Still, she stayed in the shower.
The killer had taunted her. As if he’d known something. Something she’d missed. Something the authorities had missed. What was relevant about her workplace? That part bothered her the most. It was almost as if… She shook her head again, pushing back the thought.
But… what if it was true?
What if her mother’s killer was somehow connected to the DGSI? Maybe not the agency itself, but the building. Perhaps there was a proximity. What else would make sense of his words?
Especially given where you worked…
The man John had shot had known something about her mother’s killer. But he’d taken it to his grave. And the Spade Killer, the man he had worshipped, the man who had killed her mother, was still out there.
The cold water continued to seep down the angled slope of her shoulders, and she drew in small, quick breaths against the sensation, but still refused to move.
She would be sharp next time. They had asked her to join a task force with Interpol on an as-needed basis. But Adele was itching to return to Europe. She liked California, and she liked working with the FBI, especially with her friend Agent Grant as supervisor. But her desire to solve her mother’s murder required a level of proximity.
Finally, pushing one forearm against the glass door, gasping, Adele twisted the shower knob.
Mercifully, the freezing water stopped. She stood trembling in the glass and plastic partition for a moment as the water dripped off in quiet taps.
Whoever designed the bathroom had placed the towel rack on the back of the door on the opposite side of the room. It took a few steps to reach it, and though she had a bathmat on the floor to absorb water, she preferred to wait in the shower a bit to dry off before stepping out.
And so she waited, thinking, contemplating, shivering. She thought of another time, soaked in water, also shivering…
A flash of warmth crested her cheeks. She thought of swimming in Robert’s pool—John had come over for an evening…
He was insufferable. Rude, obnoxious, annoying, unprofessional.
But also handsome, said a small part of her. Dependable. Dangerous.
She shook her head and stepped from the shower, causing the glass and metal door to squeak open and slam into the yellow wall; a few flecks of paint chips fell from the ceiling. Adele sighed, glancing up. Already patches of mold had formed beneath the coating. The previous tenant had painted over it, which had only served to disguise the issue.
Perhaps she should text John.
No, that would be too familiar. An email then? Too impersonal. A call?
Adele hesitated for a moment and reached for her towel, pulling it off and drying her hair. A call might be nice. She reached down to her side with the scrape and winced against the minor injury.
Some wounds healed slowly. But other times, it was best to avoid a wound altogether. Perhaps it was better she didn’t call John at all.
Exhaustion weighed heavily on her shoulders as she moved through the house to the bedroom. Her eyelids were already beginning to droop. Three hours of overtime, filling out paperwork and justifying the shooting, had taken their toll.
It was a horrible thought, but Adele was starting to wish for a case in Europe.
Perhaps something that didn’t hurt anyone too badly. Just something to get her out of California. Out of the small, cramped apartment. It was too quiet. For some people, the sounds of other human beings moving around, enjoying their lives, assuaged them. It staved off bouts of loneliness.
Adele sighed again, and she moved into her room, donning bedclothes. She reaffixed a bandage on her scrape and tried to push back any further thoughts of animosity toward her new young partner. She flopped into bed and lay there for a few minutes.
In the past, she and Angus would watch TV as they drifted off. Sometimes he would read a book, narrating it line by line out loud so she could enjoy it too. Other times they would just snuggle and talk for a few hours before they drifted off.
Now, though, she lay in her bed. No TV. No books. Just quiet.
CHAPTER THREE
Melissa Robinson moved up the apartment steps, humming quietly to herself. In the distance, she heard the bells from the city. She paused to listen, her smile only widening. She’d been living in Paris for seven years now, yet the sounds never grew stale.
She turned up the next set of steps. No elevators in this apartment. The buildings were too old. Cultured, she thought to herself.
She smiled again and took the stairs one at a time. There was no rush. The new arrival she was going to meet had said two o’clock. It was 1:58. Melissa paused at the top of the landing, glancing out the wide window into the city beyond. She hadn’t grown up in Paris, but the place was beautiful. She glimpsed the old, yellowed stone structures of buildings older than some countries. She noted the angled pattern of apartments and cafes and crisscrossing streets through the heart of the city.
With another contented sigh, Melissa reached the door on the third floor and politely extended her hand, tapping on the frame. A few moments passed.
No answer.
She continued to smile, still listening to the bells and then glancing back out the window. She could just see the low-peaked steeple of Sainte-Chapelle spiraling against the horizon.
“Amanda,” she called out, her voice pleasant.
She remembered the first time she’d come to Paris. It had all seemed overwhelming. Seven years ago, an expat from America, resituating in a new country, a new culture. Knocks on the door had been a welcome distraction at that time. Melissa knew many of her friends in the expat community had a difficult time adjusting to the city. It wasn’t always as friendly at first blush, especially not for Americans, or for college-age kids. She remembered her time on an American campus for the first two years. It was as if everyone had wanted to be her friend. In France, people were a bit more reserved. Which, of course, was why she helped organize the group.
Melissa smiled again and tapped on the door once more. “Amanda,” she repeated.
Again, there was no response. She hesitated, glancing up and down the hall. She reached into her pocket and fished out her phone. Smartphones were all well and good, but Melissa preferred a bit of an older style. She scanned the old flip phone and noted the time on the front screen. 2:02. She scrolled through the text messages and scanned Amanda’s last text.
“I’d be happy to meet you later today. Say, 2pm? Looking forward to the group. It’s been hard making friends in the city.”
Melissa’s smile faltered a bit. She remembered meeting Amanda—a chance encounter in a supermarket. They’d hit it off immediately. The bells seemed to fade in the distance now. On a whim, she reached out and felt for the door handle. She twisted and found that it turned. A click, and the door shifted open just a crack.
Melissa stared.
She would have to make sure Amanda knew about the dangers of leaving her door unlocked downtown. Even in a city like Paris, caution preceded safety. Melissa hesitated for a moment, caught in a crisis of conscience, but then, at last, she eased the door open completely with a gentle prod of her forefinger.
“Hello,” she called into the dark apartment. Perhaps Amanda was out shopping. Maybe she’d forgotten the appointment. “Hello, Amanda? It’s me, Melissa from the forum…”
No answer.
Melissa didn’t consider herself a particularly nosy sort. But when it came to Americans in Paris, she had a sense of kinship. Almost like they belonged to the same family. It didn’t feel so much like intruding as checking in on a little sister. She nodded to herself, justifying the decision in her mind before she stepped into the apartment of a woman she’d only met once before.