Adele dropped her gun like a hot coal. It hit the carpet with a muted thud.
“There are no snipers, no other officers,” said the killer, studying Adele. “Are there? And, please, for daddy’s sake, don’t lie.” He leaned down and kissed her father on top of his head, making a loud, smacking noise with his mouth as he did.
Her father tried to hit the killer with the top of his head, but the man was too quick. He chuckled and pressed the scalpel back to the Sergeant’s neck.
“Well?” he said, quietly. “Tell me the truth.”
Adele hesitated, then shook her head, staring at the knife. “No. I’m alone.”
“Good. Please, darling, shut the door. I want to talk. How old are you, by the way?”
Adele frowned, but, with slow, morbid movements, she reached for the door and closed it. As she did, though, with her free hand, blocking it from view with her turned shoulders, she reached up and flicked the radio receiver on, while simultaneously muting the device.
When she turned back around, her hands were both back by her side.
Anyone listening would be able to hear, but she wouldn’t be able to hear them.
The killer eyed her up and down, his gaze lingering on her radio for the faintest moment. Then, with a relieved sigh, he said, “Good. Now we’re alone.”
He collapsed into a sitting position on the bed, arm still out, scalpel still glinting in the moonlight in the dark room. The comforter flattened beneath his weight, puffing up around him and pressing against his hips.
He patted the bed next to him. “Come,” he said, “sit next to me. You look so much like her, you know?”
Adele frowned. “Excuse me?” She didn’t move, standing where she was in front of the closed door, still within view of the window.
“Elise Romei,” said the killer, his tongue poking through his lips as if savoring her mother’s name as it left his mouth. “You are the spitting image—believe me. Truly, truly,” he began to giggle, shaking his head incredulously, “this is fate.” He wagged a finger toward something on the bed.
Adele glanced over and felt her heart skip a beat. It was an old framed photo of Elise, the Sergeant, and Adele. Smiling. They hadn’t smiled much together, and Adele couldn’t even remember when the photo had been taken.
“We were meant to meet, Adele Sharp.”
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
“Romei,” he clicked his tongue… “Elise changed her name, otherwise I would have realized sooner.” He chuckled softly.
Adele glared at the man, a prickling horror giving way to a burning fury. This man, of all people, had no right to invoke her mother’s name. “Romei was her maiden name. How do you know my mother?” she demanded.
The killer winked at her, reclining one elbow on her father’s shoulder, using him like a table to prop up a weary arm. “Oh, she was a beautiful woman… I masturbated to pictures of her, you know…” Then he hesitated and frowned, as if realizing he might have said something offensive. “Not when she was alive, of course… I wouldn’t do that to a married woman.” He shook his head wildly from side to side. “Of course not. But afterwards? The pictures that were published in the papers, but repressed—they found their ways online… I have to tell you, I spent many nights—”
“Who the hell are you?” Adele demanded.
But the killer raised a hand, beckoning for her to come closer, smiling again.
With dread in her heart, but few options, she stepped over her gun, where it lay useless enmeshed in the thick carpet—stepping past her one defense—and approached the man with the knife to her father’s throat.
“I don’t understand, Mr. Schmidt,” Adele said, slowly, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue. “You knew my mother?”
Porter paused, reaching back with the hand not pressed to the Sergeant’s throat and running a hand through his vibrant, red hair. “It’s not what you think,” he said, shaking his head, still smiling like a child discussing their favorite superhero. “I didn’t kill your mother…”
“But you know who did?” Adele’s voice rasped.
The killer frowned. “A gardener,” he said. “They called him the Spade Killer. You should know that. He honored your mother—you owe him a debt of gratitude.”
Adele rolled her fingers, clenching them into fists. She brushed her right foot back, seeking an anchor point with her gun, in case she needed to lunge for it.
The killer noticed this movement though and shook his head. He beckoned with a finger at her. “Come here. Give me your shirt and your radio.”
Adele stared at him, and the Sergeant began thrashing again, indifferent to the blade against his neck.
The killer wiggled his pointer finger, gesturing at her. “I’m serious. Come on—give them, or I open a second smile in daddy dearest.”
Adele stared over her father’s shoulder, refusing to meet his eyes.
The killer rolled his eyes. “Puh-lease,” he said, blowing air from out of a jutting lip and causing his red bangs to lift like dandelion fluff. “I’m not a perv—I just don’t want you making any inappropriate calls, and I need to check you for a wire.” His carefree tone morphed without notice and, with steel, he snapped, “Give me your shirt and your radio, now!”
He began to cut her father again, but Adele quickly ripped her shirt off, which took the shoulder radio and its wires with it. She flung both at Porter.
She glanced down, noticing the streak of blood along her ribs where she’d scraped against the glass window. She looked up and noticed the killer staring at her too, ogling the cut along her ribs. She’d worn a sports bra, modest enough—but Adele had never been embarrassed by her body, and if the killer was hoping to shame her, it wouldn’t work.
His eyes weren’t drawn to her chest, but rather remained fixed on her ribs, staring at the blood swirling down her abdomen. He let out a quiet sound of gurgling pleasure from the back of his throat.
As he stared, he was distracted. He extracted the radio from Adele’s shirt and tossed it onto the bed, behind her father’s bound form. But he didn’t check it, nor did he flick the off-switch. If anyone was listening, they could still hear everything.
“I feel uncomfortable with my back to the window like this,” Adele said, choosing her words carefully. “The moon is in your eyes; you have a pretty good look out the window, don’t you? I bet that was intentional. And you kept the curtain open so you could see me coming. Clever,” she said.
The killer frowned, listening to her, still mesmerized by the cut along her ribs.
Shirtless, Adele felt a chill now in the room. Her father’s eyes were fixed on hers, wide, the whites stretched in the dark. She looked away, though. She needed her wits about her; long, meaningful looks of melancholy or unstated love wouldn’t save them now.
“Second floor,” she continued, speaking a bit louder than necessary, but refusing to look in the direction of the radio. “Smart to hole up here in the room facing the street. Gives you the perfect vantage point, and you’ve been one step ahead this entire time. No wire—can I have my shirt back? You’re making my dad uncomfortable.”
She stared, unblinking, unyielding at the killer.
At this, he tore his gaze away from the blood across her ribs and studied her for a moment. Then he began to giggle. He stood up, still keeping the knife to her father’s throat, but now with his calf muscles against the frame of the bed. He watched her across the room. “You have a nice body,” he said. “But I bet you don’t have to work as hard as I do for it. See?”