Left to Murder (Adele Sharp #5) - Blake Pierce Page 0,49
little of her?
You can’t help, said a small voice in her mind. You can’t save him. You couldn’t save your mother. They hide things because you’re useless. You’re helpless.
She resisted the urge to scream. Part of her wanted to punch the mirror. She stood there, facing the bathroom above the sink, her hands clenched at her side. Then she just slumped, all fight draining from her like water from a sieve. What was the point? What was the point in any of it?
She unhooked her belt, placed her sidearm next to the phone on top of the towel. Not exactly protocol, but fuck protocol.
She moved over toward the door, and then shifted toward the bed, glancing up at the TV. She didn’t want to go to sleep. She couldn’t. She could still hear the faint blare of classical music coming from the room next door.
She felt caught, on fire, unable to do anything. Standing still was agony, moving was even more painful. Thinking. It all was a buzz—the fear and terror. Was Robert going to die? Would she be able to even see him again? She needed to solve this case. Politics be damned, but the sooner she solved it, the sooner she could go back and see her old mentor.
She could feel the tears again, spilling down her cheeks.
Was she really so useless? So helpless? Why did everyone have to die around her? Why couldn’t she help? No amount of training, no amount of smarts, no amount of determination, no amount of practice, no amount of physical exertion, none of it seemed to stave off the inevitability that hounded every corner in her job. Death. Death lurked around every corner, and the hounds of Hades came for all. And all she could do was watch from the sidelines as one by one the people she adored were ripped from her hands. And eventually, she would follow. Death itself would come for her, nipping at her neck, cold fingers around her throat.
And perhaps it would be the truest mercy there ever was.
Perhaps death would be the answer.
These morbid thoughts swirled through her. She could feel the panic, she could feel the rage. And the despair drowned it all out in swishing, swaying tides of sadness.
She found her hand moving toward the door again, but what was the point? There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
She flipped the lights and lowered herself into a sitting position, her back against the door. Trembling. Shaking.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
And there she sat, for half an hour. Perhaps an hour, maybe more. Her pulse went wild, her heartbeat throbbing in her chest. A panic attack. Two. What was there to do about it? Nothing. Nothing but sit and wait. Inwardly, she loathed how she was feeling sorry for herself. This was about Robert. Not about her. This thought almost propelled her to her feet, but then another rush of pumping blood, a pulsing heart, and wild thoughts glued her to the wall, keeping her pressed to the floor, like a hand pushing down.
She offered up a quiet prayer, like her father used to teach. But this didn’t seem to satisfy either. She tried to hum to herself, a song her mother used to sing. This didn’t help. She tried her breathing exercises.
None of it seemed to stave off the dread pouring down her spine like ice water. A killer they couldn’t catch. Her mother’s killer had also eluded her. And now Robert, dying in a hospital, unable to talk to him on the other side of the planet.
A quiet knock echoed on her door.
She blinked in the darkness of the hotel room where she leaned against the wall. A shadow moved beneath the door, black lines crossing a yellow slit.
She tried to open her mouth to reply, but found she didn’t even have the energy for that.
How fucking pathetic did she look now? What a joke. As good as a cadaver.
The hand knocked on the door again. The shadow shifted. “Adele?” said John’s voice.
There was something about the way he said her name that carried a concern deeper than she felt for herself at that moment.
“Adele,” he said, a bit louder, but still echoing with the same concern. “Open the door.”
It wasn’t an option. He wasn’t asking.
“Adele, open the door, please.”
Again, not a request. A strange tactic, she considered. Blunt, straightforward, a demand. But also full of concern, care.