Page 50 of Upon Blooded Lips (Vengeance #1)

TESSA

T he morning of the funeral dawns bright and clear, a cool breeze sweeping over the softly rolling hills of the cemetery.

Dew sparkles like diamonds in the sunlight among the lush greenery while weeping willows and sycamores act like guardians of the buried dead.

Dressed in black and sporting sunglasses and wigs, we watch as Robert’s casket is lowered into its final resting place.

Presley, dressed in a designer black dress, heels, and hat, dabs an embroidered kerchief to her eyes.

A woman I recognize from the golf club pats her awkwardly on the shoulder and whispers something in her ear.

The priest murmurs too low for us to hear, standing as far back as we are.

The turnout is larger than I expected, with friends, business acquaintances, employees, the mayor, the sheriff, and various townsfolk all huddled around the grave and offering Presley their condolences.

She’ll lose her mind when her car is repossessed and the house forecloses due to nonpayment of the mortgage.

The bailiffs will arrive, confiscating her designer clothes and purses, furniture, and other possessions to pay back the creditors.

Previous open doors will slam shut in her face.

But before all that can happen, she has to get through today.

What does my mother love and crave the most?

Image. Reputation. Power. Wealth. Beauty.

And what does she fear the most? Losing them.

She’s an emotional vampire, a leech who thrives on attention and adoration.

She needs those things to feed the eternally hungry creature inside her.

Without them, she becomes what she despises the most—the nothing that she truly is.

And that terrifies her more than any torture could.

For then, she’d have to face the rot and decay that make up every cell in her body and acknowledge the emptiness that can never be filled.

By the end of today, not only will she have buried her husband, but her image and reputation too.

While Presley sucks up the attention and plays the perfect grieving widow at the golf club where the wake is being held, we sneak into my childhood home, stepping into the laundry room from the garage where we parked the car.

How did I live here for eighteen years? The suffocating air presses down like a weighted blanket, threatening to smother me.

My chest tightens, my breaths coming in short hard pants.

I lean a hand against the wall and try to blink away the spots threatening to blind me.

Eric fills my vision, his hands running over my face while speaking soundless words. My heartbeat rushes in my ears, and my hands flop uselessly at my sides. I shouldn’t be here. These walls hold too many memories, too much heartbreak.

I can’t breathe.

Eric lifts me and sets me on top of the dryer, stepping between my legs and wrapping himself around me. His comforting scent invades my senses, and my eyes fall closed as I breathe him in. Minutes pass while I cling to him like a lifeline, every muscle relaxing.

I’m not sure how long we stay like that, but I finally open my eyes to find Nate watching us with a small smile and an unusual softness in his gaze. “Okay, little one?”

I nod and lean back, running my fingers through Eric’s hair. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“Always, angel. Can you walk?”

“Yeah.”

He sets me down, and I blow out a breath. “How much time do we have?”

Nate checks his phone. “Forty minutes until shit hits the fan. I’d like to be out of here in thirty.”

“Okay, let’s do this.”

I lead them through the house, giving them a quick tour of where I grew up.

Now that the panic has subsided, it doesn’t bother me as much to point out the closet Presley locked me in or the padlock on my bedroom door.

Nate’s hands clench at that, but we keep moving until we get to Robert’s home office.

Before the house gets repossessed, I want to search it for anything useful.

There’s the possibility of life insurance policies or bank accounts we don’t already know about, ones I can’t let Presley have access to.

Stage two of my revenge requires loss of financial status—home, car, possessions, money.

I want her destitute, with no one to turn to.

Just like she ensured I had no one to turn to.

While Eric settles himself in front of the computer, Nate goes through the bookshelves and cupboards.

The filing cabinet in the corner draws my attention, and I head over to it, opening the bottom one first. Wow, he certainly was meticulous.

Who needs electric bills from twenty years ago?

After finding nothing useful, I work through the other three drawers, but it’s all mundane crap.

I wrap my arms around myself and survey the room.

The built-in bookcase spans the entire length of one wall, holding a combination of books and decor.

I’m not surprised there aren’t any photos of me, but there’s one of Robert and Presley’s wedding day, and another of them in front of the Eiffel Tower.

The lower half of the shelves contains cupboards, which Nate’s going through now.

There has to be something here.

Sitting beside the French doors overlooking the backyard are two chairs with an oil painting of Lake Michigan above it.

Nah. It would be way too stereotypical, right?

The old safe behind the picture trick you see in the movies?

I check behind it anyway, rolling my eyes when I find one.

I set the painting on the floor, leaning it against the door, and contemplate the passcode.

What if it’s the kind that sets off an alarm after a false attempt?

Fuck it. I punch in Presley’s birthday, and the door swings open. He could have at least tried to be original.

Inside, I find fifty thousand dollars, Robert’s and Presley’s birth certificates, and their marriage certificate.

I set them on the chair and pull out another folder.

In it is my doctored birth certificate, baptism record, and adoption papers.

The document lists me as “Baby Girl Doe,” and the judge who signed them was a good friend of my parents’ who died eight years ago, making them useless if I ever wanted to look up her family.

Maybe one day I’ll do one of those DNA test kits and see what matches come up.

I heave a sigh and turn back to the safe, but the only other things in it are my parents’ passports. Nate ambles over, glancing at the small pile. “Anything?”

“Not really.” He places the painting back on the wall for me while I gather the files and money. No point leaving it here for Presley.

Eric shuts down the computer. “I didn’t find anything I didn’t already know about. I hope you don’t mind, but I emptied the offshore accounts and donated the funds.” He should never play poker, because the smirk tugging on the corners of his lips would give him away every time.

I bite my lip before asking the inevitable question. “Donated to who?”

He gets out of the chair and swaggers toward me like he’s auditioning to be the next Austin Powers. “Well, I remember once you saying how much she hates the poverty-stricken, so I sent a third of it to the Coalition for the Homeless.”

I cover a smile with my hand and raise a brow because I know there’s more.

“And since we know how much she abhors children, another third went to Save the Children.”

“And the last?”

He puts his arm across my shoulders and leans in close. “And since she’s every kind of phobic, I sent the rest to The Trevor Project.”

I lean up on my tiptoes and press a quick kiss to his mouth. “You’re the best.”

“I know, right?”

I laugh when he gives me a little eyebrow waggle.

“Okay, lovebirds, it’s time. Tessa, do you need anything else before we go?”

I start to shake my head, but then change my mind and jog back to my bedroom.

The scent of terror and despair lingers in the air, the ghosts of past horrors hovering just out of sight.

The closet beckons me, and I yank the door open and stare into the mirror where it all began.

“Someday we’ll get out of here, and they’ll all die,” I murmur.

Mirror Girl’s lips curl into a cruel smile, and I press my lips to my pointer and middle fingers before touching them to the kiss mark one last time.

We pull into a shopping center parking lot, easing the car into a shady spot far from the stores. Eric and Nate get in the back with me so we can all watch the showdown.

Eric sits his laptop on my lap, and they lean in close, eyes fixed on the screen. “T-minus five, four, three, two…” Eric says in a deep voice.

Presley spared no expense for Robert’s wake. The golf club’s reception room shines brightly with cut crystal, flower arrangements, and candles encased in hurricane vases. She walks into the middle of the room and clinks her glass, the sound perfectly clear through the speakers.

“Thank you, everyone, for coming. Your presence here to mourn the loss of a friend and to celebrate his life would have meant so much to my husband. You were all very dear to him, to us, and I’m incredibly thankful for your support on such a difficult occasion.

Please direct your attention to the screen. ”

The lights dim, and a screen descends from the ceiling.

Music plays, a soft, haunting melody intended to pull on the heartstrings.

A montage of pictures fades in and out. Robert as a boy, a teen, a man.

Pictures switch to video, one of the back of my parents’ heads, sitting on the couch while sipping wine.

“Did you see Marilyn tonight? My God! She wore the same dress to the Patterson’s housewarming.

So little class,” Presley’s voice rings out, mocking one of her closest friends.

They didn’t see me hiding behind them during a rare act of rebellion, determined to one day expose them for what they really are.

Marilyn shakes her head. “Ten years, Presley, and this is what you think of me?” She picks up her purse and storms out of the room, her head held high.

“Wait—” Presley calls out, her arm outstretched. But Robert’s voice makes her freeze.

“I know, I know,” Robert says, his voice brimming with laughter while leaning back in his chair with his phone tucked against his ear. “The mayor’s so easily manipulated. He’ll bend over and take it up the ass as long as I donate a couple of mil to his campaign fund.”

Mayor Thornwood jumps to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor and tossing his linen napkin on the table. He grabs his wife’s hand, stalks over to Presley, and whispers something in her ear before exiting the room.

I’d give anything to know what he said to her.

“Turn it off!” Presley screeches, but no one listens to her.

“I want to know why she took this with her when she tried to run.” Presley goes deathly still at the sound of her voice echoing through the silent room. Her hand covers her mouth, and even through the laptop, I can see it trembling.

“What’s this?” I whisper, glancing up at Eric.

“Keep watching, angel. I recorded this one.”

Stephen’s face comes into view. “Let me see.”

“What was he doing?” I ask.

“Going through the files on your laptop,” Nate replies.

“Oh.”

“How many men have you hired?” Presley asks.

“You have her locked in her room, Presley. She’ll be fine. I won’t let her escape again.”

The room erupts in murmurs, and Presley spins in a circle. “I know you’re here, you little bitch! I’ll fucking kill you for this!”

“Presley, what did you do?” someone shouts from the back of the room. “Where’s Tessa?”

The video continues. “Six,” Stephen answers. “They’ll arrive tomorrow and work in shifts in teams of three. One outside her door, another in the front yard, and one in the backyard. After her attempted escape, I found a breach in the back wall. I’ll have it filled.”

Presley sniffs. “Good. I want out of this fucking town, and the Martinellis are the key to that. If she escapes ? —”

“She won’t.”

The music screeches to a halt, and large bold words run across the screen before it retracts into the ceiling.

WHERE IS TESSA HARRISON?

Chaos ensues. Presley wails like a banshee, her hands clawing at her hair. Some shout questions, others walk out in protest, but the vultures stick around, greedy for the smallest bit of gossip to spread to their friends.

Welcome to stage one of my revenge, Mommy Dearest.