9
Judge
This is getting to be a bad habit. Mercedes passed out in my bed. Me watching her. Making sure she’s breathing. Never wanting to witness another incident like the one in Solana’s shop a few days ago.
I pick up her old phone again. Re-read the texts for the fucking hundredth time. Not that it makes any difference. I saw them when I switched it on after charging it to get her the number she claimed she was looking for when I caught her snooping. Pretty sure that was a lie anyway. It would be easy enough to get the number of her yoga instructor from either Solana or Georgie. The texts had been sent over the past several weeks, so for weeks, she’s been in danger, and what the fuck have I done? Didn’t even know about it.
She was a human being, you fucking cunt. You and your sort fucked her up. Now I’m going to fuck you up.
Cunt, you can’t hide in your rich house with your rich boyfriend forever.
I’m coming for you, cunt. One way or another. I’m going to give you what you deserve.
They were all sent from different numbers, and Ezra’s man hasn’t been able to trace any of them. They couldn’t pick up the slightest trail. Would Santiago be able to find something? I can’t ask him. I can’t tell him any of this. He has enough on his plate with the fates of Ivy and their unborn child unknown. I won’t burden him with my failure to do the one thing he asked of me. Keep his sister safe.
I keep checking for a new text. Whoever sent these must know by now that he or she didn’t succeed in the attack so I expect another one to be sent.
My phone vibrates with a call. I silenced it so as not to wake her. I pocket her phone and step out to answer when I see it’s Ezra, leaving the bedroom door open a crack in case she needs me.
“Judge. How is Mercedes?”
“She’ll be fine. She’s sleeping.” Thanks to the fact that Solana kept an EpiPen at the shop. She’d been doing it since she met Mercedes apparently. Georgie too.
“Good.”
“What did you find?”
“Traces of peanut oil in the bag itself. They would have rubbed off on the pastries. The two in the bag were contaminated as well.”
I try to remember the bag. Plain brown paper. I remember Solana commenting it wasn’t the same kid who usually delivers to her.
“Anything on the man who delivered it?”
“The coffee shop’s security was down for maintenance. The footage we grabbed from the shop across the street showed him intercept the kid who originally left with the order. The lens was dirty, the view fairly obstructed but we got lucky. There was a moment we had a clear shot and one of my guys was able to enhance the image enough. Between that and your description, I may have something for you.”
“Go on.”
“I’d prefer to confirm before I tell you.”
“Just tell me. You can confirm after.”
“Does the name Vincent Douglas ring any bells for you?”
My heart stops.
“Judge?”
“What did you say?”
“Douglas. Vincent Douglas.”
No. It can't be.
“I’m guessing from that silence it does.”
“Possibly.” I clear my throat. “Does he have family?”
“I haven’t dug too deep. I was waiting on confirmation first.”
“Dig. I need to know if he has family. A female relative. A wife maybe or a sister.”
“I can do that. Shouldn’t be hard to find.”
I already know the answer. It’s the only thing that makes sense. It’s one of the things that had caught my attention when that man had walked into the shop. Something about him was strangely familiar. I hadn’t been able to place it then but now, fuck. He’d looked at Mercedes and me with hate in his eyes. It had been so strange and out of place, but now it makes perfect sense.
The courtesan who had poisoned Santiago, whom Mercedes killed, I vaguely remember her from the Cat House from years ago. She’d always struck me as off. And the only reason I know her name is because of what Mercedes did. Because the name of that woman was Lana Douglas. And it would explain the threatening texts.
But Ezra Moore doesn’t know anything about Lana Douglas’s death. All he’ll find is a missing woman.
“Judge? You still there?”