone or utilities to trace, and no one up here ever pried into my past much except Margot.”
“Is that why you broke up? She found out about your past?”
“That’s part of the reason, yeah.”
Seri goes quiet for a moment, never taking her eyes off of me. I know she wants me to elaborate, but I don’t know what else to say.
“Why were you in prison, Bishop?”
My insides go cold—far colder than the chilled air around me—and I look away from her. I don’t know how the conversation got this far. I never intended to say this much, and now I’m stuck with it. There is no way she is going to retract the question, and if I don’t give her an answer, she may very well go ballistic on me again.
I briefly consider lying. I know enough stories from guys I was locked up with to make up a plausible tale, but what would be the point? She already knows I’m a fugitive and might very well look me up or even tell the authorities where I am.
I’ve dug
myself a hole that I have no hope of escaping.
“I killed someone.” I glance at her quickly, hoping to judge her reaction.
“Who?” she finally whispers.
“My father.”
Chapter 11
Seri’s face has gone completely white, rivaling the color of the snowbank covering the cabin. I never meant to say the words I had just spoken, and my chest tightens up so much, I jump to my feet to make sure the airholes are still unobstructed.
I stand off to the side of the room with my hands on my hips, staring at the ceiling and refusing to turn around. If I turn, I’ll have to look at her face as she realizes the implications of what I have just said and that I’m no different than the two guys who killed her sister.
I wish I had brought the whiskey with me.
“Was it an accident?” She speaks so softly, I can barely hear her question.
Whispered or screamed, the question pounds in my ears. I stalk back toward the fire, grab my glass, drain it, and then go to the kitchen to pour another drink. My hands are shaking, and I spill a bit on the counter.
“Fuck!” I grab a towel and clean up the mess as the tension continues to build. I’m always so careful that I never drop or spill anything. Spills are accidents. Accidents are wrong, and messy, and dangerous.
