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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.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
SAMUEL
“Sitting here doing nothing is driving me fucking insane,” I complain as I fidget uncomfortably in this god-forsaken bed. Considering people lay in these beds to fucking die, you’d think they’d be just a bit less unbearable.
Edmund enters the room with three coffees, immediately glancing from me to Grant. Taking note of Grant’s face, he asks with a smirk, “Is the kid still complaining?”
“He’s fucking incessant.” Grant feigns an eye roll. “Can’t stand. Has no idea how to do anything on this computer. But he absolutely has to get up to help.”
“I left the charter info on the kid’s desk early this morning.” Handing me a coffee, Edmund questions, “Why Wichita? And what did I miss?”
“It’s where Cora’s parents are,” I respond at nearly the same time as Grant.
“Not much. I was hacking in to the backdoor of local PD.” Grant continues to type away on his keyboard. “Did you grab his phone from Abigail?”
“Yeah.” Edmund pulls my—no longer blood-covered—phone from his pocket and hands it to Grant.
“So, this Madame,” Grant asks as he scrolls through the contacts, “She’s how you got in contact with Cora.”
