Left to Envy (Adele Sharp #6) - Blake Pierce Page 0,1

itself.

Only then, as he stared at the horrific image, did Vicente stumble back, nearly slipping on the blood, shouting as loud as any brimstone priest, “Timothe! Timothe! Call the police!”

CHAPTER TWO

Seven days earlier…

Adele moved with quick, sure-footed steps along the garden path of the Parc Monceau back in Paris. Her breathing came slow, regimented, careful. She found some of the air a strained gasp…

This should have been her first warning.

Adele moved closer to the new crime scene. The new piece of brutal art added to the portfolio of her mother’s killer. As she drew closer, crossing the caution-tape boundary, her heart hammered some more. She found it difficult to breathe.

This should have been her second warning.

She came to a halt, staring at the corpse.

Fingers missing. A lacework of cuts and curling wounds, like some horrendous painting slashed into the flesh of the young woman. Marion Elise Ramon. A coincidence her middle name matched Adele’s mother’s? Unlikely. Even the wounds, the missing fingers, the brutal torture matched Elise Romei’s own crime scene. Also found on the side of a running trail in a quiet park, left to be discovered.

Adele started hyperventilating. For a moment, she felt like she couldn’t draw breath. She stared, her body starting to tremble, to shake, from her thighs, to her stomach, up her chest and arms. Her whole form shook in the park, though the weather was mild and she’d only been strolling.

The shaking grew so bad, her gasping worsened so she couldn’t look. She tore her gaze away.

“Agent Sharp?” a voice called from near the crime scene. “Agent Sharp, are you—”

She ignored it, turning, still shaking. For a moment, it felt like her knees would collapse. She’d never had a panic attack before. At least, not one this powerful. She found tears slipping down her cheeks for no reason at all. She took a stumbling step away from the crime scene, then another. Images of her own mother suddenly appeared in her mind, flashing across her eyes.

“Agent Sharp?” the voice called.

She ignored it, stumbling away, fleeing, faster, faster. As she moved away from the crime scene, the shaking grew easier. The pain in her chest lessened. She found she could begin to breathe again by the time she reached the car.

Gasping, trembling now, she threw herself into the vehicle and pulled away… refusing to look back…

Seven days had passed since that walk in the park in Paris.

Her breathing had improved, the shakings were gone—mostly. But the images remained.

Adele sat with her head against the white-painted wall of her bedroom back in Germany. She shivered as the images continued to whir across her eyes, though she’d closed them. She clenched, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to blockade the cavalcade of horrendous imaginings. A week since she’d visited that crime scene. A week since the memories had bobbed to the surface.

Now, she was in Germany. She’d fled France and the pressure that came with her job.

She opened her eyes, leaning back on her old bed. The last time she’d slept in this room had been nearly two decades ago. Her father’s house creaked like she remembered; sometimes, the floorboards protesting movement as her father made his way around the kitchen and living room downstairs. Other times, the roof and the walls, seemingly of their own accord, groaned with old age.

Adele sighed where she lay, her eyes fixated on the low ceiling of her childhood room. The bed was firmer than she remembered. But even some of her old, less-loved stuffed animals remained, sitting on a small chest against the opposite wall. The same desk, the same paint color, the same bed—everything the same. The only difference was the new metal lock on the inside of her door. All the bedrooms had them now after the home invasion where her father had nearly died.

Then, the killer had also seemed connected to her mother’s death. Again, back in this house, history seemed to be repeating itself.

There was little doubt in Adele’s mind the killer of Marion Elise Ramon was a copycat. The details were too specific. Even the torturous wounds matched the same carnage wrought on Elise all those years ago. Plus the name—the middle name. The killer was taunting her. She’d kicked a hornet’s nest, visiting a chocolate bar factory a few weeks ago. Asking questions.

And now, she had the killer’s response. Another woman butchered in an empty park.

Though her eyes were now open, the same images flashed across her mind. Bleeding… bleeding… always bleeding.

She saw her own