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

the study, shambling along in a fluffy bathrobeand slippers. A glowing device—a phone—rested against the man’s leg.

RobertHenry, in the flesh. A canvas in the offering if ever he’d seen one.

Thepainter waited, watching, motionless as a gargoyle perched on a stone steeple.

Stillmuttering to himself, Robert Henry approached the fireplace and grabbed apoker. He began prodding at the glowing coals, still orange in the hearth.

“Damnit,” the Frenchman muttered to himself. “Are you trying to burn the whole placedown, you old fool?”

Robertjabbed and poked at the coals, extinguishing them as best he could as ascattering of dark ash settled across the brick ground beneath the hearth.

Thepainter shivered as he watched, staring at the movement of the man, the way hisshoulders bunched, the way he lunged. More lively, more vibrant than anystatue. More beautiful, more graceful than any painting.

Yes,this was why he chose this particular canvas. Flesh itself was the truestbeauty to find. And true art required not just creativity, but cruelty. Thecourage to state the truth. To paint what one saw, not just whatone thought they saw.

Satisfiedhe hadn’t been noticed, the man stepped from the shadows, moving across thefloor, stepping ever so lightly as he approached Robert from behind.Masterpieces took time. He would take his time as he always did.

Andso he reached into his black bag, pulling out a thin knife. A gift the knifehad been. From his first ever friend. A kingly gift, made of whale bone andpearlescent inlay. The blade itself was only six inches, yet sharp and ridged.One side for smooth strokes, the other for texture. Both involved in thecreative process.

Heheld the knife out and stepped quietly forward, approaching Robert Henry frombehind in the darkness of the mansion’s gloomy study.

***

Robertheard another noise. This one from directly behind him. He went stiff, his eyesflicking away from the smoldering coals in the fire toward the red leatherchair nearest the window. A pile of books, some of his favorite Greek epics,had been toppled like dominoes and lay discarded across the ground.

Robertfelt a prickle along his shoulder blades, his one hand gripping his phoneagainst his thigh. He felt a shiver near his neck, this time coming from adraft ushered through the window. His eyes flitted up, still facing thefireplace, breathing shallowly as he stared toward the glass.

He’dlocked that window. He knew he had.

“Please,”said a voice from behind him. “Put the phone down.”

Robertstiffened, his whole body going cold. Trust your instincts. He shouldhave known—he should have listened. He stood for a moment in the dark, stillfacing the fireplace, not bearing to look at the source of the voice.

“Phonedown, please,” said the voice again. It wasn’t snide, nor did it mock. A simplerequest. Not the voice of a man in search of fear. Not the voice of a cur hopingto enjoy terror. What then?

Slowly,phone still clutched in his hand, fingers trembling against the cool surface,he turned to face the source of the voice.

Asmall man stood across from him. Or was it a man? The voice itself was soft,lilting. Feminine? The form of the person in front of him seemed that of achild. Bone-thin, shorter, even, than Robert. Next to a man like John Renee,this fellow wouldn’t have seemed any more than a child.

Thefigure wore a metallic mask, hiding his features, with the thinnest of holespoked in the mouth and across the lips, forming a crooked smile. Eyes glitteredbehind the mask, staring out the holes in the face.

“Robert,”said the intruder. “Please lower your phone.”

ThenRobert spotted the knife. It caught in the light from the moon streamingthrough the open window. Robert licked the edges of his lips, feeling theroughness beneath his tongue. He kept the phone gripped, raising it a bit as ifoffering it to the intruder.

Themasked fellow glanced down, staring at the phone. Robert’s other hand, though,which had been using the poker to probe at the fireplace, gripped the iron toolbehind his back, pressed against his bathrobe.

“Here,”Robert said, softly. “Take it.”

Hedidn’t have time to call. Not now. Not yet. He needed the intruder distracted,though.

Themasked fellow tipped his head sideways, as if confused by a spectacle. Hereached out with his free hand, gloved, groping toward Robert’s offered phone.The old DGSI agent waited a moment, waiting for contact, waiting for thosetwig-like fingers to wrap around his phone.

Then,as the intruder pulled the device away, his knife dipping just a bit, Robertswung with all his might. The poker whipped around, streaking toward where themasked man stood. Robert shouted with the exertion.

Buthe missed.

Themasked man was fast—far faster than Robert had anticipated. One moment he’dbeen standing still, it seemed, holding Robert’s phone, cradling it in onehand. The next, he darted forward. Rather than lunging back to avoid theblow, he lurched closer. The poker hit the man’s thin shoulder, but themomentum near the base was nearly nothing and it ricocheted harmlessly.

Robertcried out in pain, his fingers aching all of a sudden. The frail form of theintruder tutted, drawn in close. Two eyes, one of them dim and dull, flashedbehind the metal mask. “Bad boy,” said the intruder, giggling now. And then hejammed his knife into Robert’s arm.

Thepoker dropped, clattering to the floor.

Robertcursed and tried to shove the killer off him. But despite the frailty of theintruder, Robert felt his own weakness come upon him all of a sudden, like afreezing glaze of ice, stopping all motion and chilling his bones.

Robertgasped now, bleeding from his stabbed arm, staring up at the metallic mask. Ittook him a moment to realize he was now on his knees, trying to catch hisbearings, his legs having given out from the adrenaline of it all.

“You’reweak, old friend,” said the intruder, softly. “Pliable. A perfect canvas.”

“Fuckoff,” Robert snapped, staring up and gasping. He began to cough, the suddenflood of rapid air in his lungs stimulating them to reject the flood ofpressure.

Ashe coughed, gasping, he dropped to his hands, his knees still rough against thefloorboards.

Helooked up and glimpsed the metallic face twist, staring down at him.

“Whoare you?” Robert said, though he had a guess.

“Afriend,” the man said, cheerfully. The knife was still clutched in one glovedhand, Robert’s phone in the other.

Robertstared at