I’m angry. I’m angry as hell. Those texts. This condo. A whole other life outside of The Society. What else is she hiding? And why the fuck do I care? For Santiago? Because I’ll have to tell him. But no, it’s not that. I’m angry for me.

Last night, that horseback ride, it was good. Fun. I felt like we were starting to get somewhere. But then I come home to find her on the floor puking after she tries to escape. Escape! Where would she go? What the hell was she thinking? But I have a clearer idea now. At least on the where. Into her life outside of The Society. Right here to 39 Wooded Way.

I find the key easily enough. She’d told Georgie where she hides it. I unlock the door and enter, then close it behind me. Sunlight pours in through the large windows, making the space bright.

The downstairs is a grand room with living and dining rooms separated from the kitchen by a curving counter where three barstools are lined up. My shoes echo on the hardwood floors as I make my way into the kitchen, recognizing the scent of her perfume lingering in the space. There’s a coffee mug in the drying rack, and in the refrigerator are basics, not anything that would spoil. There’s a half-bottle of expensive vodka in the freezer, and in the decorative cabinet against the wall, I see mismatched crystal wineglasses, shot, and cocktail glasses. I open the door. It’s lightweight and artsy with faded paint that I think was scraped off for effect. Not anything I’d expect Mercedes to like, but I can see it’s good quality and the glasses are expensive crystal. I have some of the same brand myself.

Closing that cabinet door, I look through the others to find dishes, pots, pans, all perfectly normal. I then walk into the living room with its comfortable couches. Again, high-end and nice enough but not what I’d call luxurious. A TV hangs over the fireplace, and on the coffee table are yoga and fashion magazines and well-read books. I pick up one of the magazines. On the cover is a woman wrapped in silks doing some sort of circus move. Aerial Yoga. Hm. Not what I’d expect Mercedes to read. But isn’t that what I’m discovering more and more? I don’t know her. No one does.