I disconnect the call and walk out of that house, not quite sure what this commotion in my gut is about. Why am I so fucking bothered by all of this? If Mercedes isn’t a virgin, she’ll be punished. By Santiago. Not me. She isn’t my fucking problem. So why the fuck am I so unsettled by this discovery of her secret life? Why do I care? Because there is no doubt that I do fucking care.

15

Judge

I spend the afternoon in my study. I don’t go upstairs to see her. I don’t ask about her. Instead, I sit here and drink my scotch as I scroll through the photos on her phone yet again and grow angrier and angrier.

At seven o’clock on the dot, Lois knocks on my door to let me know Dr. Barnes is here. I’m in no mood for conversation and want to get this done and over with. Because I’m questioning my motives for doing it in the first place.

Would I, if I were to take a wife, subject her to a virginity test? Would I care about her purity?

I’m a modern man. And as much as The Society is ingrained in my very being, some practices I find archaic. And the virginity test is one.

So why am I doing it? Is it to punish her? And for what? For wanting a man? For being with a man? For that man not being me?

Doesn’t that make me what I accused her of being? Arrogant? Worse?

No. I push those thoughts from my mind. If Santiago knew what I’d found, he’d order the test himself. That’s what I tell myself as I get to my feet to greet Dr. Barnes and lead him upstairs to my bedroom where Mercedes has pulled a chair up to the open window and is sitting there with a blanket wrapped around her, her feet up on the windowsill as she stares out at the night sky.

She turns her head when I enter, and for a moment, the look in her eyes makes me want to stop this. But then whatever it was I glimpsed there moments ago morphs into a cool indifference, and she’s about to turn back to the window when Dr. Barnes enters.

“Mercedes,” I say.

She looks at the man. He’s in his forties and not as hardened in expression or personality as some of the other Society doctors. It’s why I chose him.

“This is Dr. Barnes. Dr. Barnes, Mercedes De La Rosa.”

“Ms. De La Rosa,” Dr. Barnes says, bowing his head in greeting.

Mercedes looks suspiciously from him to me and sets her feet on the floor. She tugs the blanket closer.