Left to Kill (Adele Sharp #4) - Blake Pierce Page 0,6

eyebrows.

Adele tilted her red cup, watching the liquid slosh back and forth in the confines of the container. “Do you usually invite girls into your bachelor pad while half naked and drinking alcohol?”

Just as quickly, John retorted, “I didn’t invite you, you came in without permission.”

“And yet you’re still half undressed. Not very professional in the headquarters for the DGSI.”

“Or,” said John, his eyes hooded again, a wolfish grin on his lips, “perhaps you’re the one that needs to match me. I’ve always found moonshine tastes best when half clothed. You should try it.”

She smirked. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

John downed the rest of his glass, pushed off the couch, and brushed past her again, pouring himself another drink. He smelled faintly of sweat and cologne. He moved with surefooted motions, and had a swagger, even in the small space.

John was a strange fellow. Equal parts infuriating and reliable. Trustworthy and blunt. He was the single best shot she’d ever seen with a pistol, and one of the few agents, in either the FBI, DGSI, or BKA, whom she trusted completely.

And yet, he was covered in prickles, like a cactus. Any attempt to get close with someone like John ended in some sort of wounding. He intentionally went out of his way to be obnoxious at times, if only to throw people off. Sometimes he would say cruel things, just to get a reaction.

Now, though, as he eyed her through his hooded gaze, his lip twisted into a quiet smirk. Again, she was struck by the image of an alley cat. A creature bred to be free, the king of its own back street, but nothing further.

“It really is quite tasty,” she said, taking another long sip. John hummed in response.

For a moment, Adele allowed her eyes to travel down to the rest of him, past the scars and the burn marks. She took in the musculature of his form, his lean frame, and broad shoulders. Her eyes lingered, and if he noticed, he made no comment.

Just then, her phone began to buzz. As if jolted from her reverie, Adele jerked, pulled her phone from her pocket. She gave an apologetic wince toward John, turned her back, and held up the phone to her ear.

“Ms. Glaude,” she said. The landlord.

“Yes, is this Adele Sharp from unit 3C?”

“It is, ma’am, did you get a chance to look into what I asked?”

“Yes, darling. I’m afraid it’s bad news.”

Adele’s stomach plummeted. Her landlord cleared her throat and said, “Your mother didn’t file any sort of complaint here.”

Adele blinked. How did that make sense? If someone was tampering with her mail, surely her mother would’ve brought it to the attention of the building. “Do you mean your records just don’t go back that far?”

“No,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “My records go back forty years. But your mother didn’t file anything.”

Adele frowned, shaking her head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Another thing, darling, look, I remember your mother’s situation. I remember the terrible things that happened. I’m very sorry, truly. I wouldn’t know what that was like…”

Adele just waited, wondering what she would say next.

“I might get in trouble for this, but I suppose I don’t work for the post office. And I’m not compromising any of my tenants. And given the circumstances of, well… The postman who worked at the building when you lived here with your mother,” the landlord said, a slight tinge to her voice.

Adele stiffened, waiting, her eyes widening. “Yes?” she said, quickly. “Who?”

“His name was Antoni Bordeaux.”

“Antoni Bordeaux?” said Adele. She began to fumble at her pocket, trying to extricate her father’s notebook, to write the name down.

“I’m afraid, dear, it’s more bad news, though,” said the landlord.

Adele’s scrambling fingers fell still, pressed against her thigh. “Oh?” she said. “And why is that?”

“Antoni Bordeaux died five years ago; I’m very sorry. But that’s the best I can do… Hello? Mademoiselle, are you still there?”

Adele cleared her throat. “Yes, Ms. Glaude, I’m still here. Sorry. No, thank you. You’ve done more than I could ask. Thank you.”

Adele bid farewell, then closed her phone, pocketing it again.

“Someone die?” John asked, nonchalantly.

Adele didn’t realize how deeply she was frowning until she glanced toward her partner. She blinked, trying to clear her expression. “Yes, in fact.”

John stiffened. “Oh, sorry.”

“No one I knew.” A swirl of frustration and disappointment twisted through her. “Died five years ago. A suspect, actually.”

John inclined an eyebrow. “Are you working a case?”

“Maybe. If you want