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“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” he says solemnly.
When I don’t respond, he takes a seat across from me, studying me.
“Mercedes is fine,” he assures me. “She couldn’t be in better care.”
“I didn’t ask for a progress update.”
My fingers tap the glass of amber liquid. Judge watches me with the precision he is known for. He has always had an eerie ability to get under your skin, as if he can see into your soul and read your secrets like an open book. It’s what makes him so effective at his job.
“You may not have asked, but I believe it would do you well to know. She is healthy and safe. In time, I have no doubt she will blossom in my care.”
I nod tightly, unwilling to admit that he’s right. It does relieve me to hear it. But that relief is temporary at best because it changes nothing. Nothing will ever be the same again.
“Have you been to see Eli?” Judge asks.
“No.” I bring the glass tumbler to my lips, drinking the liquid in one long swallow.
“You always knew it was going to come down to this,” he says. “Why put it off any longer?”
When I look up at him, the torment must be evident on my face.
“Oh.” He frowns.
“Whatever you think you see, you don’t. Don’t make something out of nothing.”
“I didn’t say a word.” He scrubs his hand along his stubbled jaw.
“You never have to.”
He chuckles a little, but his mood sobers after a moment. When he rises to his feet again, he glances at the open sketchbook on my desk. The image of Ivy left half-finished.
“It seems you have a lot to consider, so I won’t waste any more of your time. But if I may…”
When I glance up at him, he offers me the closest thing to solace I have ever witnessed on his face.
“The choices are clear. But I think the question is, which can you live without? Your revenge… or your wife’s affection?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer, and long after he’s gone, I’m still staring at the door, that question hanging over my head.
32
Ivy
It’s been two weeks since he locked me in here again. The light blocked again. I know because I’m counting meals. Three a day.
I’m angry. I’m tired. I’m tired of being so fucking angry. So confused. Heartsick.
I keep going back and forth with what I’ll do when he does finally come to see me. If he comes. This time is different than before. He’s different.
Maybe he’s heartsick too.
No. He’s not heartsick. You can’t be heartsick if you don’t have a heart. And I need to stop being an idiot when it comes to Santiago.
I get up off the bed. At least I’m not naked. Maybe he forgot to lock the closet. Or maybe he just doesn’t care as long as he doesn’t have to see me.
“Get out of my sight.”
I shake my head. I want to forget his words. The hate inside them. Forget his disgust of me.
What will I do when he finally comes? Will I explain what I was doing? Burning the sheet? I didn’t mean to destroy the pictures of his father or his brother. I didn’t care about those. Although it’s just as bad that I didn’t care about them, isn’t it? But I’ll explain how I felt when he left for days when I thought he’d be back that night.
I’ll tell him I’m sorry.
But then I get angry. Why should I apologize? What have I done to him? Nothing that validates what he did to me. Using his belt like that? Marking me for days. And then how he took me.
Shame, anger, and hurt war inside me. I tell myself that he’s the one who should get down on his knees and beg for my forgiveness, yet the longer he keeps me here, the more I think it’s my fault. The more I think I’m the one who should kneel to him.
I am so confused. So sick of this.
And I know one thing for sure. I can’t do this much longer.
I stand at the bathroom mirror. I look a mess, my hair unbrushed and a tangle of knots. I showered a few days ago, but I don’t even care. I’m going crazy in here. He won’t let Antonia bring my meals. It’s another girl who is too scared to even look at me when she delivers the new trays and takes away the old.
I’ve had exactly one communication from him during these weeks. A threat. If I don’t eat, he will have Marco force-feed me. The act itself is violent enough but what hurts the most is that he’d send Marco.
Why the fuck does that hurt me? God. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I hate this man who hates me? Because even when I tell him I do, even when I scream the words at him, I don’t. It’s like there’s this sick, masochistic side of me when it comes to my husband. I want him.
