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

but when it did nothing, she reached down andpulled on the door handle. Locked.

“Damnit,” she repeated, this time breaking into a jog, taking the stairs two at atime and rapidly approaching the hedge beneath the open window. Robert wouldunderstand, certainly. She’d once crept into the house, nearly five years ago,by climbing through a second-story window. He’d understood then—even laughedabout it with her—and he’d understand now. Robert always did.

Sheflung herself over the windowsill, but then went still. One leg dangled insidethe room, the other still wedged against the brick wall, pushed against theprickling branches and jutting branches of the bush itself.

“Hello,”she murmured, her eyes fixed on the window.

Someonehad drawn a heart on the window. Was that lipstick? She leaned in, staring atthe small heart, seemingly sketched haphazardly against the glass.

No.Not lipstick.

Herstomach flipped and she went so cold she thought she might fall from her perch.Her eyes fixed unblinking on the small sketch of the red heart in the bottom frameof the open window.

Blood.Someone had drawn a heart in blood.

Herown heart pounded fiercely in her chest, and she lifted her eyes slowly,turning toward the illuminated study.

“Robert…”she murmured, softly, feeling a prickle along her arms and up her spine.

Hereyes fell on the red leather chair furthest from the window. The same chair shenormally used when at Robert’s home. She stared at it, blinking.

“Robert,”she murmured, softly…

Herold mentor was sitting in the chair, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling.Adele swallowed. “Robert?” she said a bit more loudly. Slowly, trembling, shebrought her second leg through the window, nearly slipping on a pile of toppledbooks. Greek classics, by the looks of them—Robert’s favorite.

Shestared at where her old mentor reclined in the leather chair.

Exceptit was the wrong chair. He wouldn’t have chosen the one nearest the kitchen. Aman of habit, was her old mentor.

Shemurmured his name again, eyes fixed on his form, stepping forward. No movement.No breath. His chest wasn’t rising or falling. She felt a flicker of sheerhorror rising in her. Absolute despair flooded her stomach.

“Ro—Ro—”This time, the word didn’t manage to leave her lips. It died somewhere in herthroat as she drew near and went still.

Hischair was encircled with a small puddle of water… Well, not small, she realizedas she drew within touch. Not a puddle of water either…

Moreblood, circling Robert’s chair like a crimson halo against the floorboards.

Bloodfrom where?

Shereached out with trembling fingers, feeling the horror of the moment slowlywash across her back, tingling along her spine and coming to her scalp invibrant pulses. She gasped in shattered breaths, her fingers groping the fabricof his bathrobe. “I… I…” she murmured unable to say anything in its fullness.

Sheslowly opened Robert’s robe and realized now his mouth was twisted, frozen inan agonized scream, his eyes facing up at the ceiling, dead, lifeless.

Theflap of his rope opened, falling aside and revealing her old mentor’s barechest gouged with cuts and laced with swirling patterns of ruined flesh. Adelescreamed then, shouting in equal parts shock and blistering agony.

Shestumbled back, slipping on her old mentor’s blood and falling on her hands. Shescrambled back as if to distance herself from the spectacle alone, but her eyesrefused to budge. They remained glued to Robert’s tortured, disfigured form.She spotted one of his hands now, resting on the table next to him. Missingthree of its fingers. She spotted where his lips, his cheeks, everything abouther old mentor, had been torn about, ripped to shreds, cut and carved inswirling patterns of bloody flesh.

“DearChrist,” she muttered. “Christ, Christ—damn it!” she screamed.

Adeleleaned back, gasping, her chest heaving, her back against the brick fireplaceas she stared at the ruined corpse of her old mentor. The small heart etched inRobert’s blood was visible just out of the corner of her eye. Gasping, growlingnow, feeling a feral ferocity rise in her chest, Adele staggered to her feet,leaving bloody footprints beneath her where she’d stepped.

“No…”she murmured, breathing heavily. “No. No. No.” But the words themselves seemedfutile. She stepped forward now, staggering toward the corpse of her oldmentor. The anger was fleeting though. It had promised support, strength, butthen fled as she drew near, leaving her only with an emptiness in her gut.

Shegasped, choking out a sob, and found hot tears suddenly flooding down hercheeks.

Acrime scene… Don’t touch him, dummy. The voice in her head wasn’t loudenough, though. The shock alone seemed to be pulsing with prickles through herskull.

“Christ,”she muttered. “No. No…” No other words seemed to come, nothing concrete fellfrom her lips. She stumbled toward Robert, reaching out and gripping at hischest with one hand, her fingers coming away soaked in the blood that stainedhis bathrobe. She collapsed at his knees.

“No,no, no,” she cried, her voice strangled. She sobbed now, shaking, her chinresting against her old mentor’s knees. Feeling, beneath her own chin, whereeven his legs hadn’t been spared the torture.

Shecollapsed, leaning against Robert’s corpse, gasping and heaving sobs into hislap, gasping and gasping, unable to breathe, unable to speak.

She’dbeen wrong.

Thekiller hadn’t fled. He hadn’t gone into hiding. She didn’t want to make itpersonal.

Sohe had.

Hehad come, he had taken, and he had left a small little heart etched in her truefather’s window. A coy little invitation, a playful gesture, asking for her tolook closer, to peel back the curtains and peer through the window.

Butsome sights were best left unseen.

No.He hadn’t gone into hiding at all. He was fully back now. He’d done this… becauseof her.

Shegasped, sobbing, weeping, unable to rise, unable to extricate herself from thefrayed form of Robert Henry, her tears dappling his blood-soaked garments, herbreath gasping against his broken form.

Thechoice was gone. She couldn’t step back now. It was personal. Deeply personal.

Oneway or another, this wouldn’t end in a courtroom. It had started in blood, andit would end the same. Adele clenched her teeth, snarling now and gasping,desperately trembling as her fingers reached for her phone to call… call who?No one could help. Robert was gone.

Hermother was gone.

Andthe bastard who’d taken them was laughing.

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(An Adele SharpMystery—Book 8)

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