Now, she was in Germany. She’d fled France and the pressure that came with her job.
She opened her eyes, leaning back on her old bed. The last time she’d slept in this room had been nearly two decades ago. Her father’s house creaked like she remembered; sometimes, the floorboards protesting movement as her father made his way around the kitchen and living room downstairs. Other times, the roof and the walls, seemingly of their own accord, groaned with old age.
Adele sighed where she lay, her eyes fixated on the low ceiling of her childhood room. The bed was firmer than she remembered. But even some of her old, less-loved stuffed animals remained, sitting on a small chest against the opposite wall. The same desk, the same paint color, the same bed—everything the same. The only difference was the new metal lock on the inside of her door. All the bedrooms had them now after the home invasion where her father had nearly died.
Then, the killer had also seemed connected to her mother’s death. Again, back in this house, history seemed to be repeating itself.
There was little doubt in Adele’s mind the killer of Marion Elise Ramon was a copycat. The details were too specific. Even the torturous wounds matched the same carnage wrought on Elise all those years ago. Plus the name—the middle name. The killer was taunting her. She’d kicked a hornet’s nest, visiting a chocolate bar factory a few weeks ago. Asking questions.
And now, she had the killer’s response. Another woman butchered in an empty park.
Though her eyes were now open, the same images flashed across her mind. Bleeding… bleeding… always bleeding.
She saw her own mother, pictures from that crime scene playing like a slideshow through her subconscious. She shivered and rolled in the bed, facing the blue wall as if to block out the procession of horror.
The thoughts had chased her from France to Germany.
Medical leave. Mental health.
Adele actually winced at the memory of speaking to Foucault, requesting time off. He’d been more than understanding, but her own pride had taken a hit. What did the others think of her? Agent Paige? John? Robert?
She should have dived headfirst into the case—gone after the killer. But… but she simply hadn’t been able to. For a week now, she felt weakened, beleaguered. An exhaustion and fatigue she’d rarely felt before. Once, perhaps. Depression, they’d said. After her mother’s death.
Now, she was squarely back in the horrible, dark, lonely room of her own mind.
Back in her father’s house. The two of them hadn’t really even reconciled yet, not after he’d concealed information on her mother’s case. The same case now haunting her. But she’d had nowhere else to go, and, to his credit, he hadn’t turned her away. They’d even managed a couple of cordial conversations over bowls of soup—about anything besides work.
As if summoning him with thought alone, Adele heard the creak of the stairs outside her room. She jarred, blinking, looking over at her closed door.
Knuckles knocked quietly.
She shivered.
“Adele?” her father said. She’d flat out refused to be called by her last name any longer, and, though it had taken some getting used to, her father had finally relented.
“Busy,” she called to the door.
“Just—just checking. Are you all right?”
Adele drew her blanket up around her shoulders, her eyes sealed shut for a moment, staving off a sudden headache.
“Fine… I’m fine,” she said.
“Look, Adele, I—I…” Her father stumbled over the words. “It’s been a week. You’ve barely left your room. I just wanted to—”
“We had dinner together last night,” she retorted, frowning now.
“That was two nights ago, Adele. I’m beginning to worry about you.”
Adele breathed slowly, feeling a flutter of unease in her chest. Even the thought of fear seemed to bring it raging back for no reason at all. She quelled the sense and exhaled through her nose, breathing slowly. “I’m fine, Dad. It’s fine.”
Another long, awkward pause. For a moment, she thought perhaps he’d left, though she hadn’t heard his footsteps on the stairs.
Then he spoke rapidly, as if worried he might not get the words out. “Look, Adele, if this is about your mother’s case…”
She rolled her eyes up and puffed a geyser of exasperated breath at the ceiling. “Damn it, Dad—not now. I said I’m busy.” She felt a flash of regret at the words. Was she being harsh? It was hard to tell. Confusion was part of the panic, she’d been told. Still, just in case, she added, “Sorry. Look, I’d love to chat in an hour. Would that be okay? We can watch TV or something.”
Her father seemed relieved at this olive branch and cleared his throat—a muffled, gurgling sound through the wooden door. “Great, sounds great, Sharp—er, Adele. Yes. I’ll make some chowder soup.”
Then, mercifully, at last, she heard his retreating footsteps moving back down the stairs and leaving her to her solace.
Adele breathed again, in for five seconds, out for seven, slow, calm…
Her father was the only other person who understood the pain, the horror of it all. He processed it in other ways, but there was something about grief that required company.
Adele sighed, sitting up now and massaging her head. She felt a shuddering headache where she sat, and blinked. For six days now, languishing around the house, she didn’t feel better for it. She felt stuck, like a car in mud, spinning its wheels.
John Renee had offered some words earlier in the week, speaking from his own past of loss and pain. But she didn’t need a shrink. Every other area with John seemed to be stuck also. Maybe even in the same mud pit. Except in that circumstance, instead of a car, she felt like a stick. Completely helpless.
“Christ,” she muttered, remembering their last conversation.
“…Are you sure?” he’d said, his voice over the phone. “If there’s anything I can do…”
“No, John,” she’d said, in the same bed she now found herself in, watching videos on her phone. “Maybe… maybe I need some space. It’s all so heavy.”
“Right,” he said. “Space.”
“I think”—she had coughed—“I think maybe we need to back off, you know? What do you think?”
“Sounds appropriate. All right, Adele. If there’s anything you need.”
That had been the last she’d spoken with her partner. She’d worried that by asking for space, he’d want to do the opposite. John Renee was notorious for defying expectations. But he’d actually respected her words. She appreciated this at the least. Some battles were best fought alone. John wouldn’t understand—he couldn’t.
Adele sighed again in frustration, lying in bed. She wasn’t sure what else to do—it felt like she’d curled up, allowing her emotions to pummel her, ganging up with her thoughts.
Just then, a quiet buzzing sound emanated from the chest across from her bed.
She blinked and looked over, spotting a glowing blue light, then groaned.
For a moment, she considered ignoring the phone. But then, deciding whoever was on the other end couldn’t be worse than her own subconscious, she got up, still groaning, and, with what felt like lead in her feet, she stumbled over to the chest and snagged the phone.