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

the recliner he’d managed to smuggle intohis makeshift bachelor pad in the basement of the DGSI.

Acrossfrom him, his distillery bubbled and dripped, the beakers and glass tubing swirlingwith clear moonshine. The odor of the concoction wafted in the small room,carried by the air conditioning through the vents in the ceiling.

Heglanced down at the cold glass in his hand, staring at the ice swishing aroundthe clear liquid. On the floor, scattered across the ground—files. More filesthan John would ever admit to having studied. He had a reputation to maintain,after all. Some agents didn’t think he could read.

Buthe’d done his homework, helping out the task force assigned to the murder ofRobert Henry.

Butstill, everyone was turning up a blank. The Spade Killer, this man who styledhimself some sort of sick artist—his name received from the park paths andgardens where he’d abandoned his victims—was still on the loose.

Theyeven had a composite sketch now, thanks to John. But nothing.

Noclues, no leads…

Johnhad managed, even, to sneak into the room on the third floor, where the taskforce had been working. Their damn corkboard was practically blank. John hadlong suspected one could often tell the progress of an investigation by thenumber of items pinned to the inevitably available corkboard.

Theone upstairs only held the faces of the victims, and a composite sketch.

Noother details—no further substantiated clues.

Johnglanced at the damn phone again. She was ignoring him. Of course she was—hewould have been surprised if she’d done it any other way. Adele was abloodhound, but she wasn’t a pack animal. No, she’d moved too much for that asa child. She was used to solving things on her own.

Andnow, she’d chosen to cut him out of the loop, along with everyone else. Henever would have admitted it out loud, but the rejection hurt. More, perhaps,than he thought it would. He winced against the intruding thoughts. Quickly, heforced the emotions down, making a case for Adele, softening the pain.

Itwasn’t like he could blame her. No one else was even close to solving thisthing. Not even after the murder of one of their own agents. Adele couldn’ttrust anyone—she wouldn’t.

Johnhissed in frustration and then downed the rest of his glass in one quick gulp.He could feel his fingers trembling from frustration where they gripped thephone. He could feel a strange pulsing, twisting in his stomach… Pain? A bit ofthat.

Butalso guilt?

Hefrowned.

Whyguilt?

Thenhe swallowed, realizing the obvious answer. He’d had the Spade Killer in reach.He’d nearly had the bastard, but had ended up letting the small man get away.

Andthen what? Then the killer had taken Robert, too.

“Merde!”John cursed, launching his empty glass across the room. It shattered againstthe door.

Hestared at the reflective pieces of glass where they landed on the folders he’dbeen studying religiously. He’d hoped, perhaps, he could find something—anything—tohelp Adele. Then maybe she could have some peace. Maybe she’d answer his damncalls.

Hefelt like a little dog, scorned and whimpering, hoping to somehow please itshuman. Every cell in John, every prideful bone in his body, wanted to get up, stalkacross the room, and forget the stupid folders, forget the phone…

Buthe couldn’t forget Adele.

Whichmeant he couldn’t forget any of it.

Witha sigh, his eyes blinking blearily, he got slowly, wobbly, to his feet andmoved back to the folders on the ground. Maybe he’d find something on anotherread-through. He’d just have to be more careful this time. Just a little bit morecareful.

Buthe’d already been over the files five times by now. There was nothing. No clue.Nothing new.

Still,he had to try.

Notbecause he’d find anything.

Butbecause he wasn’t sure he’d be able to look Adele in the eye again if he didn’tat least make the effort.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

 

 

Adele felt like her heart was trying to escape her chest.Her fingers trembled so badly she jammed them into her pockets as she marchedaway from the double doors to the real estate office, down the hall. As foulluck would have it, at that moment, a group of businesspeople from the officespace across the hall suddenly emerged, stepping out into the corridor.

Again, it felt like everyone was watching her, and therewas nothing she could do about it. Adele continued to move hurriedly, trying tooutpace her thoughts, to outpace the nerves and anxiety swirling in her. Toomany names. Too many potential victims. How could she possibly save them all?How could she stop it all?

She couldn’t even stop Robert from dying.

She broke into a jog, ignoring the odd looks from thebusiness folk in the hallway. She took the stairs three at a time and burst outthe front of the office complex. She needed to move. To where, she didn’t know.She just knew she couldn’t stand still. Not now.

She broke into a jog, choosing a random direction andheading up the sidewalk, her eyes downcast. She needed to focus. But what wasthe point in focusing?

Bleeding… bleeding… always bleeding.

She shivered at the memory. Shivered at the thoughts ofRobert, his blood staining the floor beneath his red leather chair. Sheshivered at the small marble angel, its eyes caked in mud, blind to what hadoccurred just within the house.

Adele felt like that statue. Blind, her face pressed to thedirt. Just as helpless, just as motionless.

A soft sob escaped her throat, and she growled, picking upher pace, running faster.

She didn’t look ahead, keeping her gaze only ten feet infront of her. What was the sense in looking too far into the future? It onlycarried more pain.

Focus, she thought toherself. You have to focus.

Robert was dead. What was the point in focusing? All of hisinstincts, all of his training hadn’t been able to save him. And moreimportantly, she hadn’t been able to save him.

She continued to run, now sprinting, racing up the sidewalkoutside the small coastal town. She passed by a couple of pedestrians carryinggrocery bags, sidestepping just in time and nearly tripping over a firehydrant. She managed to catch herself, ignoring the annoyed comments from thepedestrians, and slid into a side alley, gasping now, and slamming her backagainst the brick wall. She inhaled and exhaled deeply, smelling refuse and oldmoisture. She looked along the alley, toward the back, where a small lean-to ofcardboard and old