I betrayed my best friend. A man who was more a brother to me than my own blood.

And as her stomach swells with my child, I fear I have lost her too.

She claims men hold all the power in our world, but she has brought me to my knees.

I love her. I know that now.

Too little too late.

Breaking a heart is easy. Mending one is more complicated.

But a predator lies in wait of her.

And I’ll do anything I must to keep her safe.

1

Judge

I hold Mercedes’s shoe in my hand and free the fabric of her dress from the post. There was no one in the woods. I knew there wouldn’t be. I look around the deck for traces of blood and am relieved when I don’t find any. Taking my phone out, I scroll to Santiago’s number and step back inside.

“Get some men out here,” I tell Raul as Santiago’s phone rings. I look around at the destruction indoors, walking through the living and dining rooms to the hallway and up the stairs to her bedroom. The phone goes to voicemail, so I disconnect. I’ll try again in a few minutes. He’s probably sleeping.

In the closet, the stack of shoeboxes is undisturbed. She never even got to where she’d stashed the money. The bed has been made since the last time I was here but otherwise, the bedroom is untouched. In the bathroom, there’s an overturned makeup bag. A tube of mascara that’s rolled under the pedestal sink. Her various perfume bottles are intact, though. All lined up neatly along the counter.

I study that, finding it odd. The mirror isn’t smashed. I expect it to be. I recall the television downstairs hadn’t been touched either.

Back in the bedroom, the laundry basket of men’s clothes I’d seen when I’d first come here is gone. Georgie probably came by to pick it up at some point.

On my way downstairs, I notice how one of the framed photos along the wall is crooked, but the rest are straight. I adjust it and look at the picture. It’s the three of them, Georgie, Solana, and Mercedes, in one of their aerial yoga classes.

Once downstairs. I walk into the kitchen. I hear Raul talking on the phone calling men in. A beautiful vase of multicolored tulips stands on her kitchen table. The bright morning sun settles on them. There must be two dozen flowers, and they’re fresh.

I turn and face the rooms, noticing how the couch cushions have been upended, and the coffee table is on its side, but the large sculpture of a ballerina lacing up her slipper is still standing in its place, untouched. It’s a pretty piece. There’s a stack of hardback books beside her. I can tell they’ve been artfully placed.

“Sir,” Raul says.