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Judge
I should tell Santiago what I found on her phone. Tell him about this Georgie. What the fuck kind of name is Georgie anyway? I scroll through their texts again, their photos. Lips puckered to send kisses. Showing off cleavage or abs or biceps. Telling each other how fucking awesome they are. How they own the world.
Something burns inside me as I shove her phone into my pocket and make a call with mine while heading out the door and into the waiting Rolls Royce. I hand Raul an address and sit.
“Is it handled?” I ask the man on the other end.
“Yes, sir. The missing person’s report has been canceled, but I have to tell you I’m fielding calls from a woman, Solana Lavigne, and a man named George Beaumont. They’re the two who filed the report in the first place.”
“Forward those to my office. I’ll take care of them later. And thank you for your discretion in this matter.”
“Anytime, Judge. You know that.”
I disconnect. I had to call in a favor to get the report taken down, but it would be an embarrassment to Santiago and to IVI if it got out. We do things differently within The Society, and our members have enough pull to make that happen, but every now and then, something leaks through the cracks. I’m just surprised to find it’s Mercedes.
I scroll through the photos on her phone again. Fucking Georgie. He’s younger than me. Her age. Good looking if you like that pretty-boy type. Looks to me like he spends too much time in front of a mirror.
I glance at my reflection in the rearview and rake my hand through my hair to tame it. See how tired I look. Fucking Georgie.
At least she’s not pregnant although I should make sure. She may not know herself. I make another call to Dr. Barnes. He’s a Society doctor. He’s with a patient, though, so I leave a message for him to call me back.
“We’re here, sir,” Raul says as we pull up in front of a modest development of condos in the heart of the city. A dozen homes are set in a semi-circle with a parking lot in the middle. Each condo is two floors and has a private garden. It’s, in a word, quaint with the white picket fences and the beds of flowers. Not at all what I’d expect from Mercedes.
“Thank you. I’ll be out shortly.”
“Yes, sir.”
I walk up to number 39, opening the small gate, taking in the flowers and shrubs that look like they’re well-tended. Mercedes? No. I can see her standing over the gardener and giving orders but not getting her hands dirty. She’d mess up her nails.
Fuck.
I’m angry. I’m angry as hell. Those texts. This condo. A whole other life outside of The Society. What else is she hiding? And why the fuck do I care? For Santiago? Because I’ll have to tell him. But no, it’s not that. I’m angry for me.
Last night, that horseback ride, it was good. Fun. I felt like we were starting to get somewhere. But then I come home to find her on the floor puking after she tries to escape. Escape! Where would she go? What the hell was she thinking? But I have a clearer idea now. At least on the where. Into her life outside of The Society. Right here to 39 Wooded Way.
I find the key easily enough. She’d told Georgie where she hides it. I unlock the door and enter, then close it behind me. Sunlight pours in through the large windows, making the space bright.
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.
