The answer to that question comes when we arrive back at the house. He doesn’t take me to the cellar, but he doesn’t take me to my room either. Instead, he takes me to his. And again, I find myself under his care as he gently sets me into a bathtub and washes my body, cleaning the filth of the day’s events away. I don’t protest, and the gentle touch of his hands and the warmth of the water lulls me into a state of comfort I can’t deny myself. By the time he carries me to his bed, I can barely keep my eyes open.

When he drapes me over the expensive sheets and covers me with the duvet, I sigh. It smells like him. So does the pillow. And I find that I’m strangely okay with that.

“You’re going to sleep too?” I murmur.

I think I see a hint of a smile on his lips as he shakes his head. “No, Mercedes. I’m going to watch over you. Get some rest now.”

With a nod, I close my eyes, and everything else fades away.

When the light of morning pours into the room, I realize that Judge let me sleep in. I know because he’s been waking me up when it’s still dark outside. But today, it’s the warmth of the sunlight on my skin that wakes me, and it feels good. I feel comfortable in Judge’s bed, and I can already tell my head is much better, though it still aches a little and probably will for a while.

As I try to sit up, I notice Judge is in the chair beside the bed, staring at his phone. And he looks pissed.

“Judge?” I force his name from my dry throat.

His eyes snap to mine, relief blotting out any other palpable emotions, but only for a moment.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Better,” I acknowledge, although I’m not sure that’s true. Because right now, the way he’s staring at me makes me feel like I should crawl under the covers and hide.

“Good,” he grunts. “That’s good.”

“Is… everything okay?” I ask reluctantly.

“No.” His eyes flash with irritation he’s struggling to contain. “It’s not okay, Mercedes. It seems you’ve made yet another mess for me to clean up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This.” He tosses a creased piece of paper from the nightstand onto the bed.

When I unfold it, dread curdles my stomach. It’s a missing person’s report… for me. Complete with a terrible photo, a description of my physical appearance, and a statement that I never showed up for a planned brunch, nor have I been seen or heard from.

“Oh, shit,” I whisper.

“Yeah,” Judge growls. “Oh, shit.”

“It’s not what you—”