The sound of cursing and crying faded from Jason’s direction where he rolled back and forth, his teeth flashing as they gritted in pain, and he pressed his head against the rough sidewalk. Rivulets of red stained his fingers. Every few moments he would look away from his injured arm and turn toward his steaming truck, shaking his head with a renewed anguish.
Adele sighed, then put her hand to her battery-powered field radio. “We’re going to need medical,” she said.
She glanced between her partner, who was still shakily getting to his feet, and Hernandez’s writhing form. She sighed again. “Better make it two.” Then, with a roll of her eyes, she approached Jason, handcuffs emerging from her belt.
CHAPTER TWO
Adele loosed an explosive gust of breath, listening to the quiet creak of hinges as her apartment door closed behind her. Four hours of ridiculous paperwork and interviews later, Adele was glad to be back home.
She flipped a light switch and peered into the cramped space as she rolled her shoulders and winced against a sudden pulse of pain. Adele glanced down at her side and, for the first time, noticed a stain of red on her white undershirt beneath her suit.
She frowned. Wincing again, Adele scanned her small apartment as she went to the kitchen sink, resignedly untucking the front of her shirt from her belt.
A new place. The lease only lasted two months at a time. It had been too expensive to stay in the old apartment. After Angus left, Adele simply wasn’t paid enough to keep up rent South of Market, where Angus and his coding buddies had congregated. Now, having moved to Brisbane, she found she didn’t mind the change. It wasn’t loud—which she had her neighbors to thank for—though the place was little more than a kitchen, a TV, and a bedroom with an en-suite bathroom. All of it, even somehow the TV, smelled a bit of mold.
It wasn’t like she spent much time at home anyway.
Adele winced again as she pulled her shirt from her belt and examined the long scratch against her skin. She grimaced in recollection. A gift of the chain-link fence, no doubt.
“Damn rookies,” she muttered beneath her breath.
Agent Masse was young. Only a few months out of training. Adele doubted she’d been much better on her first collar, but still… that had been a debacle. She missed John. Last time they’d met, though… things had grown awkward. She remembered the late-night swim in Robert’s private pool. The way John had leaned in, the way she’d recoiled, almost reflexively.
Adele frowned at the thought and immediately wished she could take it back. Instead, she reached for a clean length of paper towel from the counter and began running hot water. She opened the cabinet over the fridge and snagged a bottle of rubbing alcohol. She dabbed it against the towel and pressed the makeshift disinfectant wipe to her ribs, wincing yet again.
She moved over to the single chair in the kitchen, pressed against the half table between the fridge and the stove, and took a seat facing the wall, dabbing the strong-smelling paper towel against her scrape. At last, as she leaned back, she let out a long breath.
Absentmindedly, she glanced over her shoulder toward the door. Two bolts and a chain lock ornamented the metal frame, remnants from the previous tenants.
The chair creaked as she adjusted herself and leaned one elbow against the table, staring at the surface of the smooth wood. She shifted again, if only for the sake of the noise. The apartment was so quiet. Living with Angus, there would always be a TV show running or some podcast blaring from his room while he worked on a coding project. For the couple weeks she’d spent with Robert back in France, she would often find herself in the same room as her old mentor, enjoying his company by the fire as he read a book or listened to concertos on the radio.
Now, though, in the small, stuffy San Francisco apartment… it was all so quiet again.
Adele shifted once more, listening to the creak and protest of the poorly constructed chair. A phrase from her childhood, one of her father’s favorites, crossed her mind. “Simple things please simple minds.” In a sort of phantom protest, Adele wiggled in the chair, listening to the strangely consoling creak of wood one last time, before she gritted her teeth, still pressing her makeshift disinfectant wipe against her wound, and then she regained her feet and trudged down the hall.
“Bloody Renee,” she muttered.
Jason Hernandez never would have bolted if John had been there. She missed France. After the interview with Interpol, she’d spent some time with Robert. A nice time—refreshing in its own way. It had given her an opportunity to look for her mother’s killer.
Adele pushed open the bathroom door at the end of the hall and stood in front of the mirror. It was a small, cramped bathroom. The shower sufficed as Adele hadn’t taken a bath in nearly six years. Showers were far more efficient. The Sergeant—her father—likely hadn’t taken a bath his entire life.
She sighed again as she undressed and stepped into the shower, turning on the hot water, but the spray was still lukewarm. Another little flaw of the new apartment. The water pressure wasn’t great either, but would have to do.
As Adele stood beneath the tepid drizzle, she closed her eyes, allowing her mind to wander, pushing past the events of the day, of the past couple of months back in the States.
Words played through her mind.
“…Honestly, it’s funny you left Paris, you know that? Especially given where you worked.”
She sighed as the water soaked her hair and began to drip down her nose and cheeks in slow uneven pulses, matching the temperamental jets from the showerhead. Yet she kept her eyes closed, still mulling over the words. They echoed—sometimes even when she slept—resonating in her head.
That’s what the killer had said.
Back in France. A man who’d sliced his victims and watched them bleed out, helpless and alone. She and John had caught that serial killer, but not before he had nearly murdered her father. He’d nearly killed Adele, too.
The bastard had worshiped her mother’s killer. Another murderer—so many of them.
Adele’s brow bunched in the stream of water as she clutched her fists and her knuckles pressed against the cold, slick white plastic pretending to be porcelain.
John had killed the serial killer before he’d ended Adele, but that had only left her with more questions. Part of her wished he’d been allowed to live.
Why was it funny she’d left Paris? That phrase haunted her now. She kept running it through her mind. Funny you left Paris… especially given where you worked… Almost like he was teasing her. They had been talking about her mother’s killer.
Paris. She was nearly certain now. Her mother’s murderer had lived in Paris. Perhaps he still did. He would be what, fifty? Adele shook her head, sending water droplets scattering across the shower onto the slick floor.
She gritted her teeth as more lukewarm liquid pulsed in uneven jets from the nozzles.
In a surge of frustration, she twisted the knob the full way, but the water didn’t warm. Adele blinked, her eyes stinging against the trails of liquid inside the slope of her cheeks. She stared in anger at the shower knob, the arrow pointing at the culmination of a red slash.
“Fine then,” she muttered.
She grabbed the handle and twisted it the other way. Small disciplines compounded over time. The cold water began to arc on her head and sent goosebumps rising on her arms. Adele’s teeth began chattering within moments, and the pain in her side faded to a numb chill as the cold water turned frigid.