Days pass, turning to nights, and then, inconceivably, to weeks. I spend them locked in my office, alternating between work and poring over every detail of the reports that come in on Abel. He’s a loose end. Something that needs to be dealt with. A fucking Moreno who doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as the rest of humanity. I know what needs to happen. I dream about it all night and all day. Bleeding him out slowly. Torturing him until he gives me the answers I want. The confirmation of everything I know to be true. Their blood is a stain on society, a systemic disease, and the only way to cure it is to cut it out.
Every day, reports arrive on Eli’s progress in the hospital. He is regaining his mobility, recovering slowly. I’m told he demands to see me. Demands answers on the whereabouts of his family. And one day, he will have them.
This has always been my plan. My intention. But even behind a locked door, stowed safely out of sight, my wife manages to poison my thoughts.
I have not seen her since the night of the incident in the chapel. I have not asked her about the broken case or her reason for burning the sheet because it doesn’t matter. She lit the fire on my altar and in my soul with one intention. To wound an already wounded animal. I am too proud to admit that on some level, she succeeded.
I’m drowning myself in scotch, trying to forget her. Trying to get back to a time and a place when I didn’t think about what her feelings might be when she learns the fates of her brother and father. The fates delivered by the same hands that touch her at night. The same man whose mark she will bear for eternity.
She will never want to look at me again. Slowly, I am coming to understand that. But there can be no alternative.
“You look like hell.”
My eyes snap up to find Judge standing in the doorway, his concern evident on his face.
“Nothing new,” I remark dryly.
He enters the room and examines the space. The scattered folders on my desk. The scotch from my breakfast and lunch. The monitors streaming a steady pattern of figures in front of me.
“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.