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

Fora moment, Adele paused outside the car, her hand hovering near the handle. They’dsolved the case. She ought to let it go…

Andyet, she still couldn’t shake the strangest of feelings. She hated the sense ofleaving something unfinished. Was there something she’d missed? Or were heremotions completely out of whack? To anyone else, it might have seemed like thevanity of perusing tea leaves in the bottom of cup. But Adele’s instincts, likethe senses of a bloodhound, had proved effective over the course of her entirecareer. Her instincts, which she couldn’t always explain, had led to more thanone arrest, more than one closed case.

Sowhy, now, did it seem like her sense of impending doom, her sense of somethingcresting the horizon—why did it seem like she’d missed it?

Herfingers touched against the cool metal of the handle.

Letit go… she thought to herself.

Butthen, as she listened to John and Leoni continue to barter with the Germanofficer, her eyes narrowed. “No,” she said out loud to her own subconscious.

Andthen she grabbed the handle, pulled open the door, and slid into the back seatopposite the serial poisoner.

Theyoung valet didn’t look so frightening now, cuffed in the back seat, buckledagainst the cool glass and reclining on the door. His eyes roamed around thecar for a moment, and then shifted to her—a sidelong glance of passingcuriosity more than anything.

Whenthe young man recognized her, his eyes widened a bit, and he turned, as much ashe could in his restrained form, and acknowledged her with a blink.

Adelewatched him, unblinking herself, her gaze fixed on the killer. And yet, tothink of him in terms any less than “human” didn’t seem to do justice. He wasso young, so lost. She’d seen the hatred in his eyes, seen the loathing. Seenhis complete and cold disregard for the lives of others. He’d tried to killher, after all.

Andyet, she couldn’t shake a feeling of sympathy. A shared pain. For a moment, shehad a sense as if she were staring into a reflection of a sort. She rememberedlosing her mother, just after turning twenty. It seemed so long ago now, but inthe grand scheme of things, it was little more than a passing day.

“Whatdo you want?” the valet asked at last, swallowing and staring.

Adelewatched him a moment longer without responding. The other agents didn’t seem tohave noticed she’d entered the vehicle. This served her fine. She wanted somealone time with the killer—a few moments to simply chat.

“Idon’t know,” she said, honestly, after a moment. Her earlier sense offoreboding had faded. Her worries, her fear, seemed to have vanished. Had shemissed it? She frowned in thought, looking across his young features.

“Howold are you?” she asked.

Hegrunted. “Twenty-five. It’s in my ID.”

Shenodded slowly. Older than she’d first thought, but still young. “I… I don’tnormally do this,” she said. “I know you probably won’t want to tell me. TheGerman authorities will likely want to question you themselves…”

“That’sa lot of preamble,” he muttered.

“I’llcut to it.” Adele fixed her gaze on him once more. “Why did you do it?”

“Dowhat?” he said, belligerently.

“I’mnot asking on the record. Confess or don’t—it doesn’t matter. The evidence isoverwhelming against you. We double-checked the passenger and staff lists ofthe trains again, too. That’s how we missed you the first time. You logged as apassenger on the LuccaRail. But as a staff member on Normandie Express.” Shenodded. “Clever.”

“Youcan’t sweet talk me,” he retorted. He turned, obstinately staring out thewindow again.

“Fine,”she said. “I can’t get you to talk. Let me talk a little then.” Adele continuedto watch the killer, even though he’d turned away. She needed to know,now. Something wasn’t adding up. She’d missed it. Maybe this business with hermother’s killer reemerging had completely thrown her instincts off. Maybe shewas losing it…

Shefrowned deeply at this final thought, and through pressed teeth said, “Youtruly hated them, didn’t you? The first-class passengers? Was it their wealth?Their looks?”

“Looks?”he snorted. “You seen half of those ogres? No.”

“Sowhat then?”

“Itold you, I’m not talking. Leave me alone.”

“I’dlike to. I lost my mother, you know…” Adele felt stunned by her own words. Shehad never voluntarily shared that with a killer before. She rarely shared itwith friends. And yet the words tumbled from her lips, dragged—it seemed—againby instinct. She followed up with, “Was it your mother? Or your father?”

Heturned to her again now, a haunted look in his gaze. “What?”

“Thathatred,” she said. “I recognized it because I’ve seen it before. Usuallyreflected in a mirror. I know the loss. I don’t know why you blamed thepassengers. But I know the feeling.”

Thekiller reclined his head against the rest and shook his head firmly. “You don’tknow what you’re talking about. You’re lying.”

“I’mnot. My mother. Ten years ago. Butchered.”

Fora moment, she thought he might say something disparaging or dismissive. Shewasn’t sure she wouldn’t slap him if he did. Sometimes John Renee’s approachseemed the only path.

Butinstead, the valet just looked at her, his young features softening, if only afraction. “That’s awful,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Adelewent quiet, considering these words from a man who’d just killed three people.He seemed so… sincere. And yet the gulf between them—their choices—was nearlyinsurmountable. She refrained from speaking her thoughts, though, and dippedher head once to accept the conciliation. She waited, listening to the quietbreathing in the back of the police car. Listening to the thrum of mutteredvoices just outside the glass. Sometimes, listening was key.

Afteranother passing minute, the young man glanced at her and muttered, “My father.”

“Sorry,”Adele replied on reflex.

Theman shrugged, his cuffs shifting as he did in his lap, his forearms restingagainst his knees. “Never knew my mother. But my father and I were close, youknow…”

“Iknow… How did it happen?”

Theyoung man sighed. “Not like you won’t be able to find out anyway.”

“Itold you, I’m not here to make a case. Not even recording. You have my word.”

“Yourword? I’m going to prison, aren’t I?”

“Probablyfor a very long time. I can’t do anything about that. You killed three people.”

“People?”he snorted again, his voice hardening. “Cockroaches,” he said. “Parasites. Allof them. They did it, you know,” he continued, some