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“Say what you need to say then.”
He shrugged and leaned against the dresser, resting his elbows on top of it as he gazed at me with watchful eyes.
“How much do you know about this area?” he asked. “Did you even know about this place before you were forced to start slummin’ with us peons?”
Peons. Another word I was surprised he knew. I kept that to myself.
“No,” I answered honestly. “I’d never even been on this side of the city.”
“Figures. Didn’t think you would have.” He leveled a hard look at me. “Lot of people around here have been fucked over by your father—”
“So everyone and their damn mother keeps telling me.”
“You don’t believe it.”
“Why would I?” I scoffed, shaking my head. “I know my father is a man who gets what he wants. But that’s just because he’s good at business. He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t…”
“He wouldn’t ruin people’s lives if it meant he’d get what he wanted?” Bishop finished. “He wouldn’t use people’s ignorance about the law, or their desperation for what sounded like a good deal at the time, to make serious bank despite not even needing it? I hate to break it to you, Princess, but your father is all that shit and more, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can accept that what we’re offering you is the best chance you have at surviving until someone decides if they want to let your daddy walk free or if he’ll spend real, hard time in the clink.”
I swallowed. Bishop spoke with such fierce certainty, it was hard not to believe him. But I had to remind myself that just because he thought he knew the truth, it didn’t mean he was right.
“Why do you hate him so much?” I asked, deflecting. “You keep going on and on about other people getting screwed over. But no one cares about other people that much. Not even saints are that selfless, and I have a feeling you’re no saint. You can’t stand there pretending you’re some humanitarian or something, standing up for the good of the people. You don’t hate my dad because of what you think he did to the neighborhood or to other people. You hate him because you think he wronged you personally somehow.”
This was personal. Way more personal than Bishop wanted me to believe. It was the only explanation that made any kind of sense.
His hazel eyes flashed as he scoffed.
“You really think you got it all figured out, huh, Princess? Maybe you think I’m jealous of your pops because he’s got all that money and power, and I don’t? You think that’s all this is?”
He pushed off my dresser, striding over to me. I scooted back on the bed as he neared, but I couldn’t move fast enough to keep distance between us. He leaned down, bracing himself over me, his hands on either side of my hips as he looked me in the eye.
It was strange, how one person could fill an entire space in just a single move, but there he was, pulling my attention to him, making me hyper-aware of everything about him. His breath made the small, wispy tendrils of my hair dance as he spoke.
“My parents are dead because of your father,” he said bluntly. “My mom got sick. She needed health care my dad couldn’t afford. But… there was a facility, public health thing. It wasn’t the best thing, but it helped. There was a treatment plan and all.” He breathed in.
“It relied on donations and volunteer doctors. People that actually wanted to help others. The donors were usually rich fucks who needed to have some pet project to make them look good, but at least it helped people.” His lips pressed together. His face was so close to mine that I could see the flecks of green and brown in his eyes. “Until your father came along. Promised all sorts of money, all sorts of support, bringing in new doctors, new tech. Except he never intended to keep the shit non-profit, and all that updated shit wasn’t gonna be provided for free. Made some dumb shit program where people had to pay in—more money you were able to spend, better your care was. But if my parents couldn’t pay for regular hospital care, how the fuck could they afford a program like that?”
“I—”
“That wasn’t an invitation for you to speak, Princess,” he interrupted. “Just making sure you understand me when I say your father is to blame. I don’t just mean the system he’s a part of—I mean him, period. He made the choices. He made the deals. He ensured only good press got out about his little operation. You get me?”
I nodded. How could I not?
“I get you.”
“Good. Anyway. Few months after that, Dad went to get my mom something to eat from the corner store. Her appetite was shit, only a few things she could really eat that stayed settled in her stomach. He took a walk down to the corner store just for a sandwich and didn’t end up coming back. Some drunk thought he’d bust in and steal some cheap beer… Dad ended up getting in between him and the store owner when he pulled an old pistol on the guy. Few months later, Mom followed Dad.” He laughed bitterly. “They still hold events at that clinic. Wellness Events, they call them. You’ll notice no one from this area ever goes there.”
My mouth was dry. Even if I thought he was lying, I knew the clinic he was talking about just by what he called the events. I’d been to a few with Dad and Mom. I’d helped coordina
te with Dad on a couple. Dad was always saying how much it had improved health care in Baltimore. There was no denying that.
But, for whom? Who had really benefitted?
“I…” I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for? You’re not your father.”
I bit my lip. “Then why are you trying to punish me?”
