Left to Murder (Adele Sharp #5) - Blake Pierce Page 0,75
at her, smiling softly. “I could sense I was nearing the end of my story. But I didn’t want to know how. That’s cheating. Looking in the back of the book.” He chuckled.
And for a moment, as he reclined back and gave a small, satisfied sigh, Adele thought of his red leather chair, facing the fire in his study. She thought of the pile of books upon the coffee table next to him. She thought of the long conversations they would have at night, well into the morning, staring at the burning blaze turning to ash.
She thought of his warmth, his hugs, his laughter. She thought of the cupboard full of chocolate cereal he kept just for her. The plastic bowls he’d bought just to match the one her mother had once gifted her.
She thought of his invitations to his mansion, giving her freedom to live in his house as if it were her own.
“How bad is it?” she said.
Robert gave a little cough. He shook his head. “They say it’s half the size of a football,” he chuckled sharply.
She stared.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” he said. “I lost my teeth in a football match, you know.” He reached up and pointed at his missing teeth.
“I thought you said they were taken out in a boxing match in Belarus.”
Robert waved airily. “That happened too.”
“The tumor is that big?”
“Three of them,” he said, “in fact. But they’re going to try to operate this weekend.”
Adele felt a flicker of hope. “And?”
He shrugged. “Went from my stomach and hit my lymph nodes. Seems like even if they had caught it months ago, it wouldn’t matter.”
Adele felt the hope leave her, draining from her and leaving her gaunt like blood sucked from one of Mr. Davis’s victims. “How long do you have?” she said, breathlessly.
Robert rubbed his thumb across her knuckles again. “That would be reading the back of the book,” he said. “I don’t know.”
“Robert, this isn’t a book. It’s your life. I need you,” she said, her voice cracking. “I can’t do this without you.”
Robert looked at her, and for the first time since she’d entered the room his smile failed completely and tears began to spill from his own eyes.
He looked at her and held her gaze. There was a bravery there, an unwillingness to look away. “Adele,” he said, his voice firm, “you’re stronger than you think.”
She shook her head, now blubbering, feeling snot bubbles forming and tears slipping down her cheeks. She knew she looked a mess, but this was the one person for whom it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t care what she looked like. “Robert, I can’t. You can’t go. Please,” she said, desperately. “Please, you need to stay.”
Robert looked at her, and then he coughed. He leaned back and inhaled, drawing in air. “Adele, all of us leave eventually.”
“I know that.”
He looked at her. “You never did. It’s why you have this job. You think you can stop it. My dear, my lovely, precious, beautiful, wonderful child. You think you can stop it.”
She looked at him. “This can’t be it.”
Robert chuckled. “Some say it isn’t. Executive Foucault was down here yesterday. I gave him the satisfaction of a prayer.”
Adele winced and smiled despite herself, despite the tears, despite her snotty nose. “He had you pray?”
Robert grinned at her now, and wagged his head. “It didn’t particularly make me feel better, but it did seem to help him.”
Adele gave an ugly, snorting bark of laughter. She didn’t care, though. “Are you scared?”
Robert shook his head. “No, darling. In our job, if you spend so much time around death, it eventually loses its bite.”
She looked at him and shivered. She remembered where she was standing. A hospital. She thought of her mother. She thought of the last case. She stared at her old mentor, and all the humor had bled from her voice. “Not for me,” she whispered.
Robert looked at her and patted her hand. “I know. I know. But eventually,” he said, quiet, “eventually, the fear goes away.”
“Why? How could it?”
“Adele,” he said, looking at her.
“What?” She wasn’t as brave as him. She couldn’t meet his eyes. She kept her hand extended, pressed against his blankets, feeling the soft touch of his grip. But she simply couldn’t look him in the eyes.
He said, “This matters.”
She glanced down. “I know.”
But he gave her hand a little jerk. “No, listen to me. This matters. It hurts. And so, it matters.”