"I don't," she clips out. "Just... this whole thing is stupid, and I'm tired of it. Either kill her and be done with it, or just admit that you aren't going to. There's no point in torturing her and dragging it out."

"You really must not be feeling well." I toss the remainder of the glass away and stand. "That's the only justifiable explanation I can think of for this sudden change of heart."

"I haven't had a change of heart," she declares. "God, you can be so infuriating."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"I'm going to bed," she says.

"Wait."

I grab the tote bag from my desk. I already examined the contents inside after Judge left. There's nothing much of interest in there. A pair of shoes, the remnants of her dress. A purse. The lipstick was already taken for testing, which came back clean. But that does not surprise me. The Tribunal suspects she applied the poison directly to the coat of lipstick she was wearing and disposed of any evidence, and I am inclined to agree.

"Give these to Antonia so she can return them to Ivy's closet." I hand the tote to Mercedes, and she glances inside. A strange expression comes over her face as she examines the contents.

"Are these from that night?" she asks, her voice strained.

"Yes. Why?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing. It just... it gives me bad memories. That's all."

"Get some rest," I tell her. "You'll be more like yourself in the morning."

She nods, turning away. "Good night, brother."

12

Santiago

I find my wife tangled up in her bedsheets, trapped in the grips of a fitful sleep. She mutters something unintelligible as I cast the soft glow of the candle in my hand over her body. I didn't want to come back here tonight. Every night, I tell myself I won't. There has to be some resistance to this madness. But after Mercedes took it upon herself to inform me of the bruises, I had to see them for myself.

She curls into herself as I peel back the top half of the sheet, exposing her torso. A sharp intake of breath leaves my lips as I see the damage for myself. If anyone were to see her this way, they would undoubtedly think she had been beaten in places. And something is so horrific about those blemishes on the perfect canvas of her skin. It bothers me more than I had anticipated, and I can only wonder how I will feel once I see the permanent destruction I intend to inflict upon her.

I replace the sheet and turn away, chest heaving as my fist curls at my sides. Why did she have to do this? Why did she have to betray me and force my hand? And why does the prospect of what's to come bring me more torment than pleasure?

"Santiago?" Her sleepy voice whispers from behind me.