Tears stream down her face, and it paralyzes me. I've never seen my sister so emotional or so fragile. And I'm horrified because I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to comfort her. I've never learned. Neither of us has ever known comfort. We've known rules, and order, and expectations. Emotions don't have a place in a De La Rosa heart. My father ensured it when he beat them out of us at every opportunity. But Mercedes is shattering before me, and I don't know how to fix it.
"I..." Words fail me as I stand and look over the mess that is my office. "Don't cry. Please."
She blinks up at me, wiping away her tears when she hears the uncharacteristic strain in my voice.
"Santi." She hurls herself at me, her entire body quaking as she wraps her arms around my stiff frame and hugs me tightly. "Please don't do this anymore. I can't stand to watch you break."
"I'll never break," I assure her, patting her back awkwardly in an effort at consolation.
"Stop drinking so much," she pleads. “This isn’t like you, and it scares me to see you going back to that darkness.”
"I won’t go back."
"Do you promise?" She glances up at me, and I force a nod even though I'm not in the habit of complying with terrorists. Right now, my sister is an emotional terrorist, deploying the one weapon she knows I'm unequipped for. Her tears.
She squeezes me tighter and pulls herself together while I stand there, arms dangling at my sides. After a few more uncomfortable moments, she releases me, schooling her features and drawing in a deep breath. I feel another speech coming, and I'm not wrong.
"I need to speak with you about Ivy," she says.
I walk around my desk and kneel to pick up the shattered bottle, disposing of the pieces in the trash. "What about her?"
"She's got bruises all over her," she whispers.
I pause to look up at her, puzzled by the torment in her tone. I haven't seen Ivy's most recent bruises, but I am not surprised by this revelation, considering her condition.
"Is that from Judge?" she chokes out. "Or you?"
"Why do you care?" I ask.
She doesn't answer right away. She's chewing her lip, considering her words carefully. "I just... I was just wondering."
"She has a vestibular disorder," I tell her, though I'm not sure why. It's not her business. "She does most of it to herself."
I'm not excusing myself as a monster. If I were truly responsible, I would take the credit, but my sister doesn't look either relieved or gratified by this revelation.
"Don't you think you should do something about it?" she asks.
I slice my thumb on a piece of glass and blood drips onto the floor as I cock my head, studying her.
"Again, I have to ask why you care."
"I don't," she clips out. "Just... this whole thing is stupid, and I'm tired of it. Either kill her and be done with it, or just admit that you aren't going to. There's no point in torturing her and dragging it out."
"You really must not be feeling well." I toss the remainder of the glass away and stand. "That's the only justifiable explanation I can think of for this sudden change of heart."
"I haven't had a change of heart," she declares. "God, you can be so infuriating."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"I'm going to bed," she says.
"Wait."
I grab the tote bag from my desk. I already examined the contents inside after Judge left. There's nothing much of interest in there. A pair of shoes, the remnants of her dress. A purse. The lipstick was already taken for testing, which came back clean. But that does not surprise me. The Tribunal suspects she applied the poison directly to the coat of lipstick she was wearing and disposed of any evidence, and I am inclined to agree.
"Give these to Antonia so she can return them to Ivy's closet." I hand the tote to Mercedes, and she glances inside. A strange expression comes over her face as she examines the contents.
"Are these from that night?" she asks, her voice strained.
"Yes. Why?"
She shakes her head. "Nothing. It just... it gives me bad memories. That's all."
"Get some rest," I tell her. "You'll be more like yourself in the morning."
She nods, turning away. "Good night, brother."
12 Santiago
I find my wife tangled up in her bedsheets, trapped in the grips of a fitful sleep. She mutters something unintelligible as I cast the soft glow of the candle in my hand over her body. I didn't want to come back here tonight. Every night, I tell myself I won't. There has to be some resistance to this madness. But after Mercedes took it upon herself to inform me of the bruises, I had to see them for myself.
She curls into herself as I peel back the top half of the sheet, exposing her torso. A sharp intake of breath leaves my lips as I see the damage for myself. If anyone were to see her this way, they would undoubtedly think she had been beaten in places. And something is so horrific about those blemishes on the perfect canvas of her skin. It bothers me more than I had anticipated, and I can only wonder how I will feel once I see the permanent destruction I intend to inflict upon her.
I replace the sheet and turn away, chest heaving as my fist curls at my sides. Why did she have to do this? Why did she have to betray me and force my hand? And why does the prospect of what's to come bring me more torment than
