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

looming in the frame ofthe door, his large form stretched now, his arms over the top of the doorway asif he were embracing the exit, or perhaps blocking it.

Adele frowned at this, swallowingand shaking her head. “I’m serious. I’ve had a long day.”

“Not entirely sure I give a damn.”

“What do you want, Renee?” shesaid, her eyes flashing up now, fixating on him.

Didn’t the idiot understand? Hewas putting himself in danger by being seen with her. Didn’t he get it? She wastrying to keep him safe. Everyone safe. If they got near, they would die.Simple. She huffed a breath, shaking her head and swallowing back a retort.

“You can’t ghost me,” he said,simply. “You can’t come in, make nice, then ghost me. It doesn’t work likethat.” Shadows played across his handsome features, and his burn mark along hisneck to his chin seemed brighter now, caught by moonlight through the landingwindow.

Adele looked away again. “I’m not,”she said.

“Damn lie.”

“Look… I’m grieving.”

“Bullshit. You’re cutting yourselfoff. There’s a difference.”

She turned on him, eyes wide. Fora moment, she just looked at him, stunned as if he’d slapped her.

But John had never been one tomince words. He lowered his arms now, sliding them from the top of the door andcrossing them over his muscled chest. “I know Robert’s dead,” he said, softly,his tone gentler now.

“Don’t.”

“I know he’s dead,” John repeated,louder, overriding her objection. “But that doesn’t mean you can just vanish.You’re not acting like yourself, Adele. Look at you, you look like a ghost.Have you been eating? Sleeping?”

“You’re one to talk about diet,”Adele muttered.

Instead of responding harshly,though, John just shrugged. “I guess I am. That’s why I’m here. I know whatself-destructive grief looks like. Hell, I’m the king of it. Just here to warnyou—the further down the rabbit hole you go, the less pretty it gets.”

Adele watched her old partner.John spoke with nonchalant language, shrugging as he did. But she detected somethingelse behind the words… Something in his eyes. A hidden pain… A hurt. The hurtonly seemed to intensify when he looked at her and held her gaze.

She glanced off once more. Part ofher wanted to react in anger.

An easy choice, especially givenJohn’s ability to push her buttons.

But she was just too tired… Whatwould anger help with? Didn’t he get it? Didn’t he understand how much dangerhe was in?

“I… I don’t know what to tell you,”she said, softly.

John shook his head, sighing now,the sound like a creaking door. He looked like he’d weathered a storm, hiscountenance cloudy and dark as he murmured, “Remember who you are, Sharp.Remember what you do. You gotta take care of yourself. That grief, it comeswith friends. I know it too. Best you can do is draw your own friends close.That way at least it’s a fair fight. And it’s a fight.”

“I know,” she said, softly. “Thisisn’t my first time either.”

“Well… You can’t ghost me.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,”she said, still soft.

She wanted to get angry still, butnow another emotion was rising in her… Perhaps more a sense than an emotion.

Inevitability.

Part of her knew John was right.She needed to remember who she was…

Was she really able to keepeveryone safe? John, Paige, Leoni, Foucault, her father, her friends… Could shedo it all?

She’d barely managed to stop thekiller this time. And he hadn’t been targeting her loved ones. Already, she’dlost two of her own to the Spade Killer. Two people she loved.

She swallowed, her voice rasping.

“I, I think I need a break,” shemurmured, softly. “I still have some bereavement leave…” Her voice was quiet asshe spoke, but her will was hardening even now beneath the words. She couldfeel it forming, going rigid, could feel it strengthening. She nodded once,frowning even more deeply. “Yes… I think I need to take a break.”

“A break? From work? Good call,”John said. “You deserve a vacation.”

Adele stood in the doorway, facingher old partner, not quite asking him to leave, but not inviting him in either.Maybe they would talk for another few minutes, maybe hours. Either way, he’dalready put himself in harm’s way by coming here. The more people drew close, theworse it would get.

She knew that.

Inevitability.

She could feel her resolvehardening even now, half-listening as John continued to prattle on, encouragedby her seeming willingness to be persuaded.

But he didn’t get it.

Even as she pretended to listen,her own mind was elsewhere, whirring, planning, plotting.

She would take bereavement leave.Take a break from work. Not for vacation though.

Her eyes narrowed and she feltthat same chill she’d had entering her building. As if she were being watched.Adele glanced toward the open windows, still hearing John’s voice as if it werecoming down a dark well. She couldn’t make out now what he was actually saying.

But what he’d said earlier wasright.

She needed to focus. To rememberherself. Not only for her mother, not only for Robert, but also for anyone elsethe Spade Killer might want to hunt.

Yes, she would take some time off.

Inevitability.

She would use the bereavementleave gifted her by the murderer so she could hunt him. Foucault wouldn’t bringher on the task force—she was too close to it all. She didn’t blame him. If shewas in charge, she might have made the same decision. But the task force incharge of finding the Spade Killer wouldn’t turn up anything. No one ever did.

She would have to solve thisherself.

She nodded to herself, no longerpaying any attention at all to the handsome man in her doorway. She could feelthe determination settle full and complete now, like an iron anchor dropped offthe prow of a ship.

She was going to hunt the hunter.She couldn’t keep anyone safe.

But she wouldn’t need to. Not ifshe found him first.

***

The Painter smiled, leaningforward in the desk chair at his computer, watching the entrance of his favoritefriend’s building. She’d been followed inside not long ago by the lankyFrenchman.

The Painter flicked his fingersabsentmindedly over the ticket he’d printed. It rested beneath his small hand,the date and destination just visible past his frail knuckles.

Next stop, Germany. The ticketbooked, the hotel as well. Under a different name, of course. Goodness, he hadn’tused his real name in quite a spell.

He continued