Chapter 41

Anything?

HARPER

I told you, I'd let you know.

I feel like you aren't even trying, Harper.

If you really want your family to know how you're paying for college, I'm fine it that.

I'll see him tonight.

I will try to get something.

Try hard.

I know first hand how persuasive that mouth of yours can be.

Despite a perfect little body, a tight fucking pussy, and quite a talented mouth, she's been proving otherwise useless. At least in terms of my investigation. Forcing her to engage in Edmund Parker's depravities, which I don't think she disapproves of nearly as much as she complains about, I was expecting more. Apparently, I overestimated things, because getting her ass pounded red doesn't come with pillow talk.

Or maybe she's playing both sides.

Since she's fucking useless, and I didn't find a shred of evidence to corroborate their story at The Jellyfish, I'm going to take advantage of the fact that everyone is at the hospital watching over Mr. Millington.

Parked about a mile away, I climb the stone wall that surrounds the majority of his property and begin the couple of acres walk to reach his estate.

No time like the present to look around.

This time, I plan to make it well past the front door.

Reaching the main entrance, I pull the lock pick set from my back pocket. But out of curiosity, I try the knob before flipping open my kit.

Unlocked.

When I step inside, I'm surprised to find that it's spotless. So immaculate that it doesn't even look like people actually live here. Picture frames are perfectly hung, couch pillows are so well-placed that they look staged, and it smells so clean.

Too fucking clean.

Antiseptic.

Bleach.

The strong scent of cleaning agents is centered in the foyer, and it dissipates quickly as I move further into the house. Someone cleaned here recently, but only the foyer.

My eyes meticulously linger over every surface, looking for even the smallest signs of a struggle. But there's nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

It just doesn't make sense.

There's only one reason you clean one spot with that much bleach.

Blood.

How much blood did Samuel Millington lose the other day?

But why lie about a mugging?

What happened here that they needed to lie?

Realizing I'm not going to find anything in this hallway without luminol, which I'd need to lift from the precinct, I decide to see what I can find in the rest of the house.

Reaching the office, I rummage through some papers on the desk. Only one catches my eye: A printout of the confirmation for a private charter from Greensboro to Wichita three days ago.

What the fuck is in Kansas?

Taking a quick photo with my phone, I tuck it back where I found it before looking over the rest of the main floor.

Room after room and there's nothing but perfectly placed furniture and zero signs of distress. Making my way upstairs, things are even more perfect. A master bedroom the size of my home, filled with diligently folded and hung clothes for both Mr. Millington and Ms. Durant.

No signs of an ID or cell phone having been left behind. Yet, she's disappeared off the face of the Earth. No one has seen or heard from her in the days Mr. Millington has been in the hospital.

Who doesn't race to see their loved one when they nearly die?

Everything is so seemingly fucking perfect, but none of this adds up.

Something happened here.