I should tell Santiago what I found on her phone. Tell him about this Georgie. What the fuck kind of name is Georgie anyway? I scroll through their texts again, their photos. Lips puckered to send kisses. Showing off cleavage or abs or biceps. Telling each other how fucking awesome they are. How they own the world.

Something burns inside me as I shove her phone into my pocket and make a call with mine while heading out the door and into the waiting Rolls Royce. I hand Raul an address and sit.

“Is it handled?” I ask the man on the other end.

“Yes, sir. The missing person’s report has been canceled, but I have to tell you I’m fielding calls from a woman, Solana Lavigne, and a man named George Beaumont. They’re the two who filed the report in the first place.”

“Forward those to my office. I’ll take care of them later. And thank you for your discretion in this matter.”

“Anytime, Judge. You know that.”

I disconnect. I had to call in a favor to get the report taken down, but it would be an embarrassment to Santiago and to IVI if it got out. We do things differently within The Society, and our members have enough pull to make that happen, but every now and then, something leaks through the cracks. I’m just surprised to find it’s Mercedes.

I scroll through the photos on her phone again. Fucking Georgie. He’s younger than me. Her age. Good looking if you like that pretty-boy type. Looks to me like he spends too much time in front of a mirror.

I glance at my reflection in the rearview and rake my hand through my hair to tame it. See how tired I look. Fucking Georgie.

At least she’s not pregnant although I should make sure. She may not know herself. I make another call to Dr. Barnes. He’s a Society doctor. He’s with a patient, though, so I leave a message for him to call me back.

“We’re here, sir,” Raul says as we pull up in front of a modest development of condos in the heart of the city. A dozen homes are set in a semi-circle with a parking lot in the middle. Each condo is two floors and has a private garden. It’s, in a word, quaint with the white picket fences and the beds of flowers. Not at all what I’d expect from Mercedes.

“Thank you. I’ll be out shortly.”

“Yes, sir.”

I walk up to number 39, opening the small gate, taking in the flowers and shrubs that look like they’re well-tended. Mercedes? No. I can see her standing over the gardener and giving orders but not getting her hands dirty. She’d mess up her nails.

Fuck.