Left to Vanish (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Eight) Blake Pierce (classic english novels TXT) 📖

just shook her head. “We can’t discuss an ongoinginvestigation.”

Sophie Paige moved further into the house, glancing throughthe rooms.

“Is there anything?” Adele said, hesitantly, then trailedoff. She thought for a moment, unsure where to start. She needed to know whatto ask, to unlock the key to the investigation. But the clues wouldn’t come.She didn’t know where to start. All three of the victims had summer homes inAquitaine. But what did that mean? She regarded the property manager. “Do youtake care of any of the other homes in the area?” she said on a whim.

The manager shrugged. “Not really. Mostly I work for one ofthe local hotels. Why?”

Adele just shook her head. “Is there anything you can tellme about this place?”

“What would you like to know?”

I don’t know, Adelethought to herself. Out loud, she said, “I’m not entirely sure. Just anything.”

The property manager frowned, adjusting her bandana. “Anything?Well, I’ve been working here for about three years. The previous propertymanager was my uncle. He passed away a couple years ago.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

She shrugged. “He was old and happy. Surrounded by familywhen he went. Not much more you can ask. Do you want to know about the houseitself? I’m afraid I don’t know why you’re here, Agent—”

“Sharp.”

“Agent Sharp.”

Adele sighed, wishing she could say more. But what else wasthere to add? She didn’t know why she was here.

She was an investigator. Perhaps the questions were bestleft until after she did a little looking. And so she moved down the hall,after Paige. She turned to face a dining room with a large glass window lookingout at the ocean. The table looked like it had been made in the shed, withplank wood screwed together haphazardly. A family project? A joke? The wallswere painted green, and the floor, strangely, was tiled like the entryway.Strange slats of wood and old stone. Seemingly out of place compared to therest of the modern architecture.

She frowned and moved to the next room, this time steppingin and pushing against the door. She was confronted by a small bathroom. Anormal shower and sink, this time tiled with blue marble. But then her eyesdarted toward a small window in the top right of the room. The window was off-center,as if wedged in the corner, and instead of glass, it reflected back reds andblues and greens.

Adele poked her head back out into the hall. “Is this astained-glass window?”

The property manager frowned, approached, and glanced overAdele’s shoulder toward the window. She shrugged. “Guess so. I don’t really askmuch about the homeowners’ taste.”

Adele stepped out of the bathroom now, crossing her armsand glancing toward the dining room and then again toward the bathroom. Astrange array of modern architecture and what looked like old stone andwindows. But what did that mean?

“Nothing,” she murmured softly.

“Excuse me?”

“Look, is there anything else you can tell me about thisplace? Do you know when it was built?”

The manager shrugged apologetically, shaking her head andscratching at the back of her bandana. “I don’t know. That’s way before mytime. But,” she added, “I can probably find out. My uncle used to keep notes onthese places. It was more of a hobby of his than anything.” She shrugged. Onehand tapped at her tool belt. “I just like fixing things, to be honest.”

“Here’s my card. If you find anything, please call…” Adeletrailed off. “Is there a basement?”

The property manager shook her head. “No basements.”

Adele began to move back toward the front of the house,frowning to herself. The rest of the home was small, with a few bedrooms,kitchen, and a lounging area. Again and again, she was confronted by thestrange hybrid of modern architecture and old, historic hints. The fireplacelooked like it was made of cobblestones. A couple more windows in the loungereminded her of stained glass. Even one of the walls in the bedrooms was oldstone. What did any of that mean?

And what did that have to do with the three murders?

Adele sighed, finally leaving down the hall again andrejoining Agent Paige on the doorstep. The property manager waited outside,tapping her foot impatiently, her arms crossed.

“Anything?” Paige asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

Adele frowned. “Hold your horses. We still have to checkout the second place.”

“Because I didn’t find anything,” Paige said, innocently. “Nodeath letters written in bottles. No confessions from murderers. No hiddenweapons in the fireplace.”

“Did you check?”

“I did, in fact. And there was nothing. Agent Sharp, Irespect you thought this was a good lead. And I give you, it might not be acoincidence. But I think, at this point, we’re just wasting precious time.”

For a moment, Adele paused. Was Agent Paige right? Was shesimply wasting time?

If Foucault heard about this, would he pull her from thecase?

She was second-guessing herself again. She felt a flash offrustration—not at Paige, but at herself. She couldn’t afford to thinknegatively. She had to focus, to double down. She had to trust her instincts.

Robert is dead, a softvoice whispered in her head. Your instincts died with him.

She gritted her teeth, one hand curling into a fist as shebrushed past Agent Paige and marched down the steps toward the waiting taxi.

“Shut up,” she said to herself. “Just shut up.”

She could feel the curious glance of the property manageron her back, but she ignored it, moving toward the taxi.

The summer home of the second victim could have the clueshe needed. She was right—about what, she wasn’t sure. How it tied to themurders, again, uncertain. But still, she was right. She needed to be. Therewas no other option. She couldn’t second-guess herself.

She flung open the front door this time, sliding in next tothe taxi driver and ignoring Agent Paige’s pointed look. This time, the olderagent could sit in the back. She hadn’t wanted to come here, after all. Besides,if the second house didn’t turn up anything, Adele would have more than Paigeto answer to.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

As theypulled into the driveway of the second home, Adele’s heart plummeted. Shestared at the modern house, with white painted walls and ceramic shingles. Hereyes traced the wired fence and the vibrant, pink patio steps, seemingly cutfrom cotton candy.

She stared through the