by Finn, Emilia
My mother didn’t know he had sons, I didn’t know he had sons. But Jay Bishop is my age. Exactly. Our birthdays are just months apart, which means Colum was fucking around on my mom with some other chick when we were conceived. Or, more accurately, considering I’ve since found a marriage on record between Colum Bishop and Victoria Grace, he was fucking around on that other chick with my mom.
She really was the whore those bitch sisters spoke about.
That day I met him, I thought I was crazy for feeling like… well, cattle, I guess. Like I was being purchased. I was a Bishop son, another to carry on the name. My mom took me to that club thinking that I would be meeting my father and beginning the relationship I’d been asking about. Instead, I met an acquisitions team of sorts. They disposed of my mother like she was nothing more than an incubator, then expected to turn me into another Bishop son — perhaps I would eventually fill in the role of FBI agent, to tie out Colum’s law enforcement trifecta — and when I ran, their plans were dented.
I changed my name at some point in all my years in the alley behind that restaurant. It wasn’t so hard. I walked in as a child with no papers. I walked out again as an adult, with almost seven years of self-taught genius, new papers, and a name to honor a kind man who would bring food and an extra blanket sometimes.
Griffin, because he reminded me of an old lion, with a beard that looked like a mane. He was strong like a lion, brave like a lion. He taught me to become king of my alley, and encouraged me to be brave even when I was scared. He was the father figure I was hoping to meet in Colum, and even if we never truly exchanged words, even if I kept my lips shut for six years straight, he still came back to me. He sat with me while I worked, he told me stories of his youth, gave me warnings of the types of things I should stay away from, and told jokes that always stole a smile when nothing else could.
Theodore was his name, and when he stopped visiting my alley, I realized I’d waited too long to speak, to tell him thank you, and to return his words of kindness.
I loved him too. I loved him the way a son should love his father.
No one who knows me now can connect me to Bishop. Not a single person in this world knows that connection but Colum himself, and that motherfucker is dead.
But the past six months have shoved the younger Bishops back onto my radar. Drug busts, “good” police work, a dead father — oh the tragedy, he was decorated and respected, blah blah blah. The journalists lament Colum’s death and the good work he did for our country, but they forget to mention those he hurt, and his list doesn’t begin or end with me and my mom. His abuse of power spans several decades, and didn’t end until late last year.
Some of the alternate channels occasionally speak of his crimes. The sold women, the drugs he’s brought into the country, the guns he’s placed in the hands of our youth. The alternate channels aren’t scared of backlash from a government that trained and rewarded that soldier. But the mainstream channels are terrified of being shut down, so when they speak of him, it’s vague, and it always focuses on his service and that of his sons.
If Kane or Jay Bishop think they get to carry on his work after his death, they’re dead wrong. They give off this impression of clean and legitimate. Not with their looks; they’re covered head to toe in ink, and have eyes that glint with danger. But the statements their people released speak of how they had no clue of Colum’s dealings.
They quit their jobs early last year — mere months after Hayes was executed — and moved into the private sector. In my eyes, those are the actions of guilty men. The world might believe they’re not the apples that fell from Colum’s tree, but I’m not gullible, I’m not a child, and I have access to data they have no clue exists.
The Bishops control bank accounts that funnel money straight from Colum’s accounts — an innocent man doesn’t have free access to dirty money.
They have security systems that rival that of the White House — innocent men don’t need to be that protected.
They have a skilled hacker unlike any I’ve ever met before. Every time we meet in the deep fields of data theft, he shuts me out — innocent men don’t have hackers, and especially not hackers that gifted.
Everywhere I turn, I find proof of guilt.
I’ve been compiling a list of men since I was a child, men I intended to take down, a list I began twenty-two years ago while I sat cold and shivering in a filthy alleyway. The first four names, the names of men who were in that office with my mom on a dreary day, have already been erased, so now my list consists of those who, according to the blood that runs in my veins, are my brothers.
“Sir?”
Caught blindly staring at my computer monitor, I glance up to find my assistant at the door in her tiny skirt suit and long legs.
Maybe I’m not so different from my father… I appreciate a woman’s body just as much as he did. I love women, I love their bodies, I love their luscious curves and supple peaks. I love taking them to bed, and I don’t even mind if they hang out a little longer, so long as they don’t expect pillow talk and chitchat. I still keep my words mostly to myself. A habit is hard to break, and a habit I don’t want to break is basically impossible.
Instead of verbally answering, I peel my eyes from her legs and lift my chin.
“Rogers is here to discuss that new patent.” She takes another step through the door, as though to tell a secret. “He looks kind of mad.”
“Rogers…? Quad-fold doors with the magnetic lock system?”
She nods.
“Send him in; I’ll take care of it.”
Dipping her chin, she lets her astronomically long lashes kiss her cheeks as she backs out to summon Tasker Rogers. He’s a stubborn man, a young engineer with an innovative brain, but an old-man thought process.
Clicking away from the screen in front of me – Sophia Solomon; an interesting study, and a problem for later – I rest my elbows on my desk and steeple my fingers as the door opens again.
My assistant walks through with confidence, leading a scruffy man almost a whole decade younger than me to the center of my office. He’s young, but he’s brilliant. If he’d set his ego aside, he’d get a job offer and a salary he could never dream about. But Griffin Industries has no room for egos. We have no room for a single man on a mission.
Except, of course, my mission.
Without waiting for me to speak, Tasker thrusts a sheet of paper into my face as Annaliese lets herself out and closes the door. The paper floats to my desk and leaves a pregnant pause hanging in the air, growing thicker and thicker the longer I stare into his eyes and press the tips of my steepled fingers to my lips.
The most powerful weapon in business is not being good in debate, or being the smartest, the loudest, the wittiest.
Silence… silence will break every man, if you let it hang long enough.
I learned long ago to never be the first to speak. To never be the first to make an offer. To never be the first to utter a dollar amount. Silence is powerful, and the longer it lasts, the faster they crumble.
“You misinterpreted the bill I sent you.” Unable to handle the pressure, he surges forward and snatches up the invoice he expected me to fetch. “I sent this yesterday, but you read it wrong.”
With slow movements, I lift a brow and extend a hand until he places the paper in my palm with some fucking respect. I unfold the abused sheet, scan what I’ve already seen, and let it drop again. “It says you want a hundred and forty-seven thousand dollars for your door patent.”
“Right!” He flattens the paper on my desk with a huff and stabs it with his pointer finger. “You sent an email mentioning two-twenty-two like I’m ripping you off. My invoice clearly says one-forty-seven.”
“You’re partially correct; the invoice says one-forty-seven, but I’ve already deposited seventy-five grand into your account. Seventy-five, plus your outstanding one-four-seven implies a two-twenty-two purchase price. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong!
The invoice says one-forty-seven.”
“Outstanding. One-forty-seven… outstanding. So where the fuck is my seventy-five, Rogers?”
“Where… I…” He swallows when the simplest shit finally clicks in his brilliant brain. “No, I…”
“We discussed this last week. You had your assistant send your banking details to mine.”
“That was Darla,” he blusters. “She’s no longer working for me.”
“Your staffing problems have nothing to do with me. Your assistant provided the banking details, Annaliese sent the deposit over. We’ve had this discussion already, haven’t we? You couldn’t find the money, I showed you the details Darla provided us with. You located your money. The problem here lies within your faulty accounting system and inability to look outside of your ass.” I wait and let the pause build. “Did I misinterpret your invoice, Tasker? Or did you misallocate my money, and you’re too weak to admit fault?”
“It was the wrong account,” he blunders. “I forgot…”
“I don’t care which account it’s in. Do you or do you not have access to that money?”
“I do,” he chokes.
“And was it your company representative that provided mine with those details, or did I pull them out of my fuckin’ asshole?”
“D-D-Darla sent them over.”
“Right. So walk back out my door, knock again, come back with an updated invoice for the remaining seventy-two grand and an apology for being an arrogant prick. I’ll be waiting.”
He turns on his heels and darts across the room. I stop him again when his hand wraps around the door handle.
“Our contract stipulates that you’ll make delivery this coming Wednesday with the full drawings and DWGs. You on time, Tasker?”
“Well… uh… I…”
“Our contract states an 11:59 pm delivery time. A single minute past midnight, and you forfeit fifty percent of the sale price. That means you’d actually owe me three grand. And you’d still have to deliver. Do you think coming here today was a good use of your time?”
No. It wasn’t.
He dashes out without another word and makes my double doors rattle on the hinges when he slams them shut. Shaking my head, I sit back and push a long exhale out through my nose. Tasker Rogers is smart as hell, but his bad attitude means he’ll never be offered a position within Griffin.
Remembering the job application that slid across my desk a few days ago from Darla Kline, I dig through the pile and tug it out. Scanning the information on the front, I shake my head a second time, scrunch it into a ball, and toss it into the trash.
If Tasker’s assistant is handing out the wrong banking details, I don’t want her. My staff is expected to perform with accuracy. If you’re employed by Griffin Industries, you’re regarded as one of the best, you’re considered elite, you’re expected to pay a-fucking-ttention to detail, and when you perform, you’re rewarded.
I don’t consider my expectations unreasonable. If they were, people would stop tossing their résumés onto my desk every single day.
I close my eyes for a moment when the doors stop vibrating, pull a long breath through my nose until my chest expands, then I let it out again and reopen my eyes.
Okay. Time to work.
I don’t know who the fuck Sophia Solomon is, but her name popped up in a search last week. Not a big deal – names are always sliding across my screen – but when that same name pops up twice, and then a third time in less than a week, it’s time for me to take another look.
Twenty-six years old, classically trained ballerina turned dance instructor at a dance academy that is mere months old. I lift a brow at that and begin searching deeper.
It could be as it looks on the outside; she’s young, maybe she blew out her knee in rehearsals and fucked her chances of becoming a pro dancer, so now she’s opened a new studio with hopes to train a new prima ballerina. But a new studio, a twenty-six-year-old, and five-year-old students – why has Miss Solomon got bank accounts overflowing with cash? Why has the Ellie Solomon Dance Academy listed themselves as a not-for profit, but their accounts are bursting at the seams?
Looks like a damn profit to me.
And who is Ellie Solomon?
I spend hours sliding through the start-up files for this baby business, and the deeper I go, the larger my smile grows. Whoever set her up pays attention to details the way I expect of my employees. Her tax files are beyond reproach, her reporting is spotless, her legal team well established.
The only smear is the profit. No small-town dance school earns millions in their first year. No fucking chance. Had it not been for her bank balance, and the fact that her dance studio is set up in the same small town that Colum Bishop was executed in, I would have walked away already.
It all looks exactly as it should, except that it doesn’t.
Day turns to night while I scroll and file information away in the back of my mind. I sip cold coffee and frown at the grumbles coming from my stomach. I’m hungry, and it’s long past dinnertime.
But then I sit taller when a name flashes across my screen.
Two names.
Three names.
“Well, shit.” I lean closer to aid my straining eyes as familiar names blink at me like flashing neon signs.
Some are familiar. Some are new, to be added to my list. And one blast from the past nearly flattens me. I bring her driver’s license up to fill my screen, and simply… stare.
“Elizabeth fucking Tate…” I shake my head. “Is a cop.”
3
Libby
I Was A Short Little Fat Girl Once
I was nine years old when I witnessed my father try to murder a boy. I always knew he was a bad man, a bad cop, but I was never privy to how truly crooked he was. I always assumed; it was like an oily sheen coating my life the way oil coated Jude Donohue’s hair. But it wasn’t until that boy ran out of Abel Hayes’ office on that windy day and toppled down the stairs that I knew it.
Gunner Bishop was tall, so insanely tall, with long arms and legs. He reminded me of a baby chimpanzee. A baby giraffe. A baby anything in the wild. With too-long limbs and uncoordinated movements. I cried out when he tripped and toppled down the stairs. I was so scared he’d broken a bone and would need to go to the hospital for a cast, but then he jumped up again and kept going.
My true horror didn’t begin until bullets zinged by his head. Until I turned to find that the man holding the gun was my father. Then I screamed. And screamed. And screamed.
I screamed so much that my father hit me and I went to sleep. I woke again with a bruised jaw and a plane ticket back to school.
And school is where I remained for the next nine years until I graduated and ran. I ran to the police station, not to report a crime, but to ask about joining. How could I become a cop? How can I undo the things my father did? How can I help the boys of today, when I couldn’t help that boy of yesterday?
Sighing, I let myself into my cramped apartment and toss my keys onto the counter just inside the door. My apartment was advertised as open-plan living. What it actually is, is a tiny box apartment that lacks enough room not to be open. My kitchen, dining, and living area are one space. Open living, yes, but in reality, it’s literally just one small room.
My kitchen is galley-style and ends with a tiny gas stove. My counter serves as divider and eating space. I have two stools on the other side. Two, because they were sold in a pack. And the backs of those brush the back of my couch. I went out and bought a cute little round table when I was approved for my apartment. It was a café type table, barely enough room for two regular-sized adults to sit around without bumping into each other.
I just wanted a table to celebrate my emancipation, but even a two-foot round table was two feet too big. It lasted one night, one breakfast, and one stubbed toe before I tossed it to the curb and awaited collection. Now I eat at the counter when I want to feel fancy, or on the couch when I don’t care enough to not be a slob.
/> It’s just me here. I have no one to impress. No one to answer to. When I’m off-shift, I’m a loner, and I like it that way.
My galley kitchen is enough to cook a good meal in. My plates are chipped, but still hold a meal. My silverware isn’t real silver, unlike the kind I ate with as a child, but a fork is a fork, and I will never eat with real silver again if I can help it.
I was raised with money. None of it was ours, and none of it was promised for tomorrow. But money abounded, nonetheless, and my father became a prisoner to the very thing he thought he wanted. He thought Colum Bishop – the man I only knew as ‘Uncle’ for the longest time – was his savior. In reality, Colum was his warden. He thought money would solve his problems, but really, it created many more.
Now, Colum is dead, and I sat in the back row of the courtroom the day they sentenced Raymond Tate to life without parole.
I’m the new Officer Tate, and every day that I pin my tag onto my chest and read it in the mirror, I force myself to be proud of who I am.
My father and I are not the same person, we’re not the same cop. I shouldn’t let the actions of another man dictate how I feel about myself.
Often, I’m able to do that. I can let it go and know that I’m making a positive difference in my world. But other times, times like today when the memories of a boy haunt me, I can’t seem to separate one Tate from another.
Maybe I should have changed my name. It could have been symbolic, and the beginning of my own new and improved history.
Stopping by my fridge, I take out a bottle of water and a plate of chicken breast that I began defrosting before shift last night. I was supposed to clock off from work twelve hours ago. I ended up staying on three hours longer than I was supposed to because of Jude Donohue and his need for cigarettes, and after that, I drove myself into the city an hour away and paid a visit to my father at the prison.
I don’t visit because I love him. I don’t miss him. I feel no loyalty to him. I visit because I need the visual proof that he’s still locked away. I need to see his pasty skin and unshaved face. I need to see the baggy jumpsuit and ugly shoes. I need to see the way his fingernails carry the white lines from lack of nutrition and sunlight. I need to see his sunken chest.
