Page 37 of Upon Blooded Lips (Vengeance #1)

SPECIAL AGENT SUSANNAH GERHARDT

“ T hat’ll be sixteen dollars and eighty-seven cents,” the teenage boy across the counter says. I hand him a twenty, tell him to keep the change, and take my coffee, sandwich, and double chocolate muffin over to a corner booth.

As I sip my coffee, I allow my gaze to run over the cozy combination coffee shop and bookstore.

I get why it has so many five-star reviews.

The scent of coffee and sugar floats through the air, while comfortable booths line the stone and cladding walls.

A giant fireplace catches my eye, a perfect place to sit beside during the bitter Midwest winters, while the bookstore half of the room looks like something out of a rustic fairy tale.

Hand-carved shelves crammed with books of every genre dot the space, with comfortable reading niches and occasional chairs set about for good measure.

It’s a book lover’s dream. Too bad I’m on a working lunch.

I draw several files from my bag, flipping through pages while eating my pastrami sandwich.

My eye twitches as I go over what my team and I have dug up about David Harrison.

The fucker and his wife—finding that little tidbit out was a shock—have disappeared.

The guy’s like an eel, slippery as fuck, and must have some sort of angel watching over him.

Although, why anyone, divine being or not, would protect this slimy bastard is beyond me.

We’re waiting on a warrant to search his house, which is taking longer than it should.

My parents always warned me my impatience would be my downfall one day, but this whole case makes me itchy.

It’s hard to do my job when there seems to be mountains of red tape to wade through to get anything done.

It makes me think someone is standing in my way. I just don’t know who.

I finish the last bite of my sandwich and wipe my mouth and hands before opening another file and flinching.

Some people don’t deserve to live. Rapists, abusers, traffickers, and pedophiles are the lowest of the low.

Anyone who takes advantage of or harms innocents deserves more than I can legally do to them.

I slam the file closed and toss it back into my bag.

If I wasn’t an FBI agent… I blow out a breath and force the thought away.

I’m not a violent person by nature, but I believe in justice.

Unfortunately, I’ve seen far too many victims fall through the cracks.

Some are too scared to come forward while others can’t or won’t speak up for fear of reprisal.

Even more are the ones who fall victim to unscrupulous lawyers who will do anything to get their clients off, or the ones denied justice due to not being believed.

Money talks, and if you have enough of it, you can get away with anything. It’s a disgrace, something that turns my stomach and keeps me up at night. I abhor the cruelty of human beings.

I sigh and unwrap my muffin, taking a large bite of the chocolaty goodness. My diet doesn’t need it, but my mood does. Chocolate makes just about anything better, at least for a few minutes.

A bright burst of sunlight streaks across the walls when the entrance doors open.

I glance up, noticing a young woman come in.

Her electric-blue hair, multiple earrings, and black clothing make her stand out among the other more conservative patrons, but good for her.

In a world full of media trying to force women into compliance when it comes to appearance, I’ve always admired those willing to stand apart from the crowd.

After wiping the last of the crumbs off my hands and dabbing the corner of my mouth with my napkin, I admonish myself for stalling and to get back to work.

But something about the girl keeps catching my attention.

Maybe it’s the nervous way she glances around while looking through the books or the way she keeps her head down. Perhaps I just need to focus.

I shake my head and study photos of David’s pitifully small family. Parents died when he and his brother, Robert, were teenagers. No surviving grandparents. A couple of elderly aunts and uncles down in Florida, but from what we can tell, they haven’t had contact since their parents’ funerals.

That leaves David’s mysterious wife; Robert; Robert’s wife, Presley; and their daughter, Tessa, who is also missing.

How convenient is that? Just when we’re looking into David, one of his victims disappears?

Her testimony could help put him away for the rest of his life, even if we never find concrete evidence of trafficking.

One less pedophile on the streets, the better.

I shake out my clenched fists, willing my anger to subside. I hate how helpless it all feels.

“Shit!” the emo girl says under her breath.

She jumps up from her seat near the fireplace and swipes at her shirt with a handful of napkins.

A turned over-coffee cup sits on the low table beside her, dripping onto the floor.

She raises her head, her panicked eyes locking on mine for a brief second before she turns and stalks toward the restrooms.

I sit frozen for a moment, stunned. It can’t be.

I lift Tessa’s senior year picture from the pile in front of me with trembling fingers.

Fuck. I toss everything into my bag and hurry after her, my heart pounding.

She’s been missing for what, two months or so?

What the hell is she doing here, and where has she been all this time?

I ease into the bathroom, not wanting to scare her. Tessa’s head snaps up from her position by the sink, our gazes meeting in the mirror. She stills, the sound of running water loud in the quiet restroom. I raise my palms and freeze. She looks like she’s about to bolt.

“Tessa Harrison?” I ask, my voice quiet and steady. “I’m?—”

The automatic faucet switches off, and it’s like a flip switches. Her face hardens, and her eyes flash as she straightens her shoulders. “I don’t talk to cops.”

I take a step forward, keeping my hands up. “I’m sure your parents are worried about you,” I start. If I wasn’t watching her so closely, I would have missed the disgust crossing her features before it disappeared. Ah, so it’s like that, is it?

Her muscles tense, her gaze flicking between me and the door. I need to talk to her, to get her on our side. But I don’t know what will happen if I push her too hard. I can tell she feels cornered, and if she disappears for good, we’ll lose our best shot for witness testimony. Goddammit.

She edges back from the sink when I reach into my bag and pull out my card. I place it on the counter and back away. “In case you need a friend,” I murmur before turning and leaving the restroom.

The door closes behind me, and I take a deep breath. All I can do now is hope she calls.