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“It’s going to take her a little longer to call New Orleans home.”
“Children are resilient,” Santiago says. He’s been studying me all along.
I nod although I worry about Angelique. Isabelle wasn’t very far off about her. She is a fragile little girl.
Zeke pats me on the shoulder and I realize I’ve gone off into my own thoughts. “She’ll be fine. She just needs a little time.”
“I wonder how much having Isabelle Bishop in the house will help,” Santiago adds. “I don’t think men like us are equipped with the…softer side children need.”
I look at him surprise by the comment. “Isabelle?”
He smiles.
“You make a mistake. She isn’t there to develop any sort of relationship with my daughter no matter the role she plays.”
“Her role as vessel.”
I nod.
“Don’t be too sure you can control it.”
“I will control it. Control her.”
“Hm.” One corner of Santiago’s mouth curves upward as if he’s humoring me. I shift my gaze to Judge who is studying me, expression unreadable, and beside me, my brother is doing the same. I’m still not sure he’s fully on board with my plans but I push the thought aside because it doesn’t matter.
“What did you find?” I ask Santiago.
He touches the sealed folder between us. “Carlton Bishop is not a nice man, but I don’t think any of us thought otherwise,” Santiago says.
I want to take that folder but hold back. My heart is beating fast because whatever is in there could damn Bishop, but I also know it will cost me.
Again, as if reading my mind, Santiago speaks. “And although I have uncovered something that may be useful to you, there is no evidence of any involvement on Carlton Bishop’s part in your father’s death.” His gaze momentarily but decidedly rests on Zeke.
“No?” I ask, confused.
He brings his attention back to me and shakes his head. “No.”
I’m confused. That’s what this meeting is about. “What do you have then?”
“The Bishop girl lost her brother one year after losing her parents.”
“Isabelle?” Zeke asks.
“This isn’t about Isabelle,” I say.
Santiago gestures to the folder and I take it, break the seal. I reach inside to lift out the stack of papers while he speaks.
“The parents’ deaths were an accident from the look of things. But the break-in at her brother’s house, that was planned.”
“What?”
“Attempted rape—”
“What?” I interrupt, dumfounded.
He nods. “Brother walked in, surprised the culprit. Got himself killed.”
I glance at him, my brain taking a minute to follow, then shift my attention to look through the pages. Police reports, hospital records. The certificate of death for Christian York. Multiple knife wounds. I keep going, looking at the photos from the crime scene.
