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My hands fist at my sides and it takes all I have to fight the urge to wrap them around her neck and commit murder here on this sacred ground. Blood pumps so hard it’s a wonder I can hear her at all over the rush of it.
“Wrapping up work for dead daddy, isn’t that right? I mean, isn’t the cartel where you made at least a chunk of your fortune? It was when he was alive.” She smiles wide, shifts her weight to set her hand to her hip. “I have all the paperwork. I could share it with you if you weren’t sure. Hell, I could share it with all the world, the work you were doing down there while playing doting husband to be, daddy to be. And poor, poor Kimberly. That was her name, right? As gullible as Isabelle. You have a type. But—”
I whip my arm out, clutch her throat, and walk her back so fast one of her shoes falls off her foot. The coffin almost tips off its pedestal when I bend her over it backward. I lean into her face.
“For Isabelle’s sake, for your son’s sake, I’m going to give you an out. One chance, Ms. Bishop. Walk. Away. Disappear. Take the boy and go. And none of this comes to light. And you don’t hang. Because whatever you think you can do to me, you are the one who will swing at the end of a rope. And when you do, I’ll take that boy of yours and raise him as my own. I’ll make sure to erase any memory of you. For his own good, of course. You have three days to decide. Three days. Do I make myself clear?”
Her hands are around my forearm trying to tug me off. I’m pretty sure I could kill her right here. Right now. I remember how I’d held Isabelle in a very similar fashion days ago when I thought she tried to kill our baby. Something heavy and dark settles around me, inside me. How could I have done that to her? How could I have hurt her like I can hurt this pariah. Because Julia Bishop isn’t lying about my visit to Mexico. I was there doing business. I knew who Felix Pérez was. And I completed one final deal on my father’s behalf with him.
I can tell myself it was my duty to my father as long as I want, but I chose. I chose to go. Even before I knew what he’d done to Zoë. Before I knew what a vile human being he was. I’m still the one who flew to Mexico to meet with Pérez in his name. To ensure one last transaction with men my father never had any business dealing with and close that chapter of St. James history.
I’m still the one who took Kimberly. I’m still the reason Angelique never knew her mother. Never even saw her face.
“Six,” Julia gasps out, her eyes red and huge, popping out of her head.
I blink, come back to the present.
“Six. Pills,” she manages.
I loosen my grip around her neck. Six pills. It’s how many I counted when I confronted Isabelle. She wasn’t lying. She never took them. And still…what I did to her. Fuck. How I keep hurting the people I love.
Angelique’s sweet face floats into memory. Her growing up with a bodyguard instead of her own father. My innocent baby girl. What will I do to her? How badly will I damage her?
Julia drops to her knees the instant I release her. I don’t bother to stop and look. I don’t bother to do anything but walk to the door, my steps echoing, loud, drowning out her gasps for breath. But not loud enough to drown out my guilt. My very real knowledge of who I am. What I am.
A devil.
41
Isabelle
I’m woken in the middle of the night by something falling to the floor near me. Startled, I bolt upright, my eyes taking a minute to adjust to the darkness. A shadow bends to pick up the violin case. Set it against the wall. Then straighten.
“Jericho?”
He turns to me and from the little bit of light filtering in between the curtains, I see his face and know something happened.
“What is it?” I ask, pushing the blanket off to get up and go to him. I smell the liquor before I’m close. When I reach him, he looks down at me and sets one hand at my lower back.
He says my name and sways a little.
“You’re drunk, Jericho.”
“No.”
“Yes.” I take his hand and lead him to the bed, switch on the lamp on the nightstand and sit him down. I push his suit jacket off his shoulders. It’s wrinkled and looks like it’s been through a very long day and a longer night. I toss it aside and look at him. He sits there looking up at me. His hair’s messed up like he’s run his hands through it a thousand times. I’m not sure when he last shaved. The five-o’clock shadow is fast becoming a beard.
