“Oh, Judge. I thought you were dead. I thought… all the blood. There was so much blood.” She raises her head and brings her face close. A tear falls on my cheek, and she kisses it away.

I know I can move my arms, so I wiggle my toes and take stock of my body. Apart from my head feeling like it weighs about a thousand pounds and a tight sensation along the side of it, I think I’m alright.

“What happened after I went down? Is everyone okay?”

She kisses my mouth and brushes my hair away from my forehead. She doesn’t quite answer me, though, and I see how her eyes travel over my face, not holding mine.

“Mercedes?” I want to sit up, alert suddenly. I try but fuck my head.

“Just lie down, Judge. You took a bullet, for God’s sake. Just lie down.”

“Tell me.”

The door opens, and she turns. I look too and find Santiago entering. He sees that I’m awake and smiles, but there’s a darkness to the set of his features, too.

“Mercedes? You’re alright?” I ask her. “Did he hurt you?” She shakes her head, more tears. “The babies. Is it the babies?”

“No, they’re fine, Judge. We’re fine. And you’re going to be fine. The bullet grazed your skull, but there was just a lot of blood, and it looked much worse than it was.”

Santiago puts his hand on his sister’s back, and he looks freshly showered. He must have gone home after they brought me here. I wonder how much time has passed.

“Is someone going to tell me what the fuck is going on?” I ask them.

Mercedes looks up at Santiago, and I know it’s bad. But how bad can it be? It’s not Ivy, or he wouldn’t be here. Elena wasn’t at the wedding. I take inventory of the rest of the guests. Who would have Mercedes looking like she’s looking?

“Is it Solana or Georgie? Did something happen to them?” I realize how I’ve come to care about them weirdly. Especially Solana.

“No, Judge they’re fine. And you’ll be fine. You have a concussion and about a dozen stitches. They did shave the side of your head, which is not a look I recommend keeping,” Santiago says, trying to make things light, but I know the worst is coming. “You were lucky. A centimeter to the right and…”

He doesn’t have to finish. I’d be dead. Mercedes made a widow on the day she’s a bride.

“Vincent Douglas is dead,” Mercedes says. She looks stricken at this.

“Who killed him?”

They exchange a dark look between them. This is what they don’t want to tell me.

“Who?” I ask, pushing through the pain to prop myself up on my elbows.