Left To Die (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book One) Page 2

  Then the door swung open.

  Angus stared out at her, blinking owlishly from behind his thin-framed glasses. He had a thick jaw, like a football player, but the curling hair of a cupid ornament. Angus was taller than her by a few inches, which was impressive given Adele’s own height of five foot ten.

  She stepped over the threshold, nearly tripping on something in the door, but then flung out her arms, wrapping Angus in an embrace. She leaned in, kissing him gently, closing her eyes for a moment and inhaling the familiar odor of citrus and herbal musk.

  He pulled back, ever so slightly. Adele frowned, stiffening. She opened her eyes, peering up at Angus.

  “Er, hey, Addie,” he said, calling her by the nickname he’d used when they’d first started dating. “Welcome back.” He scratched nervously at his chin, and Adele realized he had something strapped over his shoulder.

  A duffel bag.

  She took a hesitant, awkward step back, and again nearly tripped over the item in the door. She glanced down. A suitcase—not hers. Her suitcase and briefcase were still in the hall where she’d left them.

  She glanced from the suitcase to Angus’s duffel bag, then back at her boyfriend.

  “Hello,” she said, hesitantly. “Is everything all right?”

  Now that she looked, she realized Angus’s glasses had distracted her from his eyes, which were rimmed red. He’d been crying.

  “Angus, are you all right?”

  She reached out for him again, but this time he ducked the gesture. Her arms fell like lead to her sides and she stared, all sense of euphoria that had been swirling in her chest in the elevator deflating from her like air from a balloon.

  “I’m sorry, Addie,” he said, quietly. “I wanted to wait—to tell you in person.”

  “Tell—tell me what exactly?”

  Angus’s voice quavered as he looked her in the eyes. “Christ, I wish it didn’t have to be like this,” he said. “I really, really do.”

  Adele could feel her own tears coming on, but she suppressed them. She’d always been good at managing her emotions. She completed another small breathing exercise; small habits, compounded over time. She looked Angus in the eye and held his gaze.

  He looked away, rubbing his hands across the strap to his duffel bag in short, nervous gestures.

  “It’s everything,” he said, quietly. “I won’t bother you. The place is yours. I’ll pay my side of the lease for the next year. That should give you time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “To find a new place, if you need. Or another roommate.” He half-choked on this last word and coughed, clearing his throat.

  “I don’t understand… I thought… I thought…” Again, she suppressed the wave of emotions swelling in her. The way a sergeant’s daughter knew how. The way a trained agent knew how. She scanned him up and down and spotted the glinting silver Rolex displayed on his wrist.

  Jennifer had been right. He had visited a jewelry store. The watch had been something he’d wanted for a while now.

  “God, Addie, come on. Don’t make this tough. You knew this was coming. You had to have known this was coming…”

  She simply stared at him, his words passing over her like a gusting breeze. She shook her head against the sound, trying to make sense of it. But while she could hear him, it sounded like his voice was echoing up from a deep well.

  “I didn’t see it,” she said, simply.

  “Typical,” Angus said with a sigh. He shook his head and pointed toward the kitchen table. “My key is there. All the bills are paid and the stubs are beneath the coffee tray. You’ll need to water and feed Gregory, but I stocked up enough for the month.”

  Adele hadn’t thought about the turtle they’d gotten together. She hadn’t had much time to take care of the thing. At least Angus had.

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “About Gregory? I figured you might want him. I’ll take him if you don’t, but I didn’t want to steal him if you cared or—”

  “You can have the damn turtle. I mean why did you say ‘typical.’ What’s typical?”

  Angus sighed again. “We really don’t have to do this. I—I don’t know what else to say.”

  “Something. You haven’t said anything. I come home from three weeks on a work trip to find my boyfriend of two years packed up ready to leave. I feel like I deserve some explanation.”

  “I gave you one! Over the phone. I said we needed to talk when you got back. Well, here’s the talk. I’ve got to go; I have an Uber coming.”

  Vaguely, Adele wondered with a dull humor if the same Uber driver would come pick Angus up.

  “Over the phone? You talked about a movie night, right? Said something about going out with your friends.”

  “Yes, Addie, and I said that I was tired of not having you with me. Remember that part? Christ, for an investigator you sure suck at figuring out what’s beneath your nose. You’ve been gone for twenty days, Addie! This is the third time this year. Sometimes it feels like I’m dating a phone app, and that’s when you have time for a quick ten-minute call.”

  Adele shook her head. She stepped back and retrieved her own luggage from the hall and dragged it over the suitcase in the door. She shook her head as she moved, frowning. “That’s not fair.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “I thought…” She trailed off again, still shaking her head. She glanced down at her left hand and felt a sudden surge of embarrassment. Humiliation was the one emotion she had never quite learned how to suppress. She felt it swirl through her, bubbling in her stomach like hot tar. She felt her temper rising and set her teeth. Growing up with three passports, three nationalities, three loyalties as some saw it, Adele had been forced to weather all sorts of comments and jibes at her appearance, at her heritage. She had thick skin, with some things. Pervs on board jet planes were easy enough to handle.

  But vulnerability? Intimacy? Failing in those areas always left her with a deep pit of self-loathing formed by humiliation and fear. She could feel it clawing its way through her now, ripping apart her calm, tearing down her facade.

  “Fine,” she said, her face stony. “Fine then. If you want to leave, then leave.”

  “Look, it doesn’t have to be like that,” Angus said, and she could hear the hurt in his voice. “I just can’t do it, Addie. I miss you too much.”

  “You have a hell of a way of showing it. You wanna know what’s funny? Christ—I can’t even believe it.” She snorted in disgust at her own stupidity. “I thought you were going to marry me. I thought you were going to propose. Ha!”

  Angus shook his head in small, jagged little motions that caused his curly hair to shift. “You’re already married, Adele. And you’re loyal—I know you won’t cheat.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I should have known when we first started dating. The signs were there. But you’re just so damn pretty, sexy, smart. You’re the most driven person I know. I guess—I guess I didn’t want to see it. But you’re married to your job. I’m second place. Every time.”

  “That’s not—”

  “True? Really? Say it if you believe it. Tell me that next time you get a call to go out of state for three weeks that you’ll turn it down. You’ll request to stay at the office here. Tell me you’ll do that, and I’ll stay. Hell, I’ll march right back in our room and unpack this damn minute. Tell me you’ll say no if they call.”

  Adele stared at him, the hurt in his voice and in his eyes pricking her pride and deflating her once more. She studied his eyes behind the glasses. She hadn’t realized just how long his eyelashes were over his dark stare. It hurt to look at him, so she averted her gaze.

  “See,” he said after a moment of silence. “You can’t. You can’t promise that you’ll choose me first. I hope it’s worth it, Addie. It’s just a job.”

  He began to step past her, into the hall.

  Adele didn’t turn, preferring to stare sightless across the small sp
ace of their cramped apartment.

  “It isn’t,” she said, listening to the sound of Angus’s retreating footsteps. “It’s not just a job…” She clenched her fists at her sides. “It isn’t.”

  She heard him heave a massive sigh. She could feel him watching her, paused in the middle of the hallway. For a moment, she half hoped he would turn back, tell her it was all some big mistake. But after a moment, he said, “There’s food in the microwave, Addie. I saved you some leftovers in the fridge as well. You should be good for a couple of days.”

  Then the elevator doors dinged, there was the sound of shuffling feet and rolling wheels, and when Adele turned back around, Angus was gone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Stars winked down at Marion, coy twinkles of light witnessing the twenty-four-year-old woman’s progress from the small coffee shop out into the heart of the city’s night. The many odors of the Seine wafted on the air, confronting her with the scent of river musk and the residue of the bakeries which had closed until morning. The blare from the horns of impatient drivers replaced the usual sounds of bells which normally tolled across the city. She heard a low, buzzing noise. Listened for only a moment, then placed the sound as that of a tourist boat zipping by beneath the arching structure of the Pont d’Arcole.

  Marion exhaled softly as she stepped from the coffee shop onto the sidewalk, taking it all in. This was her city. She’d lived here her whole life and had no intention of ever leaving. One could grow old and still not find all the adventures hidden within the historic place. She nodded in greeting at an elderly couple walking past, recognizing them from the intersection of their nighttime routines.

  “Off into the night, I see?” said the old man in rasping, clipped French, speaking with the undertones of a fellow from the countryside. He winked as he passed and then winced as the accompanying madame tweaked his ear.

  “As always, monsieur,” Marion called back, meeting his smile. “Out to meet some friends.”

  She bid the couple farewell with a nod and a skip in her step. Then she strolled up the sidewalk, heading toward the river and turning on the corner. She often walked alone late at night—it had never bothered her. This part of the city was well lit, after all, wreathed in security lights and traffic beams which reflected off the glass of the many windows spotting the apartments and shops.

  She moved along the sidewalk, turning down another street in the direction of the club where her friends would be waiting. She hotfooted along the illuminated walkways as she checked her phone, spotting an unopened message.

  Before she could read the text, however, Marion heard a noise behind her, which distracted her from her phone for the moment. She glanced down the illuminated street, scanning the stone steps and stairwells of the many looming buildings. A stone’s throw away, a man limped along, holding a small bundle in one arm. A moment passed. Then the bundle emitted a crying sound, and the man ducked his head in embarrassment, making shushing noises and trying to calm the infant.

  Marion smiled at the man and his baby, then returned her attention to her phone. She tapped the screen to read the message. But before she could…

  “Hello, little woman, is all things good and well?”

  She turned, startled by the broken French as much as the sudden proximity of the man and his child. He was now walking alongside her, making cooing noises toward the bundle in his arms every couple of steps. She frowned at him for a moment, gathering her nerve. Then she stowed her phone. The text would have to wait. She never wanted it said that Paris was as inhospitable as some of those in the tourist districts wished it were.

  The man wore his smile like makeup and his eyes twinkled genially, reminding her of the sparse stars above which had managed to push their way through the city lights.

  “All things are well,” she said, nodding. “How is your evening?”

  The man shrugged, causing the wool cap on his head to shift a little. He reached up and tugged it off with his free hand, stowing it on top of the bundle in his arm.

  This struck her as rather odd, and she said as much. It was as her mother always said: the women of Paris ought never fear their opinions.

  “You will smother the child,” she said, pointing toward the hat.

  The man nodded as if he agreed, but made no move to adjust the garment. He seemed, almost, to be waiting for something. He scratched at his red hair, which tumbled past his face in loose, sweaty strands.

  After a moment, he caught her eye. “The child likes shade,” he said. His French still came on with a thick accent. “Say, do you know the course to—to—how do you say it—the water structure? No—hmm, the bridge!”

  Marion shook her head in momentary confusion, but then smiled back at the man, meeting his pleasant expression with one of her own. “There are a few bridges. The nearest one is along this street, across the walk and down the stairs near the wharf.”

  The man winced in confusion, shaking his head and tapping his ear. “What is this?”

  She repeated the instructions, carefully. Obviously, this man was a lost tourist, though she couldn’t quite place his accent.

  Again, the man winced, holding up his free hand apologetically and shaking his head once more.

  Marion sighed. She glanced over her shoulder, back up the street in the direction of the club. Her friends would be waiting. Then she returned her attention to the man and his child, her eyes darting to his pleading expression, and she felt a surge of pity.

  “I will show you, all right? It isn’t far. Follow me, sir.” She turned, heading back the way she had come. She suppressed all the bitter thoughts about tourists that half the city circulated in casual conversation. She quite liked tourists, even if they were a bit dense.

  The man seemed to understand her well enough this time and fell into step, cradling his child with the cap on top.

  “You is a demon,” said the man, his tone filled with gratitude.

  Marion frowned at this.

  The man hesitated, then urgently amended, “No—I mean angel. So sorry. Not demon—you is angel!”

  Marion laughed, shaking her head. With a wink of her own, she said, “Perhaps I am a bit demon, too, hmm?”

  This time it was the man’s turn to laugh. The baby cried again beneath the hat and the man turned, whispering sweetly to his child.

  They crossed the street and Marion led the man down the stairs by the wharf. Already, the bridge was in sight, but the man seemed so distracted with his child that Marion felt bad about abandoning him without taking him direct.

  As they descended the stairs, dipping beneath a dank, stone overpass, the area became less illuminated. There were far fewer people around now.

  “We are here,” said the man, his French markedly improved all of a sudden.

  Marion glanced at him, then noticed something odd. The man noticed her gaze and then gave an apologetic shrug. He dropped the blanket. A small, toy baby—the type that would cry with their bellies pushed—was strapped to the man’s forearm. The baby’s plastic eyes peered out at Marion.

  The man winked. “I told you he likes the shade.”

  Marion wrinkled her brow in pleasant confusion.

  A moment too late, she saw the surgeon’s scalpel in the man’s left hand. Then he shoved her, hard, the plastic doll crying quietly in the night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Adele stood before the stone steps of the school, eyeing the crowd of children with the greatest of suspicion. She shook her head once, then glanced up at her mother. Her gaze didn’t have to travel far; already, Adele was taller than most of her classmates. She had hit a growth spurt when she still lived in Germany, with the Sergeant, and it hadn’t seemed to stop until this year.

  Now fifteen, Adele found the boys in Paris paid more attention to her than the ones in Germany had. Still, as she stood studying the flow of students into the bilingual secondary school, she couldn’t help but feel a jolt of anxiety.

  “What is it, my Cara?” her mother asked,
smiling sweetly at her daughter.

  Adele wrinkled her nose at the nickname, wiping her hands over the front of her school sweater and twisting the buttons on the cotton sleeves. Her mother had grown up in France, and had particular fondness for the Carambar caramels which were still popular in candy shops and gas stations. She often said the jokes written on the outside of the caramel’s wrappers were a lot like Adele: clever on the outside with a soft and sweet middle. The description made Adele gag.

  Adele Sharp had her mother’s hair and good looks, but she often thought she had her father’s eyes and outlook.

  “They are so noisy,” Adele replied in French, the words slow and clumsy on her tongue. The first twelve years of her life had been spent in Germany; re-acclimating to French was taking some time.

  “They are children, my Cara. They are supposed to be noisy; you should try it.”

  Adele frowned, shaking her head. The Sergeant had never approved of noisy children. Noise provided only distraction. It was the tool of fools and sluggish thinkers.

  “It is the best school in Paris,” said her mother, reaching out a cool hand to cup her daughter’s cheek. “Give it a try, hmm?”

  “Why can’t I homeschool like last year?”

  “Because it is not good for you to stay trapped in that apartment with me—no, no.” Her mother clicked her tongue, making a tsking sound. “This is not good for you. You enjoyed swimming at your old school, didn’t you? Well, there is an excellent team here. I spoke with my friend Anna, and she says her daughter made tryouts the first year.”

  Adele shrugged with a shoulder, smiling with one side of her mouth. She sighed and then dipped her head, trying not to stand out over the other children so much.

  Her mother gave her a kiss on the cheek, which Adele returned halfheartedly. She turned to leave, hefting her school bag over one shoulder. As she trudged toward the school, the sound of the bell and milling children faded. The secondary school flashed and the walls turned gray.