Left to Lapse (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Seven) by Blake Pierce (book club suggestions txt) 📗

his pupil. She was the best of themall. He’d have to remember to give her the envelope tomorrow.

Hefelt a jolt of sadness she hadn’t come to visit him recently, but undoubtedlythe job had taken her away as it often did. Still, according to the text she’dsent the previous night, she was returning to Paris and wanted to stop by onthe morrow.

Robertclosed his eyes, nodding to himself, having held back the cough sufficiently.As he lay still, hoping sleep would claim him quick again, he heard thefaintest of noises.

Robert’seyes snapped open. He sat up sharply, glancing toward the door. Sleep fadedfrom him like sand drifting through a sieve, trickling out slow at first, butthen in rapid proportion.

Robert’seyes fixed on the door to his room, his hand inched toward the cell phone byhis bed.

Nomore sounds, though.

Nothing.

Heshook his head, muttering to himself darkly, then leaning hesitantly back andclosing his eyes again. Just the wind, then.

AsRobert lay back, though, he frowned, then sat up again with a sigh. Trustyour instincts. That’s what he’d often told Adele. And his instincts wereheightened now. He flung his legs over the bed, sliding his feet into his fuzzyslippers. He pulled his robe around him and then, snatching his phone, but notringing anyone just yet, he moved slowly from his room, heading out toinvestigate the source of the disturbance.

***

Ohdear. Who the hell kept that many books stacked so precariously by the window ledge?The painter glared at the books blocking him from easy entry. Then, with afrown, he reached out, his fingers touching the leather spines…

Hepushed, and the books tumbled to the floor. He smiled softly—sometimes art wasmessy. And sometimes his friends deserved a warning or two… It made it more funthat way.

Thepile of fallen tomes scattered over the wooden floorboards beneath one of thered leather seats facing the dim fireplace. One of his legs was thrown throughthe window, the other still dangling outside, half pressed against the brickwall. He paused, listening for movement in the house.

Nothing.He couldn’t hear anyone.

Thepainter felt a slow, growing warmth in his belly. Was he rushing this, though?Art should never be treated that way. Ought he come back? Maybe tomorrow night?No sense in rushing a masterpiece, was there? Not something this valuable.Something this connected to his best of friends—Adele herself. They were boundtogether, he’d known this for a while. And this venture into her mentor’s homewas a reminder of what was at stake. The only relationship that truly matteredto him.

Still,why rush perfection?

Heremained with one leg inside the mansion, the other out, caught at acrossroads, considering his options. No one had seen him—he’d avoided the twocameras in the courtyard. The only witness—the mud-streaked angel statue—wasblind and dumb. Most of his friends were—at least now.

Hewaited a moment longer, his leg still dangling inside Robert Henry’s mansion.The painter wasn’t a tall man, and his foot barely brushed the floorboardsbeneath it.

…Couldhe wait longer?

No…No, art couldn’t be postponed like this. Not again. He’d already waited.

Nomore waiting. Now was the time for work.

Andwith a bob of his shaved head beneath his mask, he slid fully into the studywith the two red leather chairs, bringing his other leg in as well and slidingoff the windowsill. He daintily stepped around the collapsed pile of books,avoiding them and slowly shutting the window until it was only cracked. Hestill might need the getaway—no sense providing himself an obstacle.

Butstill, as he glanced around the study, his single good eye flicking toward theglimmering coals in the hearth, one hand delicately braced, his glove incontact against the headrest of one of the red chairs, he allowed himself asoft smile behind his metallic mask.

Itfelt like a homecoming.

Helooked around the silent, darkened room. Now, though, it was time to find theguest of honor. He hefted his black bag, which held the tools he’d used toenter through the window, sifting with his gloved fingers in search of other,far sharper utilities.

***

Robert’sface creased in a frown. No more sounds that he could hear. No furthermovement. Was he just being paranoid? Were his instincts off? He’d often taughtyounger agents to trust their gut instincts only if their gut instinctshad proven true in the past. Adele was a prime example. Once upon a time, hehad been also. But Robert wasn’t so sure anymore.

Sicknesshad taken much of what he’d once been. His lungs weren’t as they’d used to be.Still, if someone was in the house, it would be easy enough to find them,surely. An intruder? A burglar? For a moment, he considered grabbing a knifefrom his office—more a letter-opener, really. But what if it was Sergeant Sharphaving returned for some reason? Or maybe Adele had gotten back early andwanted to visit him.

Hesmiled at the thought, still holding his phone pressed against the leg of hisbathrobe. He nodded to himself. Maybe it was just the wind after all. Still, itwouldn’t hurt to check.

Roberttook the stairs now, feeling the wood creak beneath his frail steps as herounded the banister and moved down toward the first floor.

Thesound had been muffled… the kitchen, perhaps? Maybe the study. Yes, he’d checkthe study first.

***

Thepainter could hear the creak of footsteps against the stairs. He let out asilent curse, frozen, his back pressed in the shadowy alcove behind a bookcasenearest the mantelpiece. He lodged himself in the dark, his small, frail formgifting him the ability to fit in tight spaces. His friends never expected thesorts of places he could hide. Once, even, in a suitcase beneath an older woman’sbed.

Hesmiled. They’d never discovered that particular masterpiece. Attributed it toan animal attack. Then again, he’d gotten much better at his work since then.Every artist developed over time, given enough practice, enough focus.

Andhe’d practiced. Far more times than any of his friends or fans even knew.

Hewaited, his eyes wide, his one good eye peering out into the dark, drinking inthe black and bleak of the room in every crag and cranny.

Thesound of footsteps against wood had faded now. The stairs? He heard a shufflingmotion, followed by a quiet, “Merde!”

Fora moment, the painter stiffened, wondering if he’d been spotted. But then hewatched as a form moved into