Page 43 of Upon Blooded Lips (Vengeance #1)

The drive doesn’t take long since Robert Harrison only lives a few blocks from David, although his house is substantially bigger and grander than his brother’s.

I scan the beautifully laid out yard surrounded by oak trees, the flower gardens bordering the house, and the lush grass that’s so green it almost looks fake.

We wander up the brick walkway leading to the sage-green door decorated with a wreath.

The whole effect is as pretty as a picture, but I remember the look on Tessa’s face when I mentioned her parents.

Is any of this real? Or was it created with that in mind?

A pretty little picture of a perfect little family home.

I knock, and a short woman with graying hair peeks out of the partially opened door. “Mrs. Harrison?” I ask.

The woman shakes her head. “She’s not in. Can I leave a message for her?”

I flash my badge, and her eyes widen. “How about Mr. Harrison?” She wipes her hands on her apron in a nervous gesture that makes my hackles rise. What is she scared of?

“I’m sorry, but he’s also away. I can have them contact you when they get back? They’re at the Oak Glen Golf Club for the afternoon.”

Jessica unfolds the warrant and shows it to her. “We have a warrant to search the premises.”

“I-I’m not sure,” she stutters, her hands trembling at her sides. “They won’t?—”

“What’s your name?” I ask, interrupting her.

“Ms. Carson. I’m one of the housekeepers.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong by letting us in,” I reassure her. “If you’d like, you can follow us around. We promise not to make a mess for you to tidy up after.”

Ms. Carson hesitates but steps to the side.

A shiver runs down my spine at the almost evil feeling to the air, something suffocating that makes me want to claw at my neck.

“I’d like to see Tessa’s room first,” I say, and the housekeeper stiffens before leading us over to a room with a heavy metal plate with an open padlock hanging from it. My brows lower. “What’s this?”

She shrugs and opens the door. “I don’t ask questions,” she replies in a shaky voice.

She waits at the doorway while we step inside what looks to be a little girl’s room.

A queen-sized bed sits between two windows, the worn pink unicorn bedding made with military precision.

I recognize it from that photo found during the raid on David’s apartment in Amsterdam.

Why does she still have them? It feels morbid, like some kind of fucked-up psychological warfare.

Was she forced to keep them as a reminder?

Jessica hands me a pair of gloves, and we snap them on before rummaging through her desk and dresser drawers.

Old report cards and school assignments, but nothing of any importance.

Same with her dresser—nothing but clothes.

Besides toiletries, razors, and hair care products, the en suite holds no clues.

“Susannah? Look at this,” Jessica says, coming out of the closet with a black plastic bag. Inside is what looks like the remains of a wedding dress.

“Do you know anything about this?” I ask Ms. Carson.

“She was supposed to get married after graduation, but I don’t know anything more than that.”

Hmm. That’s unlikely. In my experience, “the help” is often invisible and overlooked by the homeowners and often know far more about their secrets than their employers realize.

“What’s this?” I ask, not expecting an answer. I reach out to trace what looks like a bloody kiss on the mirror attached to the closet door, but Ms. Carson’s visible reaction stops me.

“We’re not allowed to clean that mirror,” she whispers, her hands trembling by her side. “Miss Tessa won’t let us. It’s the only thing the poor child has ever asked of us.”

Jessica lifts the camera from around her neck and snaps a picture of it.

Ms. Carson’s words, along with the bolt, have my hackles rising. What did they do to her? Before I can ask anything further, a commotion in the hallway has me striding out of the room.

“What’s going on here?” the man asks, his face a deep red. An elegant-looking blonde woman stands beside him, mouth pinched and daggers shooting from her eyes. “Who are you, and why are you in my house?”

Sheriff Calloway steps through the open front door, his lips twisted into a smirk.

I guess he’s still in a mood over our presence in his town.

Does he have some kind of relationship with the Harrisons?

Ms. Carson said they were supposed to be away for the afternoon, yet here they are.

Did he call to warn them? If so, he’s not only unprofessional, he’s downright dirty.

We show them our badges and warrant, which only seems to make them angrier. Their gazes keep going to the sheriff like he can save them. I file away that detail for later. There’s more going on than we’re aware of.

“How about we have a seat? I have a few questions,” I say, keeping my voice light and friendly.

Presley Harrison sighs and leads us into a formal living room, one that looks like no one ever uses.

I try but fail to imagine a young child in this space.

It’s as cold as Presley’s demeanor. There’s no way I’m telling them I saw Tessa.

I’d been wavering about it from the moment we received the search warrants, but my mind’s made up.

Does that make me as bad as Sheriff Calloway?

Maybe. Normal parents of missing children, when seeing the FBI in their house, would have asked if we were there about their child.

But not the Harrisons. They’re pissed we’re invading their space without their permission.

Tessa’s reaction, the nervous housekeeper, the shredded wedding dress, the parents’ hostile act—this wasn’t a safe or happy home for Tessa.

She’s an adult and appeared to be unharmed when I saw her.

If she doesn’t want to go home, then I won’t do anything to put her in danger.

And I’m fully convinced she would be if she returned here.

That’s one bonus to all the evidence we found at David’s. While victim testimony would be powerful, it’s no longer necessary. We can spare Tessa the added horrors of having to relive her past during what promises to be a long and arduous trial.

After we settle on the white couch, I ask, “When’s the last time you saw your brother, David?”

Wariness seeps into Robert’s face. “Why? Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“Just answer the question, Mr. Harrison.”

He and Presley exchange glances. “About a month or two ago, I guess.”

I raise a brow and shift in my seat. “Now that’s interesting. Because I have it on good authority that he only recently returned to the States from Europe. Would you like to revise your answer?”

Robert’s face reddens, but he says nothing.

“How about your sister-in-law, Sophie? When’s the last time you saw her?”

Presley turns a confused look my way. “David and Sophie divorced years ago. We haven’t kept in touch with her. She moved back to her family in Nebraska.”

Sheriff Calloway shifts uncomfortably from his position in the doorway. Ah, you didn’t tell them that, did you?

“We just found her body stuffed in a trunk in his basement,” I inform them, watching their reactions closely. Presley’s eyes widen while Robert goes preternaturally still. “So I ask you again. When did you last see David?”

Again, no answer. I tap my fingers against my leg, then glance at Jessica and gesture toward the black bag at her feet.

She stands and empties the remains of the wedding dress on the coffee table separating the two couches.

Presley shrieks and jumps to her feet, running her hands over the ruined fabric.

“That little cunt! That was a Vera Wang!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Robert says between gritted teeth. Her face flushes before she sits back down, schooling her features.

“And when was the last time you saw your daughter?”

Presley’s eyes narrow, her hand running down her designer skirt. “May twenty-ninth.”

I pull out my black notepad and pretend to flick through it. “That was her birthday, correct?”

“Yes,” Robert replies. “What does this have to do with my brother?”

“Do you not find it suspicious that both your daughter and brother are missing, especially with their history?”

“What do you mean by that?” Presley says, tilting her head to the side.

“Are you saying you’re not aware of what your brother-in-law was doing to your daughter?” I ask, drawing a folded square from my pocket.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replies with a sniff.

I credit my training at Quantico for the ability not to leap over the table and strangle the insufferable woman.

Instead, I unfold the small square and flatten it on the table before sliding it across to her.

All color drains from her when she sees what it is—a photo of Tessa, who I’m guessing was around eight years old, chained to the bed in David’s basement, with Presley leaning against the wall with an ugly sneer on her face.

“Now,” I say, leaning back against the back of the couch and crossing my legs, “I want to know where David is.”