Left to Envy (Adele Sharp #6) - Blake Pierce Page 0,2

mother, pictures from that crime scene playing like a slideshow through her subconscious. She shivered and rolled in the bed, facing the blue wall as if to block out the procession of horror.

The thoughts had chased her from France to Germany.

Medical leave. Mental health.

Adele actually winced at the memory of speaking to Foucault, requesting time off. He’d been more than understanding, but her own pride had taken a hit. What did the others think of her? Agent Paige? John? Robert?

She should have dived headfirst into the case—gone after the killer. But… but she simply hadn’t been able to. For a week now, she felt weakened, beleaguered. An exhaustion and fatigue she’d rarely felt before. Once, perhaps. Depression, they’d said. After her mother’s death.

Now, she was squarely back in the horrible, dark, lonely room of her own mind.

Back in her father’s house. The two of them hadn’t really even reconciled yet, not after he’d concealed information on her mother’s case. The same case now haunting her. But she’d had nowhere else to go, and, to his credit, he hadn’t turned her away. They’d even managed a couple of cordial conversations over bowls of soup—about anything besides work.

As if summoning him with thought alone, Adele heard the creak of the stairs outside her room. She jarred, blinking, looking over at her closed door.

Knuckles knocked quietly.

She shivered.

“Adele?” her father said. She’d flat out refused to be called by her last name any longer, and, though it had taken some getting used to, her father had finally relented.

“Busy,” she called to the door.

“Just—just checking. Are you all right?”

Adele drew her blanket up around her shoulders, her eyes sealed shut for a moment, staving off a sudden headache.

“Fine… I’m fine,” she said.

“Look, Adele, I—I…” Her father stumbled over the words. “It’s been a week. You’ve barely left your room. I just wanted to—”

“We had dinner together last night,” she retorted, frowning now.

“That was two nights ago, Adele. I’m beginning to worry about you.”

Adele breathed slowly, feeling a flutter of unease in her chest. Even the thought of fear seemed to bring it raging back for no reason at all. She quelled the sense and exhaled through her nose, breathing slowly. “I’m fine, Dad. It’s fine.”

Another long, awkward pause. For a moment, she thought perhaps he’d left, though she hadn’t heard his footsteps on the stairs.

Then he spoke rapidly, as if worried he might not get the words out. “Look, Adele, if this is about your mother’s case…”

She rolled her eyes up and puffed a geyser of exasperated breath at the ceiling. “Damn it, Dad—not now. I said I’m busy.” She felt a flash of regret at the words. Was she being harsh? It was hard to tell. Confusion was part of the panic, she’d been told. Still, just in case, she added, “Sorry. Look, I’d love to chat in an hour. Would that be okay? We can watch TV or something.”

Her father seemed relieved at this olive branch and cleared his throat—a muffled, gurgling sound through the wooden door. “Great, sounds great, Sharp—er, Adele. Yes. I’ll make some chowder soup.”

Then, mercifully, at last, she heard his retreating footsteps moving back down the stairs and leaving her to her solace.

Adele breathed again, in for five seconds, out for seven, slow, calm…

Her father was the only other person who understood the pain, the horror of it all. He processed it in other ways, but there was something about grief that required company.

Adele sighed, sitting up now and massaging her head. She felt a shuddering headache where she sat, and blinked. For six days now, languishing around the house, she didn’t feel better for it. She felt stuck, like a car in mud, spinning its wheels.

John Renee had offered some words earlier in the week, speaking from his own past of loss and pain. But she didn’t need a shrink. Every other area with John seemed to be stuck also. Maybe even in the same mud pit. Except in that circumstance, instead of a car, she felt like a stick. Completely helpless.

“Christ,” she muttered, remembering their last conversation.

“…Are you sure?” he’d said, his voice over the phone. “If there’s anything I can do…”

“No, John,” she’d said, in the same bed she now found herself in, watching videos on her phone. “Maybe… maybe I need some space. It’s all so heavy.”

“Right,” he said. “Space.”

“I think”—she had coughed—“I think maybe we need to back off, you know? What do you think?”

“Sounds appropriate. All right, Adele. If there’s anything you need.”

That