And yet she couldn’t shake the deepest, prickling sense of foreboding. It came rushing back like the wind through the window, and Adele closed her eyes, trembling, trying to fall asleep in the face of a mountain of certainty that something was about to go horribly wrong.
CHAPTER TWELVE
He stood as still as one of the statues in the garden, eyes fixed on the large mansion beyond the black gate. He admired the marble pieces tastefully arranged amidst the hedges and porcelain fountains. One of the statues had a faux-chryselephantine quality to it, though the gold and the ivory seemed faded with weather, suggesting a replica. He had statues of his own. But he’d always preferred paintings.
Now, though, he was in search of a masterpiece of a different variety. He watched the house from his parked car, his thin, bony frame wrapped in two sweaters against the cool of night. Even with the heat on, he shivered, his one good eye closing for a moment against the drying effect of the vents.
A figure moved in the downstairs study, by the two red leather chairs. The fireplace was going, but the figure moved slowly now, pausing once to put out a bracing hand and cough at the ground.
The painter considered the fellow inside, wincing in sympathy. A bad cough, it seemed. Over the last week, as he’d watched, careful to get to know his new friend, he’d noticed Robert beginning to move slower and slower.
Whatever ailed him was having its way.
The painter allowed himself an easy smile, his gaunt features twisting in the dark of his car. Soon, the sickness would be the least of Robert Henry’s worries.
The painter reached out, unlocking his car and checking for his black satchel in the back seat. He wore leather gloves and besides the two hoodies, he’d gone through the ritual of shaving his head, his eyebrows, his arms, even his nose. No DNA evidence left behind. He would even wear a mask—not to disguise his face, but to prevent spittle or saliva from landing anywhere compromising.
Sometimes his friends struggled.
As he pushed open the unlocked door, his eyes still fixed on Robert Henry’s coughing form in the lower study, he paused for a moment, simply admiring the scene. Sometimes, beholding art was reward in itself.
***
Robert coughed again, leaning against the table by one of his red leather chairs. He frowned, staring down at the piece of paper he’d left on the table. The inkwell and pen sat open next to his calligraphy kit. Adele had once teased him about it and he found it fitting he write this final letter—this gift to her—in the same ink.
He smiled softly to himself, leaning back now in the red leather chair closest to the window, facing the second chair—the one Adele had often frequented when she had a chance to visit. Robert murmured to himself as he reread the letter, his eyes tracing the cursive loops and the perfectly executed lettering across the old, yellowed paper. He’d taken the paper from one of the first journals he’d bought as a boy.
Robert smiled again, leaning back and glancing toward where the rest of the journal—mostly unused in his youth—lay resting on the table, beneath the ink well.
Would Adele appreciate the gift?
He wondered… For a moment, at the thought, a flash of frustration jolted through him. He sighed and closed his eyes, staving off the sudden bout of despair. It was getting worse as the days progressed, harder to think straight. To think like himself.
He missed Adele. Missed her dearly. But where he was now going, she couldn’t follow. Not yet. Hopefully not for a long time.
Which brought him back to the letter.
He paused, picking up the pen and pushing it against the bottom of the paper, and then, with careful, smooth strokes, he signed the letter, nodding and smiling to himself as he did. He folded the paper, placing it in an envelope upon which he wrote, again in cursive, To My Dearest Adele Sharp. Then he licked the envelope, sealed it, and placed it, with a trembling hand, between the pages of the small yellow-papered journal.
***
The painter went still, frowning, glancing over his shoulder and through the back window.
Two bright lights flashed in his rearview mirror, and he gritted his teeth. A neighbor? A delivery driver?
A figure got out of the car and began to move up the sidewalk.
The painter hesitated, his frown deepening. He turned his head, following the progress of the figure up the sidewalk. Hot air streamed from the vents against his chin and the side of his neck. The man in question was solidly built, wearing a single white T-shirt despite the cool air. He also had a thick, drooping mustache.
He recognized the man… not just because of Elise, his masterpiece, or even Adele—his dearest friend. Not even because of the grainy image from the security footage earlier that morning. But they’d met, once, nearly five years ago.
The painter frowned at the memory. He’d gotten close then, very close.
What was he doing here, though?
The painter watched as Sergeant Sharp moved through the black gate, past the statuary in the garden and up the steps to the manor. A deep booming sound echoed out from where he knocked on the door.
A second later, from his vantage point, the man watched as Robert readjusted himself, pulling a bathrobe across his dwindling form and limping through the study toward a side door that led to the hall.
Robert’s front door swung open a moment later, washing the garden and the front steps with bright orange light. Sergeant Sharp said something, which the painter couldn’t hear, and Robert smiled, gesturing for him to enter. A moment later, the door closed, leaving the painter out in the dark.
His friend was inside, entertaining another guest.
Could he have two friends tonight?
He dabbed thoughtfully at one of his shaved eyebrows. Then he shook his head. No… Two was too many. Especially if one of them was a man like Sergeant Sharp. He carried his physique like someone who knew how to take care of himself.
Not a problem, given proper preparations. The painter had spent his fair share of time creating art with the muscle-bound and mademoiselles alike. But he didn’t have the proper sedatives for Sergeant Sharp. No… not tonight then.
The painter sighed in frustration. He’d gotten rid of the cafeteria worker he’d picked up as she’d finally faded earlier in the evening. That particular piece hadn’t turned out how he’d imagined. Now, though, he had nothing to play with tonight. No canvas, no paints, nothing…
Grumbling to himself, he twisted the key and pulled away from the curb, swerving back up the road and leaving Robert Henry’s house behind. For now.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Nice place,” Joseph Sharp said, glancing around the entrance to the mansion. The carpet alone looked like it might cost more than his mortgage. “So you’re Robert?” he said, finally, his eyes landing on the small man in a silk bathrobe.
The fellow in question had immaculate hair, as if he’d only just combed it into place, an effect betrayed only by the glossy sheen, suggesting a copious amount of product. The man before him had a small, perfectly maintained mustache and eyes that carried a hidden weight of kindness.
“I am,” said the man and then he winced, coughing into his fist and holding out an apologetic hand.
“Sounds bad,” said the Sergeant.