The downstairs is a grand room with living and dining rooms separated from the kitchen by a curving counter where three barstools are lined up. My shoes echo on the hardwood floors as I make my way into the kitchen, recognizing the scent of her perfume lingering in the space. There’s a coffee mug in the drying rack, and in the refrigerator are basics, not anything that would spoil. There’s a half-bottle of expensive vodka in the freezer, and in the decorative cabinet against the wall, I see mismatched crystal wineglasses, shot, and cocktail glasses. I open the door. It’s lightweight and artsy with faded paint that I think was scraped off for effect. Not anything I’d expect Mercedes to like, but I can see it’s good quality and the glasses are expensive crystal. I have some of the same brand myself.
Closing that cabinet door, I look through the others to find dishes, pots, pans, all perfectly normal. I then walk into the living room with its comfortable couches. Again, high-end and nice enough but not what I’d call luxurious. A TV hangs over the fireplace, and on the coffee table are yoga and fashion magazines and well-read books. I pick up one of the magazines. On the cover is a woman wrapped in silks doing some sort of circus move. Aerial Yoga. Hm. Not what I’d expect Mercedes to read. But isn’t that what I’m discovering more and more? I don’t know her. No one does.
Two sliding glass doors on either side of the fireplace lead out to a deck. I open one and step outside to hear the gentle flow of a creek hidden in the thicket of trees. The deck is only big enough for a small, round table that would seat three, and there are two plush chairs set beside a small mosaic-topped table looking out into the woods. Flowers bloom in pots, and I put my hand inside one to feel the soil. They’ve recently been watered.
Back inside, I go upstairs. There are two bedrooms. One is clearly an unused guest room where clothes in Mercedes’s size hang. More color here rather than her usual black and red favorites. But maybe they don’t belong to her. Maybe they belong to this Solana. But I sniff the sleeve of one and pick up the scent of her perfume.
Closing the door, I go to the master, where I’m surprised to find the bed unmade and clothes on top of it like someone got dressed in a hurry. Several pairs of jeans and tops, a couple of dresses.
A man’s suit.
And beside the bed is a laundry basket full of folded clothes. Not hers. Men’s clothes. Boxers, T-shirts, jeans. All designer. One loud pink shirt I recognize. I take out her phone to confirm that it’s Georgie’s. Fucking Georgie.
My chest tightens, and it’s hard to swallow down my anger.
I turn to the double doors that lead into a large bathroom. They stand open, and I can see the huge tub with bottles of bubble bath and various shampoos and conditioners for both men and women.
Does he fucking live here with her? What the hell is going on?
Just then, my phone rings, and I pull it out of my pocket. I answer more sharply than I intend.
“Judge Montgomery. This is Dr. Barnes. You’d called my office, but if it’s a bad time, I can call you back.”
“No. Sorry.” I shake my head. “It’s fine.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I need your help with a personal matter.”
“Alright.”
“I need you to conduct a virginity test.”
“I see.”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
He clears his throat. “Well, you can bring the young lady—”
“No. You’ll come to my house. Alone please.”
“But as you know, such a test requires at least one witness to be present. My assistant—”
“This is a delicate matter, Dr. Barnes. One that will require your discretion.”
He clears his throat. “Of course. But the witness?”
“I’ll be the witness.”
He is quiet for a moment. “What time suits you?”
“Seven.”
“I’ll see you then, Judge.”