“I know you don’t,” I tell her, closing the space between us to rub her arms, to hold onto her as I tell her the truth.
“Let go.”
“No. You need to know.”
“He lied to you. That man lied to you,” she says.
“I have proof. I’ve had proof since almost the very beginning.”
She just shakes her head.
“Carlton wanted you out of the way. You needed to be dead. The line needed to end for him to keep hold of the inheritance. He has no heirs.”
“He didn’t know who I was.”
“He did. And he hired Danny Gibson to make it look like a robbery gone wrong.”
She sets one hand against her stomach as if protecting the small life inside. The other is wrapped around my bicep.
“Gibson was paid out of one of the Bishop charities. It was diverted via several accounts and then withdrawn. It’s an intricate scheme but is doable if you know what you’re doing.”
“The trial…they never found any trail. There was no money trail, Jericho.”
“The bastard deserves to rot in prison, but so does Carlton Bishop.”
She moves to sit down, and I follow to sit beside her. “You’re wrong. You have to be.”
“I wish I were.”
She presses her hands to her face, rubs, shakes her head. “He came to the hospital. He took me in. Took care of me.”
“Because he had to. IVI knew about your existence and so did the executors of the Bishop estate. He could no longer hide you, so he took you in to control you. Maybe to wait for his next opportunity.”
At that she shoves my hands away and jumps to her feet. “No! No. I don’t believe that.”
I’m up too as she walks toward the door. “He gave just one instruction to Danny Gibson. Do you want to know what it was?”
She shakes her head, opens the office door.
“Make it bloody. That’s it.”
She stops. Drops her head.
“That was his one requirement.” I get to her, wrap my arm around her from behind. “I’m sorry, Isabelle. I don’t want to hurt you but it’s the truth. I’ll show you the proof. I’ll show you.”
She turns in my arms to face me, studies me for a long, long time as if trying to gauge if I’m telling the truth.
“So, Carlton is trying to kill me and he tried to kill you?”
My gaze narrows.
“Makes a lot of sense. Why would he try to kill you or me? What’s the point? Why? And why go to such lengths?”
“Our families hate each other. If you look back throughout our history—”
“I have looked back and you’re right,” she says, pushing my hands off. “We hate each other.”
I wait. Watch.
She stands up taller and takes a step away putting space between us. “You and I are enemies. I’ll always be a Bishop. You’ll always be a St. James. The baby I’m carrying, the one that has Bishop blood, will give you everything you want to have your revenge. Carlton and Julia and Matty will be out on the street. Me with them, probably.”
“No, Isabelle.” I take a step toward her, but when she takes one back, I stop. I don’t know how I expected this to go. I knew this conversation was coming but still I’m unprepared. “Not you. I told you—”
“I know what you told me, and I understand why. But I think caring about my well-being has an expiration date. It’s about nine months.”
“Fuck, Isabelle.” I stop because I thought we were past this part. “You think that still? After everything?”
She pushes her hands into her hair. “To believe you I have to believe Carlton wants to hurt me. To not believe you I have to believe you want to hurt me.”
“I don’t.”
She looks up at me. “Either way I lose.”
“You chose me the other night. Don’t you remember?”
She shakes her head, walks toward the stairs, stops when she reaches them and turns a half circle to face me. “It’s too much. I can’t do this.”
“Sweetheart.” I go to her but she puts her hands up to stop me.
“I want to see Julia. I want to talk to her.”
“No. That won’t be possible.”
“She told me you’d do this. Twist my mind. My thoughts.”
I feel anger growing. “Do you remember the van that almost ran you down?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to hear any more.” She hurries up the stairs, tripping in her haste to get away from me.
I catch up with her on the landing, grab hold of her arm and walk her to my bedroom. I close the door behind us. “Do you know where your cousin went the night after she came to see you at the theater?”
“Let me go!”
“She went to see the man who owns that van.”
She stops, shakes her head. “No. I don’t believe you. She wouldn’t.”
I take both her arms and give her a shake. I need her to hear me. To see reason. To believe me. “He’s Danny Gibson’s brother. She went to meet with Danny Gibson’s brother.”