heard quiet murmurs, radio chatter, and watched officers move delicately around the blood-spattered table and floor. She heard a commanding officer’s voice call out from within, “Careful—no, back, back. Too many of you. Get back!”
She looked back toward the grass between her feet, swallowing a breath of the cool night air of Sonoma County.
“You all right?” John asked after a moment.
She leaned a bit into him now, her shoulders relaxing somewhat. His injured hand draped past her right arm, his bandaged palm reflecting off the surface of the small pond. Above, she heard a twittering, rustling sound and looked up to see a small blue jay probing tentatively among the seeds.
“Pretty late for you, isn’t it?” she murmured to the creature.
But the bird ignored her attention, seemingly emboldened by all the noise serving as a distraction so it could make good its pillaging of the free seed. Then, after a few more flutters of its wings, it darted away, moving off into the night.
Adele shook her head, smiling wryly. “Didn’t know they fed this late.”
John grunted. “Some birds don’t let expectations define their decisions.”
Adele glanced back at her partner, scowling at the side of his cheek. “Are you trying to be clever, John?”
He crossed his good hand over his heart and kissed the fingers. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Adele sighed, blinking, her eyes strained from the bright lights lining the backyard and emanating from within the house. “I’m tired,” she murmured.
“I can drive back,” John said. “If you trust me not to crash.”
“I don’t, but fine…”
Despite this, she made no move to rise. There was something comforting, safe, about sitting next to her partner, shivering, but warmed by his body heat. She leaned her head against his shoulder fully now.
He seemed to breathe a bit quieter, as if fearful he might disturb her, or startle her away. For now, though, she didn’t care if anyone saw them, if it somehow got back to Foucault or Ms. Jayne. For now, she was simply tired and wanted to rest.
“Adele,” John said, softly.
“Hmm? What do you think we should do with Mr. Davis’s nephew? Carter was asking.”
Adele hesitated a moment, closing her eyes to think. She heard the soft, artificial swish of the pond water lapping against the side of the stone basin. Then she shrugged. “Cut him loose. I don’t think he had anything to do with it.”
“Even after covering for the killer?”
“His uncle. Family. The same uncle who would have been happy to let the boy take the fall for him. I think Ken will figure that out soon enough.” Adele shook her head. “Yeah, let him go. He didn’t know—was just trying to protect family.”
John sniffed. “Fine. I’ll tell Carter. You sure?”
“I’m sure. People risk a lot for family.”
John breathed in a way that might have been a chuckle or might have been a sigh of resignation. She didn’t bother to look up and see.
“Adele?” he said after another few moments of watching the movement through the windows.
“Yeah?”
“I like you.”
She kept her eyes closed, still leaning against John, but a small smile twisted the corners of her lips. “I like you too,” she said, softly.
“I’m shit poor with this sort of thing,” John said.
Adele’s smile remained. “Me too.”
“Foucault?”
“I don’t care. We’ll tread carefully.”
John snorted. “Not sure either of us knows how to do that.”
Adele’s eyes blinked open. Instead of replying, her gaze scanned the smashed window of the sliding door, slipped along the bloodstained hall, took in the scene of the police officers moving through the house, scouring the scene of carnage within.
“Yeah,” she said. “Maybe not. Oh well.”
John went quiet for a moment, then reiterated. “Oh well,” the tall agent murmured to himself and then, louder, said, “I miss France.”
Adele nodded, her hair shifting against the fabric of his shirt. “Yeah, me too.”
“Let’s go home.”
Adele closed her eyes again. She wasn’t entirely sure where home was. But for the moment, in the warmth of John’s company, facing the distant gleam of flashing lights from an ambulance which carried Mr. Castle, alive, safe… she felt perhaps it didn’t matter so much.
“Let’s go home,” she said.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Executive Foucault had called her that morning and told her the news. Robert was awake. He wanted to talk.
The cab from the airport reached the hospital in record time. She glanced back where she stood on the sidewalk, watching the taxi peel away, doing an illegal U-turn and heading back in the direction of the airport.
She took the steps outside the hospital, quickly, as if