She’s stubborn to the point that she will hurt herself, and I need to figure out how to get through to her.
But this isn’t just being stubborn. Something broke in her the day I punished her. And I hate myself for it. For not having understood what a humbling as great as that would do to her psyche.
She’s depressed.
And I’m worried.
I haven’t talked to Santiago about it yet, but I will need to very soon.
Each morning at five o’clock, I knock on her door to find her dressed and sitting on her bed ready to go to the stables and do her work. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t answer me when I say something. Just obediently gets to her feet and walks ahead of me to the stables as if she were the prisoner and I were her guard.
Seeing her sitting on the bed is unnerving. I still haven’t given her her makeup so her face is still free of it, but where before she was taking care of herself, showering, brushing her hair, changing her clothes, everything is different now.
If I don’t tell her she needs to shower and stand there to watch her do it, she doesn’t. She simply strips off her clothes—the same jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt she’s worn every fucking morning to clean the stables—and gets back into bed to sleep until evening when Lois can get her downstairs to eat the little bit she’ll eat. The only time she changes into clean clothes is when Lois or Miriam take the dirty ones to wash.
Her hair is losing its gloss. I’m not sure when she last brushed it. I have tried to, but she screams bloody murder when I go near her, so I stopped. Her skin too, for as much sleep as she’s getting, has grown sallow, dark circles appearing under her sad, distant eyes.
A part of me, the one that sounds exactly like my grandfather, tells me it’s fine. That she’s trying to manipulate me with this little show of rebellion. This is the voice that worries me. That has made me swear to never marry. And watching Mercedes come undone so completely, it’s just evidence that I’m right. Proof of what I can do. What I’m capable of.
I call her my little monster. There’s a certain affection that comes with that. I don’t know if she realizes that.
But what I am? Inside me lives the real monster, the true beast. And I need to keep very tight hold of the reins because it cannot be allowed to breathe. It’s why I’m so disciplined in every aspect of my life.
It’s Sunday evening, exactly two weeks after the night of her punishment. I carry two large boxes into the house. A rush order. My peace offering. She’ll probably think it comes from the money Santiago is paying me to look after her, but the truth is, there is no money, no payment. I refused it. I’m wondering now if I should have told her the truth about it. Or at least not let her believe an untruth. But it was another way to keep her at arm’s length, and I need all the help I can get with that when it comes to Mercedes.
I enter the house and climb the stairs. I hear Lois and Paolo talking in the hallway. They’re both on their knees, looking closely at something when I approach.
“Evening, Judge,” Paolo says casually. He’s been back to work for the last week.
“Evening. What are you doing here on a Sunday night?” I ask him. He usually only works during the week, and even though he lives in a cottage on the property, I try to respect his time.
“I’d come to check on the hounds, and Lois mentioned a repair, so I thought I’d get a head start.”
“Repair?” I ask Lois.
“I noticed it this morning. It’s small enough, but…” She trails off and touches a spot on the hardwood floor close enough to the runner that I’m not even sure how she found it.
I set the boxes down and crouch to examine it. There’s a divot in the hardwood, a small depression.
“How did you see it?” I ask.
“I was vacuuming, and it caught my eye. I’ve told the girls to let me know about things like this, but well, you know how that goes. They mean well, but their heads are in their phones half the time.”
I touch it. My first thought would be a woman’s heel. I’ve seen it before, especially when the rubber at the end of the heel has worn down and it acts like a nail on the wood, digging divots into it with each step. But this isn’t that. For one thing, it’s a perfect half-circle. No breaking of wood, more of a pushing in. For another, it’s too big to be a heel.
“I’m sure I can repair it, sir. Don’t you worry,” Paolo says.
I straighten. Think. I remember the comment Mercedes made about Miriam throwing a paperweight at her. It sounded so ridiculous, so outlandish. So unbelievable.
“Sir?” Lois says, holding on to the banister to stand.
“Sorry, what?”
“Dinner’s almost ready. Will you eat with Ms. De La Rosa tonight?”
Was she telling the truth? No. Why would Miriam throw a paperweight at her? It makes no sense.
“I’ve made Italian. Her favorite. And tiramisu for dessert.” She’s worried. I see it on her face, in her eyes. “Maybe she’ll eat a little more tonight. If you’re there, perhaps—”