Left to Lapse (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Seven) by Blake Pierce (a book to read .txt) 📕

“Justso long as you’re aware. Good night, Adele.”

“Yessir. You too.”

***

Shelistened to the quiet chug of the train as it moved through the night, finallyreleased from its station and allowed back on its merry way in the North ofFrance as it continued toward Germany. She twisted, remembering in her mind’seye the look of hurt on John’s face when she’d woken him and told him she’d beworking this one alone. That Foucault wanted him back.

Hurt.Such a strange thing for him to express, almost as if he’d taken it as somesort of rejection. But hadn’t that been the tenor between them recently? Hadn’tthey been going cold? Not just their friendship… but everything.

Still,John hadn’t seemed to want to leave and when he had, he’d stomped off, leavingthe train without so much as a goodbye.

Shetwisted and turned in the small, cramped room in the sleeper car. Certainly notfirst class, and according to the Executive, this sleeper was normally reservedfor staff. She’d been in prison cells with nicer cots. Her back ached, and herfoot tingled from a frigid draft gusting through a window that refused to fullyclose. The rush of air through the small gap made a soft whistling noise like atea kettle and twice Adele had resisted the urge to punch the glass.

Shetwisted again, sitting up at last, her feet dangling over the cramped spacetoward the floorboards.

Sheheard a creak.

Adelefroze, staring toward her door. For a moment, she glimpsed a flash of light, asif from a flashlight beneath her door frame. She didn’t hear anything. Someonehad stopped outside her compartment. Her hand darted toward her nightstandwhere she kept her weapon. She held the comforting, cold metal in one hand.

Thelight remained… She thought she could hear someone breathing.

Asecond later, though, it passed by, disappearing.

Frowning,Adele got to her feet, gripping her weapon and holding it behind her back. Shepushed open the door and glanced up and down the hall.

Noone in sight. Four other doors in this sleeper car, all cramped together.

Shewaited, looking for another flash of light. But none came. Maybe one of theother passengers had taken a bathroom break?

Ormaybe…

Hadthe killer come by? Looking for her?

Sheclosed her door again, her feet cold against the wooden floorboards, and easedback on the rough cot, careful not to throw herself too hard against it, as thecushions alone would do little to protect her back.

Shereclined against the poor excuse for a pillow, staring up at an overhead luggagecompartment.

Noone in the hall, like a ghost. But ghosts weren’t real.

Whatif the deaths really were natural causes, and they were hunting ghosts in thenight? What if she was making things too personal…? She could feel this needto catch the bad guy. A need to not let him get away again.

Again?

Again.She frowned at the thought. Her mother’s killer had escaped John. She didn’twant the same thing to happen here. Ghosts in the night… Maybe they were allfooling themselves…

Andyet she couldn’t shake the deepest, prickling sense of foreboding. It camerushing back like the wind through the window, and Adele closed her eyes,trembling, trying to fall asleep in the face of a mountain of certainty thatsomething was about to go horribly wrong.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Hestood as still as one of the statues in the garden, eyes fixed on the largemansion beyond the black gate. He admired the marble pieces tastefully arrangedamidst the hedges and porcelain fountains. One of the statues had a faux-chryselephantine quality to it, though the goldand the ivory seemed faded with weather, suggesting a replica. He had statuesof his own. But he’d always preferred paintings.

Now,though, he was in search of a masterpiece of a different variety. He watchedthe house from his parked car, his thin, bony frame wrapped in two sweatersagainst the cool of night. Even with the heat on, he shivered, his one good eyeclosing for a moment against the drying effect of the vents.

Afigure moved in the downstairs study, by the two red leather chairs. Thefireplace was going, but the figure moved slowly now, pausing once to put out abracing hand and cough at the ground.

Thepainter considered the fellow inside, wincing in sympathy. A bad cough, itseemed. Over the last week, as he’d watched, careful to get to know his newfriend, he’d noticed Robert beginning to move slower and slower.

Whateverailed him was having its way.

Thepainter allowed himself an easy smile, his gaunt features twisting in the darkof his car. Soon, the sickness would be the least of Robert Henry’s worries.

Thepainter reached out, unlocking his car and checking for his black satchel inthe back seat. He wore leather gloves and besides the two hoodies, he’d gonethrough the ritual of shaving his head, his eyebrows, his arms, even his nose.No DNA evidence left behind. He would even wear a mask—not to disguise hisface, but to prevent spittle or saliva from landing anywhere compromising.

Sometimeshis friends struggled.

Ashe pushed open the unlocked door, his eyes still fixed on Robert Henry’scoughing form in the lower study, he paused for a moment, simply admiring thescene. Sometimes, beholding art was reward in itself.

***

Robertcoughed again, leaning against the table by one of his red leather chairs. Hefrowned, staring down at the piece of paper he’d left on the table. The inkwelland pen sat open next to his calligraphy kit. Adele had once teased him aboutit and he found it fitting he write this final letter—this gift to her—in thesame ink.

Hesmiled softly to himself, leaning back now in the red leather chair closest tothe window, facing the second chair—the one Adele had often frequented when shehad a chance to visit. Robert murmured to himself as he reread the letter, hiseyes tracing the cursive loops and the perfectly executed lettering across theold, yellowed paper. He’d taken the paper from one of the first journals he’dbought as a boy.

Robertsmiled again, leaning back and glancing toward where the rest of thejournal—mostly unused in his youth—lay resting on the table, beneath the inkwell.

WouldAdele appreciate the gift?

Hewondered… For a moment, at the thought, a flash of frustration jolted throughhim. He sighed and closed his eyes, staving off the sudden