Page 70 of Judge's Mercy

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I can’t stop the horror that must be written all over my face. Then come the tears. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

“What didn’t you know?”

“I thought they were the epitome of evil, and what they did to me was beyond anyone’s worst nightmare. But now I know that, compared to you, they were amateurs. I didn’t know. If I had, I wouldn’t have come here.” Though my words are directed at him, I’m really talking to myself.

His ugly face scrunches as he pulls me toward the stairs. “Did you have a stroke? None of that made any goddamn sense.”

Maybe not to him, but it did to me. If I’d known that what happened to me was mild in comparison, I wouldn’t have put any of this in motion. Judge said that trauma has no hierarchy, but if it did, Lucy would beat me by a mile.

He pushes me to climb the stairs ahead of him, but I’m not sure I have the strength. I’m weak, injured, and most definitely in shock. If I want to get out of this without irreparable harm, I need to be agreeable.

I take the stairs one at a time, feeling as though I’m stepping on razorblades with each movement. The door is open when I reach the top, and I look in both directions, memorizing every detail in case it could help me later. There’s one other door to the right and four to the left, two on each side, including the one he caught me in.

“This way.” He walks around me, pulling out a keyring and searching for the right one. He finds it as we stop in front of the last door before the hallway opens to a living space, including a kitchen. This would be an amazing family home if it wasn’t filled with monsters. “Get in there and sit down.”

Telling me to sit down is the nicest thing he’s done for me. The pain radiating from my shoulder is blinding, but add in the fall, and I don’t know how I’m still upright. Maybe it’s adrenaline?

I walk into the bedroom, this one decorated to look like a teenage girl’s room. Bookshelves line either side of the bed, each shelf styled with fresh flowers, books, and trinkets. Above the bed hang vines of fake flowers surrounding a framed image of a peace sign. The bed itself has a fluffy, tufted white comforter with fuzzy accent pillows in neutral colors. There’s a desk along the adjacent wall with a large corkboard hanging above it. Random photos of teenagers are push-pinned into it, and I wonder who the girls in the photos are. I can picture their horrified expressions if they knew their faces were there.

Opposite the desk is meant to be a hang-out space with two corduroy bean bags. They look so comfortable, but if I chose to sit on one, I know I wouldn’t be able to get out, so instead, I sit on the fuzzy, mustard-yellow office chair that’s pushed into the desk.

Collapsing on it and feeling the soft fabric on my bare ass, I’m thankful for my time at the ranch because my nudity means nothing to me. I’m sure he did it thinking it would increase my vulnerability, but the joke’s on him. I could walk down grocery store aisles naked as the day I was born and not give two shits.

“Who are you?” he asks, but I say nothing because the answer doesn’t matter. “Are you a cop?”

I clutch my elbow, holding my arm tight to my body as I stare at the area rug. Would it be a good thing if I lied and said I was a cop or bad? Would he risk killing me, thinking an entire police force would be searching for me? Or would he risk it because I know too much? Probably the latter. So again, I keep my lips sealed.

“I’ll get the information out of you one way or another.” He tucks his hand into his pants pocket, pushing his suit coat back and exposing my gun tucked into the waistband. “I’m an excellent shot, and there are a lot of places you can take a bullet and not die.”

I don’t want that. Now that I know how painful getting shot is, I’m not jumping at the chance for another, but I still can’t tell him who I am. I can’t let him find out I have a twin and that I have a connection to the Sons. He could go after them, thinking they were in on this. There has to be a way to appease him without giving him my name.

“I was hurt by men a few months ago. Once I recovered, I decided to go after other asshole men who do despicable things to women and children and kill them. You fit the bill,” I say, giving him as much truth as I can.

“Does anyone know you’re here?”

I look him dead in the eyes, hoping he’ll believe me. “No. I did this all by myself.”

“How did you find out about what we do here?”

Now this question, I don’t have an answer for. I’d never put my friends at risk just to save my own ass. I don’t even know why he was at the Honey Pot in the first place. Why would he go there when he has this?

“The dark web is a big place. You can find out anything if you know where to look.” I’m lying through my teeth. I don’t even know what the dark web is, let alone how to access it. I can barely check my email on a computer, for fuck’s sake. I must’ve been convincing, though, because he’s pondering my response.

“You’re either a good liar, or you’re telling the truth. Either way, it doesn’t matter. You’re—” His words are cut off by a knock at the door. “Just in time.”

A woman in scrubs walks in carrying a medical kit. She gives David a tight smile before approaching me and, without acknowledging me, begins treating my arm. Her eyes remain on my wound as she assesses the damage. I might as well not even be attached to the appendage as she methodically opens her kit and pulls out a wash bottle and a fat stack of gauze.

“I’m sorry, we haven’t met.” I duck my head to try and catch her gaze. It doesn’t work. “Do you know the man you’re working for is keeping me captive? I’m not here by my own free will, and I need help.”

“She won’t help you,” David says, looking bored. “We pay her too much for that.”

I immediately hate this woman. Knowing what’s going on and not doing anything about it, especially when it involves entitled men, makes her worse than David. It’s hard enough for a woman to navigate a world with men in it; we shouldn’t have to worry about the women hurting us too.

I hiss as she sprays the wound with a cold liquid, catching the pink-tinged drizzle across the gauze. It fucking hurts, but I’m guessing pain meds are out of the question. Probably for the best, since I need to keep a clear head.

“You must not be planning on killing me if you’re getting me medical attention,” I say, crying out when the woman pats the wound with fresh gauze.

He tips my chin up with a finger. “Kill you? No, sweet girl. Daddy’s going to make money off you.” Releasing me, he takes one step back and folds his arms. “But if that doesn’t work out, I’ll sell you off like sweet little Lucy.”

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