Left to Vanish (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Eight) by Blake Pierce (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) 📗

Which meant they needed targets.

She could still feel the pressure from Agent Paige’ssilencing hand, but Adele couldn’t resist adding, like someone typing criteriainto a search engine, “Specifically anyone who purchased from the church atthat point, but who also is of a certain age,” she said. “Married couples, orsingle women who would now be in their fifties. We can’t discount male owners,if they’ve recently been married.”

She winced now, feeling uneasy. Would he remember that farback? Her gaze surreptitiously scanned the walls for any file cabinets. Surelyhe didn’t simply keep the information in his mind.

Even as the doubts began to creep in, Mr. Becker lowered along finger, pressing it against his lips now, leaving a pale indentation andthen looking between the two agents, blinking a few times as if suddenlyexposed to sunlight.

“Twenty-three,” he said firmly.

Adele blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Of the public sales reported in a five to ten year timeframe purchased from the church for private ownership, there are twenty-threeoptions.”

Adele felt her heart clatter as if falling from a shelf andshattering on the floor. A jolt of horror filled her. “Twenty—twenty-three?”she said, her voice croaking. “Are you sure?”

He dipped his head a single time. “Very. I remember that salesperiod well. Was one of our best growth years, in fact.”

“Twenty-tree is a lot of locations,” Paige murmured next toAdele.

At the same time, the door behind them creaked open, andAdele heard the voice of one of the secretaries calling out, “Excuse me, Mr.Becker, you have another client. Is there anything I can get you?” She addedthis last part with an emphasis on the words.

Becker, though, held up a placating hand, watching theagents and waiting.

Adele, for her part, was shaking her head. “You’re notmistaken?” she said.

Now Becker bristled, frowning. “No—I’m not. Not all of usrequire those infernal devices your generation substitutes for memory.Twenty-three at least. Those are of the ones publicly declared. Privatesales also occur, of course. Sometimes through less than reputable agentshoping to offset transactional costs. Mr. Durand, for instance.”

At least twenty-three sales from the church…

At least twenty-three potential victims.

Adele felt like she’d been walloped in the gut. All senseof momentum she’d been feeling now came to a screeching, painful halt.

There was no way they could track down that many potentialvictims. No way in that amount of time, especially given how many of them mightlive in other regions if not countries. It would take weeks, at best.

She felt her stomach twisting again, the nerves rising, herchest beginning to prickle in horror and frustration. For a moment, as shestared out the window, Adele felt like she couldn’t breathe. She heard, as ifechoing down a tunnel, the voice of the secretary again, trying to gain Mr.Becker’s attention once more.

She heard, as well, the soft sound of another man—theaforementioned client, most likely—speaking with the second secretary in thelobby, murmuring the words, “How much longer for my appointment do you think?”

Damn his appointment! Adelethought to herself, feeling the rising wave of frustration washing over hernow. So close, yet so far.

She thought they’d found a lead, but now she’d simply doveheadfirst into a pile of hay, looking for a yellow-painted needle.

All the victims so far had been women in their fifties. Butthe property owners could just as easily be male with wives. Or, further, shecouldn’t simply assume the killer might not murder someone younger or olderwith another connection she hadn’t spotted yet.

Too many variables.

Not enough time.

Despite herself, she found her chest heaving,hyperventilating. She could feel Agent Paige’s gaze fixed on her now as Adelestood there, a culmination of nerves and frustration and anxiety and sleep-deprivation.

She was losing this race against time. And now, the flurryof emotions she’d endeavored to suppress, to subdue, came rushing back, risinglike shadows against a cavern wall, cast wide and large by flames ofopposition.

“Damn it,” she muttered softly. “Damn it!” she repeated, abit louder now.

“Agent Sharp,” Paige said quickly, reaching out a steadyhand and touching her elbow. “Perhaps we’d best consider things outside.”

Adele could feel everyone’s eyes on her now. Feel, evenwithout looking, the secretary behind her, the new client waiting for hisappointment, Mr. Becker in his chair, Agent Paige at her side. Could feeleveryone watching, waiting.

She could feel, in addition, other eyes. Eyes notcurrently present.

But eyes just as searching and eager for her collapse.

Bleeding… bleeding… always bleeding.

A small sob crept from the twisting stage fright in herbelly and escaped up her throat and out her lips.

Just then, her phone began to ring.

With trembling fingers, Adele reached down, pulling thedevice from her pocket, looking for a lifeline of some sort. Something to helpthe case. Some clue—something at all.

She glanced at the number.

John Renee.

Everything collapsed then. She wanted to answer, more thananything… But she couldn’t. He’d know what to say, he might be able to help.But she couldn’t bring him into it. Not now. Not again.

If you let them close, they’ll all die! the voice said in her mind.

“God damn it!” she screamed, flinging the phone suddenlyaway from her lest she give in to the temptation and answer. The device bouncedoff the large bookcase, ricocheting from the large tomes of green and purplewith golden lettering.

The phone continued to buzz against the light carpet. Adelecontinued to gasp.

And she suddenly realized the scene she was causing.

She blinked, looking around slowly, breathing as if she’djust completed a marathon as her eyes grazed Mr. Becker’s, darted to Paige, andthen took in the two secretaries and new client staring open-mouthed at herthrough the doorway.

She closed her eyes, feeling on the verge of a mentalbreakdown.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Sorry,” she repeated. “Sorry,” shesaid a third time, now using it as a marching chant as she hastened across theroom, ripped her phone from the ground and, eyes glued to the floor, marchedpast Paige, shouldered roughly through the gaggle in the doorway, and hurriedout the front door.

Her phone continued to buzz beneath her numb fingers as shetried to escape the oppressive room and her equally oppressive thoughts.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Johnsighed, staring at the rejected call. He lowered his phone, closing his fisttight around it and leaning back in