Page 5

Bishop

She didn’t appear to be lying and the story she was telling me was a common one. Her reactions were natural and in line with what I expected from a victim of domestic violence, but in my line of work, you could never be too careful. When she described how her ex treated her, it was clear she was leaving out huge chunks of the story. I could make a good guess as to why . She didn’t want to relive them. It was understandable, so I didn’t push her to tell me.

But, as mercenary as it sounded, no matter how much her story tugged at the heartstrings, I didn’t work for free. It set an expectation, one I was not interested in allowing, and I wasn’t confident she could afford my fees, regardless of how much she’d saved.

“If he is as clever as you think at finding you, then making you disappear won’t be easy. You’ll need a completely new identity. You might even need to move somewhere off grid for a while. It’ll be easier and cheaper to hire a hitman and kill him.” I wasn’t joking. Rook could make himself available. He was retired, sure, but he still took the occasional job to keep sharp. Mostly, though, I just wanted to see her reaction. You could tell a lot about a person by whether they were willing to consider cold-blooded murder.

She blanched. “ Kill him? That’s a thing?”

“It’s less costly than the alternative. As good as I am, there’s always that slim possibility he’ll find you. If he’s dead…” I shrugged. “Well, then it’s no longer a problem, is it?”

“But—”

“Surely, after what he’s put you through, you’d want to see him dead?”

“Maybe … but I don’t think I could do it. He has a family. His mom and dad would be devastated. That would make me just as bad as him.”

“Would it?” I swallowed a mouthful of bourbon and eyed her over the glass. “What’s worse? Living in fear for the rest of your life, knowing that all it will take is one person to recognize you and inform him or having his blood on your hands? I mean, your blood is all over his hands, right?” My voice was flippant. “Quid pro quo. Something for something.”

She flinched. “Yes, but…” Her tongue swept out to wet her lips. “No. I couldn’t live with myself. Would I like to see him scared? Of course. I’d like him to understand the fear he put me through. But I couldn’t do that.”

“You understand that by not making public what he’s done, you’re leaving other women at risk. He could kill the next one.” That hit home. Her face lost what little color it had left. “Still not convinced killing him is the best option?”

“I just… that’s not who I am.”

“Okay.” I stood.

“So… are you going to let me hire you?”

I looked at her. Would I? Most of my jobs were for people involved with the criminal underground in some way—hiding weaker or valuable members of mafia families because they were being targeted, or organizing a new life for someone because they took the stand against a powerful crime lord and didn’t trust the witness protection offered by legal entities. This woman, while having experienced a very unfortunate thing, didn’t meet that criteria. And yet …

“It’s three hundred thousand dollars for me to set everything up. That doesn’t include any additional expenses that might crop up. The fee covers your new identity and relocation. It comes with a credit history, passport, birth certificate, Social Security number, and everything you will need to continue to live normally.” I delivered the details in a clipped tone. “But, on top of that payment, there are occasionally extras, depending on the situation. Do you have that kind of money?” The teeth worrying at her bottom lip told me the answer. “I didn’t think so.”

“Is there no… cheaper … option?”

“ Cheaper? Sweetheart, this isn’t a store or website where you can shop around for the best deal. I don’t offer discounts. It costs what it costs. Have you any idea how difficult it is to build someone an entirely new identity? One that stands up under intense scrutiny? This isn’t a cheap government witness protection program. It’s an entirely new life .”

Her eyes dropped. “I guess you’re right.” Her fingers plucked at the label on the water bottle. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

I jerked my chin toward her face. “The bruise on your cheek. Was that from him?”

“He caught up with me a week ago.”

So yes then. “Was that why you finally called the number you were given?”

“Yes.” she whispered. “He said he was going to kill me if I didn’t go back home with him. That I owed him for all the time and money he’d used to find me. That I should never have left him. I … I played along, waited for him to go out, climbed out of the bathroom window and then made the call. I’ve been moving from motel room to motel room for days, waiting to hear. When I finally got the contact information, I flew to Dallas.”

“ Flew to Dallas? You weren’t there already?”

“No. I was in …” She swallowed and her tongue snaked out to swipe across her lips again. “New York.”

And I was taking her right back to where she’d come from.

There was no accusation in her tone, but I felt a sharp, unexpected stab of guilt all the same. I pushed it down and turned away. I wasn’t about to let a pair of pretty green eyes and a sob story convince me to take a job without payment.

When did you notice the color of her eyes?

I drained the rest of my drink, crossed over to the bar and refilled it.

“How much money do you have saved?”

“Fifty thousand.”

“In a bank account?”

“No, I drew out the cash. I bought a security box and put it in that. I hid it in my motel room before I flew to Dallas.”

“If you can get it and your passport when we land, and meet me at JFK before six am, I might be able to help you.” The words left my mouth before I even considered them.

“You’re going to help me?” The hope in her voice made my jaw clench.

“No promises, but I’ll see what I can do.” What the fuck are you doing, Bishop? “You said you lost your job. How have you survived?”

“Odd jobs here and there. Waitressing sometimes. Filling in for people. Temporary work. Anywhere they would pay me cash. I didn’t want to risk using my name because he always finds me.”

“But you didn’t leave New York? Surely that should have been the first thing you did when you got out of the relationship.”

She gave me a helpless look. “You make it sound so easy. I don’t have a car. New York is home . It’s what I know. What was I supposed to do?”

I didn’t answer that question. My mind was already puzzling through the situation, looking for answers as to why I’d just killed two men who had a woman tied up in the trunk of their car. A woman they’d accused me of helping. My senses were telling me there was more to this than simply running from an abusive ex.

But this could also work in my favor. I had a situation of my own that I needed to deal with. Those pretty eyes of hers might actually come in useful if I played this right.

I poured a second glass of bourbon, carried them both over to where she sat and sank down onto the seat opposite her. Setting the glasses down, I slid one across the table and studied her for a second.

“The jobs I take aren’t usually from … the average public.” I took a sip of my drink and waved a hand to the other glass. “Drink up.”

She shook her head. “I’m okay. I’ll stick with water.”

“Drink the bourbon. You’re going to need it.”

I had an idea. It was a fucking stupid idea, but it was the only thing I could think of to keep her safe, temporarily at least.

This is a huge mistake. Don’t do it.

I ignored that inner voice. It would help me with something I’d been trying to figure out a way to deal with for months.

Her fingers clutched the bottle, squeezing the plastic. “Why?”

I tilted my glass toward her in a toast. “Congratulations. You’re getting married.”