“I’ve been going through your phone.” He tosses that onto the bed too, and when I glance at it, I can see he’s been scrolling through my messages with Georgie.
I swallow, and my head spins as fear takes an ugly hold on me. He said he has to clean up the mess I’ve made. Clearly, it was Solana and Georgie who reported me missing. Nobody within The Society would think twice about it. My two worlds are colliding, and I know this won’t be good. But what I don’t know is what will happen with my friends if Judge manages to track them down. If he hasn’t already.
Oh, God. That’s a horrific thought.
I look up at him, trying to find the words to plead my case, but he doesn’t give me the chance.
“I just have two questions for you, Mercedes.” He lowers his voice to a deadly calm that terrifies me more than his rage. “Who the fuck is Georgie, and are you fucking pregnant?”
13
Judge
“Pregnant?” Mercedes asks, half sitting up, wincing as she does. She closes her eyes and takes a moment. I watch her, gripping the edges of my chair so tight my fingernails make crescent shapes in the leather. I’m so angry. So fucking angry.
“Yes, pregnant. It would explain the vomiting.”
“Vomiting? I was… Christ, Judge. Miriam threw a fucking paperweight at my head and gave me a fucking concussion. That’s the vomiting.”
“Miriam threw a paperweight at your head? Why are you lying?”
“You know what? Never mind.” She takes a deep breath and shakes her head, looking disappointed. Disheartened. “You’re right. I gave myself a concussion. After giving her two black eyes. And I kicked myself in the ribs too. That’s what you believe, right?” She sits up against the headboard, pulls the blankets closer and glances at her phone on the duvet. “You went through my phone? You have no right. How did you even get the password?”
“Santiago.”
She opens her mouth, closes it, looking hurt and betrayed. I understand. “Did he look through it too?”
“Are you pregnant, Mercedes? You need to tell me now.”
“Oh, my God, you’re serious. No, Judge, I’m not fucking pregnant. How would I be pregnant?”
“Your texts with this man—”
“You don’t know anything!” She shoves the blankets off, taking a moment to look down at the unfamiliar shirt she’s wearing. It’s mine. I put it on her last night. She swings her legs over the side of the bed. “I’m going to my room.” She stands but wobbles.
I reach her in time, catching her just as her knees give out. “You’re not going anywhere.”
I put her back in the bed, and she doesn’t argue. But I think that’s because she’s too weak. And I can see she’s nauseous. I see it in the way she clutches her stomach. How she squeezes her eyes and mouth shut.
“Un-fucking-believable,” I mutter and walk away, raking a hand through my hair as I wear a hole in the carpet. I glance at her to find her watching me and go into the bathroom to wash my face. I haven’t slept more than a few hours. I’ve been keeping an eye on her, waking her every couple of hours on doctor’s orders. And it shows in my reflection. Mercedes De La Rosa will age me.
Mercedes watches me with cold indifference when I return to the bedroom. Someone knocks on the door.
“Enter.”
Miriam pushes in and smiles at me. “Good morning, sir. I brought breakfast.”
“Un-fucking-believable,” Mercedes mutters.
I give her a look to shut her up. “Thank you, Miriam. I’ll take it from here.”
Miriam glances at Mercedes, who’s staring daggers at her, but then turns to go.
“Just a minute,” I say.
She stops and turns back to me.
“Mercedes. I think you owe Miriam an apology.”