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And it is Bishop who helped me break free. He didn’t save me, though. He allowed me the freedom to save myself, which is the very best type of rescue.
I’ve gone over every possibility a dozen times. Thought about telling Bishop what my father and Callie are planning. But as much as I want to stop them, I cannot go that far. I cannot be the one who dooms them, even if they might deserve it. And doing nothing is also not an option. I could smash the vial and continue on with my life, but they will still find a way to kill Bishop, with or without my help. No matter how I come at the problem, the fact remains that in the end there will have to be a sacrifice. If I won’t allow it to be Bishop and I can’t stomach it being my family, then there is only one choice left.
It will have to be me.
I leave the note where I’m sure they’ll find it. If not tonight, then early tomorrow when Victoria arrives. She’d never miss it; she’s too good at her job. Afterward, I walk home and put the vial in the bottom drawer in the bathroom, behind the washcloths and a jumble of soaps and shampoos. I don’t know if they will go to the trouble of checking the vial for fingerprints, but I wipe it off carefully just to be safe, so only my prints will remain.
I smile at dinner and try not to think that it is my last night in this house. I listen to Bishop’s laugh and try to forget I will never hear it again, that by tomorrow he will hate me. But he will be alive and that is a fair trade. Or as fair as either of us is likely to get in this lifetime. And at bedtime I don’t linger in the bathroom, don’t allow panic to set into my bones like the poison hidden in the drawer. I crawl into bed beside him and reach for him in the dark. I don’t let myself think that any second there could be a knock on the door, that any moment could be the last.
“Ivy?” he says. I want to memorize the sound of his voice. “Why are you crying?”
“I’m not,” I say, swiping at my cheeks with angry fingers. I push against him, rolling him onto his back, and swing myself over so that I straddle him. His eyes look almost translucent in the moonlight. “We could leave,” I find myself saying, my breath hitching out of me on a sob. I am wound tight, my body trembling. I feel like the only thing connecting me to the world is the warmth of his hands around my hips, tethering me. “Go beyond the fence. See what’s out there. Find the ocean. ”
He watches me, forehead furrowed. “What’s wrong?” he says finally. “Talk to me. ”
But I can’t. I shake my head. “Never mind,” I whisper.
His hands tighten on my hips. “Someday,” he says. “We’ll see the ocean together, I promise. ”
I nod because I cannot open my mouth, have no idea what might come pouring out. A different kind of ocean maybe, one made of words that would drown us both. So I brace my hands on the pillow beneath his head and lean down to kiss him instead. The softness of his lips, the taste of his tongue, the strength of his hands. I store them up inside of me for a time when they are no longer mine.
I want to tell him I love him. But that would be selfish of me. To leave him with yet another memory he will only question later, a hard-won truth he will only remember as the worst, and final, lie.
I’m asleep when the knock comes, loud and insistent. Bishop is curled around my back, one hand pushed underneath my tank top to rest flat against my stomach.
“Bishop. ” I nudge his arm. “Someone’s at the door. ” The first hazy streaks of sunlight are poking their way through our gauzy bedroom curtains.
“Hmmm?” he mumbles, his breath warm against my shoulder. The knock comes again, harder this time. They won’t wait long. “Who the hell is here this early?” he says as he pushes himself up, throwing the sheet off our tangled legs.
As soon as he’s left the room, I sit up, take a deep breath, and palm my hair off my face. I have to be stronger now than ever before, braver than I knew I could be. Voices float in from the living room, Bishop’s, another man, and is that…Erin? This is going to be even worse than I anticipated.
I throw on a pair of shorts and pull a T-shirt over my tank top. I just have time to pull my hair up into a messy ponytail when Bishop and a uniformed man appear in the doorway. The man is agitated, face red and veins bulging in his neck. Bishop, with his sleep-rumpled hair and bare chest, just looks confused.
“Ivy,” he says. “My parents are here. And the police. ” He indicates the man next to him with a curt nod. “They say they received an anonymous note saying…” His voice trails off and he looks at the cop. “This is ridiculous. I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation. ”
“The note said you planned on poisoning him,” the cop says.
“They want to do a search,” Bishop tells me.
“Go ahead,” I say. I wish the rest of me was as numb as my voice.
The cop backs out of the room, and a few seconds later, I hear the sounds of cabinets opening in the kitchen, his voice barking orders. Bishop is staring at me and if I don’t look away, I’m going to cry. I sit down on the edge of our bed, keep my gaze on my clasped hands.
“I don’t understand what they’re even doing here,” Bishop says. He sits down beside me, so close our bare legs touch. He scrubs at his face with both hands. “Weren’t we asleep five minutes ago?” He lets out a raspy laugh. “Maybe I’m dreaming. ”
“It’s not a dream,” I say. My voice sounds very far away to my own ears, like I’m speaking through a curtain of clouds.
“Well, they need to hurry up and get out of here,” Bishop says. The anger in his voice is hiding something else—fear, maybe, or doubt. My heart drops into my stomach. I wish there was a way to save him that didn’t involve hurting him. But it’s a choice between pain now or death later, and he’ll get over the pain of losing me. I’ll make it as easy for him as I can.
Bishops takes my hand in his, following the lines of my palm with his index finger, while we listen to the police ransack our kitchen and living room, pretend we don’t notice them moving down the hall to the bathroom right outside the door. Tension races through me like lightning, threatening to shoot sparks from my fingers and toes. No matter what Bishop said to the cop, he’s feeling it, too. His body vibrates with nerves next to mine.
There’s an exclamation from the bathroom, the sound of rapid footsteps, more talking. I don’t focus on the words; instead I try to clear my mind and take even breaths.
“We found something,” the cop says, and Bishop and I both swing our heads in his direction. He’s holding up a plastic bag with the vial inside.
“What is it?” Bishop asks.
“That’s what we’ll have to find out,” the cop says, staring at me. “But if I had to guess, I’d say it’s poison. ”
