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She’s cold as ice, this one. Doesn’t break a sweat. “I don’t know what you mean. What I learned the other day…” she drops her gaze, her forehead creasing, eyes sufficiently wet when she turns them back up to me. “It broke my heart to learn he had anything to do with Isabelle’s brother’s death. Shattered me to see her face when I told her the truth.”
“M-hm.” I put the photo down. “The boy is his. Congratulations. That was well-played.”
She lifts her head, tilting it a little, any false sadness gone. Replaced by a cool, unreadable beauty.
“I wasn’t playing at anything. I loved him. Matty is a product of our love.”
“Oh, I almost believe you.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I think you’re a liar, Ms. Bishop.”
“Go to hell, Mr. St. James.” She turns to walk toward the front pew where her coat and purse are. “I’m going home to my son.”
“Oleander,” I say. She stops dead. I watch her narrow shoulders stiffen. “Clever, again. Undetectable. Unless you know what you’re looking for, that is.”
She resumes walking, albeit stiffly, toward the pew.
“And of course, he’d suffer first. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? For him to suffer at least a little?” She bends to pick up her purse and coat then straightens to face me. “All those visits to the Cat House must have hurt.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I take two steps toward her. “I’m not stupid, Ms. Bishop.”
“No? I’m not sure I agree.” She grins. Bitch. “I mean, taking the inheritance out from under your nose wasn’t that hard. And poor Isabelle. Pregnant with your spawn.” Her lips curl making her ugly as she looks me over. “I tried to fix that for her, but she’s not very smart either. Never was.”
Blood rushes in my ears and every muscle in my body tenses.
“Or maybe it was just the sex that turned her head,” she says, studying me, licking her lips seductively. She lets her gaze move over my shoulders, my chest, lower. “I mean, I get it.” Her eyes meet mine. “I’m sure you’re a good fuck and if it was the Bishop fortune you wanted, well, Isabelle was your only option. But things can change, Jericho,” she says, reaching out a hand to adjust the lapel of my suit, letting it linger on my chest. “In fact, they have.”
“You make me want to vomit, Ms. Bishop. Isabelle is a hundred times the woman you could ever be.”
Her face contorts, her guard down for a moment. “Well, isn’t that romantic.” She drops her arm and narrows her eyes. “I had him cremated you know. The body’s gone.”
Cremated? I glance at the coffin.
“Just ashes in there. I mean, what does it matter, burying ashes or burying a body that will turn to ash in time anyway?” She walks around me toward the coffin, picks off a lily, dropping several to the floor in the process. “And oleander,” she starts, turning to me after tucking the flower into the pocket of her mourning dress. “Well, that’s a bit far-fetched, don’t you think? I mean, what year is this?”
“Tell me something,” I start, standing in the middle of the aisle to block her path. “Did you kill the babies?”
She blinks, surprised, and although I have no proof, I think she did. I think she must have. Miscarriage after miscarriage, wife after wife.
“Those miscarriages, awfully convenient. And here I thought it was Bishop’s faulty sperm.”
“Get out of my way.”
“The Tribunal will hang you,” I say, and watch her face lose a little color. “He was a Sovereign Son. And at least two of those children were male. You know how important a male heir is to The Society. Pure blood and all, as old-fashioned as the idea is. As old-fashioned as poison which our members do seem to love.”
“There’s no proof. Your word against mine. I have an autopsy report.”
“So do I. And a coroner who was bribed.” I don’t know that for sure but I’m willing to bet on it. Zeke will confirm soon enough. From the way her eyes shift between mine, I know I’m right. “You’ll hang, Julia.”
“You’d destroy Isabelle.”
“Tell me something, did you pay Gerald Gibson to run her over? And when he fucked up, did you drop by to rip him a new one the night you gave my wife those abortion pills? Or was it to devise another attack?”
She blinks hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? Well, I’ll ask you an easier question then. The pills. How many did you give Isabelle?”
She doesn’t answer right away and there’s that mask again, that arrogance. That cold, calculated snake rearing its ugly head. “Didn’t she tell you? I thought you two love birds would have no secrets from each other.” She steps toward me so I can smell the stench of her perfume. “Although a man like you will always keep secrets, won’t he? Like why you were in Mexico on that ill-fated trip to meet with the leader of a cartel. Your poor fiancée. Did she have any idea?”
