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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.
A soft rain begins to fall but we’re protected beneath the canopy of trees. The sound is gentle. Isabelle, in just her threadbare T-shirt, shivers and wraps her free arm around herself.
We slow as the path widens.
“Where are we?” she asks, peering out into the darkness, holding back.
I wonder if she can smell the incense out here. I can. Or maybe it’s memory, a trick of the mind telling me I smell something that isn’t there.
A wind blows, uncovering the moon. The rain is little more than mist clinging to her face and hair, but she is wet, her shirt sticking to her. I look down at her feet clad in those ballet flats. See the grass and dirt stuck to the shoes and her legs. She shudders and I wonder if it’s with cold or the sight before her as I follow her gaze to the chapel. The cemetery before it. Tall stones mark the graves and just beyond are the marble vaults holding the bodies of St. James’s of generations past.
I look back at her, see the lines on her forehead, feel her try to pull free, to back away.
“Why are we here?” she asks, having to drag her gaze from the graveyard to me.
