Chapter 269 My Cousin Sister Is Missing

Chapter 269 My Cousin Sister Is Missing

When Jessica opened the box, Joseph was right beside her.

Her fingers paused on the bow. She stared at it, as if sensing something terrible inside, or hesitating about whether to open it at all.

Then she opened it anyway.

Her face turned whiter than the thin tissue paper inside the box in that instant.

She didn't scream, didn't throw the box away, didn't lose control like most people would.

She just stared at what was inside, kept staring, for a long time—so long that Joseph started to think she might never speak again.

"It's Vivian's hand," she said, her voice steady. "And Harper's flayed face."

Joseph closed the box, took it from her hands, and passed it to someone nearby to handle.

He reached out and held her hand.

Jessica's hand was cold, the kind of cold that came from deep in the bones, the kind you couldn't warm up no matter how hard you tried.

When Joseph held it, he could feel her fingers trembling slightly.

She was furious.

"It's him." Jessica's voice was soft, with no question in her tone.

Joseph didn't answer. He didn't think it was necessary.

There weren't many people who could go after both Vivian and Harper within a single day, and even fewer who could put parts of their bodies in the same gift box and send it to Jessica.

This method was too cruel—treating other people's flesh and blood as gifts, as tokens of loyalty, and sending them to the person you wanted to please.

He had recovered his memory, all of it.

Jessica lowered her head, looking at the hand Joseph was holding. She felt heavy inside.

Joseph's brow furrowed slightly. He immediately sensed Jessica's sadness.

"I should have killed him right there in that bathroom." Jessica's voice carried fine threads of hatred. "I should have shoved the mop handle down his throat, or just kicked his neck until it broke. I shouldn't have run."

Joseph looked at her. He didn't speak.

He knew everything she said was true. She wasn't the type to just talk tough—she genuinely regretted it, regretted that moment of hesitation, regretted choosing to run instead of ending it all right there.

"You didn't kill him, not because you couldn't." Joseph's voice was soft. "It's because you didn't want to become someone like him."

Jessica looked up, meeting his eyes. Those eyes were calm, holding no blame or comfort, just directly stating a fact.

She looked at him for a long time, then lowered her head again without saying anything more.

Her silence didn't last long. Maybe ten seconds, or twenty. Before Joseph could tighten his grip on her hand, her body stopped trembling.

She pulled her hand from his palm, walked to the coffee table, picked up her phone, opened the camera, and aimed it at the now-closed gift box.

The flash went off once, then again. She took several shots from different angles, each one clear—the black velvet gift box, the dark red contents inside, and a few drops of blood that had accidentally splattered nearby, already dried to a dark brown color.

She didn't miss any useful detail.

Joseph stood nearby, watching her movements, a feeling he couldn't quite name rising in his chest.

This was Jessica.

He'd seen many people's reactions when facing sudden shocks—some broke down on the spot, some went numb, some became hysterical, and some tried hard to appear calm.

But he'd never seen anyone like her, who one second was genuinely regretting not killing someone, and the next was already methodically collecting evidence.

She could really extract the calmest, most useful, most emotionally detached part of herself when all those emotions came crashing down on her, and let that part stand at the front to handle things first.

Only after everything that needed to be done was finished would she gradually release those suppressed emotions, slowly digesting them.

He felt sorry for her, but he didn't say it out loud.

Jessica called the police.

She dialed the city's Criminal Investigation Department directly. She'd saved that number when she had dinner with Rachel—Rachel's father was the police chief, and she'd specifically asked for the number, saying "just in case something happens, it'll save transfer time."

She'd said it casually then, never thinking this day would actually come.

The moment the call connected, she took a deep breath. Her voice shifted from calm to a carefully controlled tremor, carrying just the right amount of fear.

"Hello, I need to report a crime. My cousin Harper and my aunt Vivian have been kidnapped. Someone just sent a box, and inside there were... parts of their bodies, a hand and a piece of skin from a face. I'm sure it's theirs, because there's a ring on Vivian's finger. I gave it to her for her birthday, and her name is engraved on it."

As she spoke, her eyes were dry, her expression calm.

But her voice sounded exactly like an ordinary young woman who'd been frightened out of her wits.

Joseph stood nearby, watching her performance, and the already taut string in his heart tightened further.

She'd never studied acting, not in her past life, not in this one either.

But she'd experienced fear so many times, so much, that she could call up that feeling anytime and use it skillfully.

The police arrived quickly.

Ten minutes later, sirens sounded on the street outside, approaching from a distance, the sound completely shattering the afternoon's quiet, as if someone had torn the air itself.

Two police cars stopped in front of the Martinez family's old house. Doors opened, and five or six uniformed officers jumped out, along with a plainclothes detective, probably in his forties, with graying hair and a serious expression.

Jessica waited for them in the living room. The gift box sat on the coffee table, lid closed, bow retied, looking exactly as it had when it first arrived.

She sat on the sofa, hands clasped on her knees, face pale, eyes slightly red. Joseph stood beside her, one hand on her shoulder. That wasn't acting—he didn't need to act.

One of the detectives was named Vernon. He was polite when introducing himself, but his gaze kept scanning the entire living room.

When he crouched down to open the gift box, his expression didn't change much.

He'd seen too many scenes worse than this. This level of "gift" wasn't enough to make him lose composure in front of others.

His gloves got stained with blood—dark red, already half-dried. He picked up the ring, held it up to the light, and saw a name was indeed engraved on it.

He put the ring in an evidence bag, then stood up and looked at Jessica.

"Ms. Martinez, when was the last time you saw your cousin?"

"Last week." Jessica's voice trembled slightly. "I went to see her where she lives."

Vernon nodded. "And your aunt?"

"Earlier than that. She's usually very busy, doesn't keep in touch with family much."

Vernon was silent for a moment. "Have you offended anyone recently? In business, or personally?"

Jessica thought carefully. Her lips moved slightly, then closed again, as if weighing whether to say it.

Joseph knew she was acting now, but every expression, every pause landed exactly where an ordinary person in this situation might be—no more, no less.

"There's one person." She finally spoke, her voice very low, as if worried someone might hear. "Benjamin. He kept harassing me before, stalking me, even cornered me in an airport bathroom. I hit him, then I ran. He—" She paused. "He used to be very close to my cousin."