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roll in with the rising of the afternoon sun, the real Bishop, seemingly re-energized, sweeps in like a tornado.
    Head down, his hazel eyes focused, he begins an endeavor I don’t quite understand.
    He practically “child-proofs” the two-story loft in which we stay, fortifying what he calls its “weaknesses.”
    He calls the add-ons “security measures.” I call them paranoia.
    He refortifies the windows, changes the locks on the door.
    By two o’clock, he basically picks the place apart and puts it back together again. And by four o’clock, I basically pick him apart, desperately trying to put together the pieces of his life… and, subsequently, my own.
    The journey to self-discovery is limited, however—constantly impeded by roadblocks in the form of Bishop’s silence and complete lack of cooperation.
    His frown grows deeper with every question.
    “Daniela Bishop,” I say out loud, throwing my license in the middle of the couch cushion. “Couldn’t have picked a less ‘holier’ name, huh?”
    Bishop hammers an additional nail in the kitchen window’s frame.
    “I didn’t exactly choose my own surname,” he says, speaking around a metal nail clenched between his teeth. “But yeah… I guess Bishop is a pretty religious name.”
    “Origin?”
    He focuses on the window frame. “Well, uh, family’s half-Greek, half-English. Bishop’s an old name. Goes back a while.”
    I stare at Bishop’s immaculate profile.
    Greek and British, eh? Explains the dark features and amazing eyes. A killer combination.
    I watch him.
    “You’re pretty good at this. You’re in construction?”
    He pauses. “ Trash detail.”
    “What does that entail?”
    “My good friend Jackson finds a lot of trash in his line of business.” He shrugs. “I take care of that trash.”
    There’s something ominous in his tone. It’s not what he says; it’s the way he says it, but I redirect.
    “How did we meet?”
    Steadying his stance on a stepladder, Bishop removes the nail from the side of his mouth and positions it against the wood surrounding the window on the wall.
    Wham!
    He hammers the nail almost all of the way in without a sweat.
    He sighs.
    “At a party.” He snorts. “Of all fucking places,” he says, distracting himself by grabbing another nail off the kitchen countertop.
    “A party?” I try but fail at remembering the first time I met Bishop. I redirect quickly. “What kind of party?”
    “Let’s just say it was a pretty unforgettable one.”
    “Whose party?” I ask.
    But he doesn’t answer. All of a sudden, Bishop’s full attention is back on hammering nails, and he ignores the question outright, making it seem as if home improvement is the most important damn thing in the world.
    Undeterred, I walk upstairs to the bathroom, frustrated, vowing to return for more questions as soon as my shower is over.
    My hair hasn’t touched water in at least the last twenty-four hours. I feel dirty. Not just from the outside, but in.
    I want to wash away the last three days—the feeling of being in another woman’s skin.
    A woman’s skin that I just don’t recognize, but am slowing starting to appreciate.
    I undress, turning the showerhead’s temperature to the highest heat setting, letting the hot water pelt at my foreign body.
    Ten minutes later, and I still feel unsatisfied, still feel unfamiliar to myself.
    I lumber out of the bathtub, feeling slightly sore, barely better than how I was upon entering.
    I squeeze a white towel tightly around my breasts as I saunter into the bedroom. The saunter almost becomes a sprint as I hear the jingle of keys from the floor below.
    I reach a foothold halfway down the stairs before I catch sight of Bishop, no longer pounding nails, heading towards the front doorway that now feels like a jail cell.
    I see nothing but his back underneath his black t-shirt and faded jeans. He doesn’t even glance backwards when he hears my footsteps.
    The son-of-a-bitch is leaving me