by Blake Pierce
Her dad shook his head, stunned. “It’s nothing. I told you, nothing.”
“Yeah, like that old couple was nothing. Nothing. Nothing with eight people buried in the well behind their house. How about you let me decide what’s nothing. Tell me right now. What is it?”
It seemed a strange thing to be up in arms over a silly word like candies. And yet Adele could feel a hook in her navel, something twisting deep in her stomach. Something telling her she was getting closer. Something telling her that her father had concealed evidence. And hid it from the officers. Hidden it from her. Her mother’s dead eyes stared out from the darkness above the squad car, fixed on Adele, accusing. Accusing her, knowing she could’ve solved it. But knowing the pieces of the puzzle had been hidden from her. How could she solve anything if she couldn’t even trust the people closest to her?
Flustered, horrible emotions swirled through her, exacerbated by the sirens behind her, exacerbated by the images of the torture dungeon they’d just raided. Exacerbated by her father’s refusal to admit that maybe he didn’t always have the correct answer.
Adele couldn’t be like him. She couldn’t afford to be. She always had to be right. There was no room for error. When she failed, everything collapsed. The others, they had leeway. They were allowed to make mistakes. Her father could make mistakes. But they simply had to trust her. It was her job to solve it. Her job to figure it out. Her job to bring justice to her mother. Her job to be perfect.
“Dad,” she said in an exhausted, trembling voice. “Dad,” she said, desperate, “please. What did you conceal from the investigation?”
“It was nothing.” He swallowed. “I told you, something so small. Candies, something about candies. She thought they might’ve been poisoned or something. Or that someone had tampered with them. I thought it was just silliness. I still don’t even know—it doesn’t mean anything.”
Adele slumped beneath the traffic light, shaking her head.
“Adele, I’m sorry,” he said.
She looked at him, stared him straight in the eyes, then turned and began to walk away.
“Adele, I’m sorry,” he called.
She continued to stomp up the road, ignoring his shouts, moving toward the parking structure, fuming, eyes fixed on the gray building ahead. She ignored him as her father continued to call after her, ignored when he fell silent, and, without looking back once, she entered the parking structure in search of John.
She found Agent Renee parked in the bottom level, his lanky form extended past the driver’s seat, his legs dangling out onto the asphalt.
He had a drink in hand, and Adele surmised that while he might not have enough German to track the investigation, he seemed to have enough to purchase alcohol.
She tried to suppress the sudden force of criticism swirling through her. But now, once more, she remembered why she hated professional failures. Why she hated unprofessional behavior. Because it compromised her ability to do her job.
“Get rid of that,” she snapped at John, waving a hand.
He glanced down at his container of what looked like whiskey, then up at her. “No,” he said.
Adele stopped in front of the car and rounded on him, a torrential force like a gale surging up in her. “Drop it; get rid of it. You’re driving; stop drinking on the job.”
John stared at her. His brow began to wrinkle. He looked her direct in the eyes, and then took a long swig. He gulped the container until it was empty, and then smashed it against the back wall behind the car.
“You’re unbelievable,” she said, glaring at him. “You’re already on notice. What’s wrong with you people? Why can’t you just do your job!”
John sat on the edge of his car, but then he pushed off. He took two steps toward Adele. He stared down at her, a full head and shoulders taller, twice as broad.
“Are you okay?” he said softly.
Adele’s eyes narrowed. She looked at his muscled form, the threatening posture. But then she realized he was reaching out an arm, gently brushing the side of her elbow. “Are you all right?” he said.
“Dammit, John,” she snapped, a sob squeaking from her lips.
“Are you all right?” he said gently, his finger grazing her arm.
“Dammit,” she said, and emotions welled up inside her. She started to cry.
“Adele, it’s going to be okay,” he said, softly.
She could smell the whiskey on his breath, but his eyes were soft. His posture gentle. He reached out, his hand pressed against her elbow, and she leaned in closer, sobbing and muttering, “Dammit,” every couple of seconds.
John pulled her in, and he held her tight, embracing her. She could feel the warmth of his form against her. Her head pressed against his chest. He was large, and seemed to envelop her in a protective sort of posture. For a moment, she just cried, and could feel her tears seeping against his shirt. He didn’t seem to mind, though. He didn’t recoil, didn’t react in anger. Instead, he just kept muttering, “It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be fine, my dear, dear American Princess.”
She cried for what felt like forever.
In the parking structure, beneath the glaring safety lights above, in front of the loaned vehicle, John held her, and she wept.
And then, once she started calming, she pushed away, and he released her.
He stepped back, arms limp at his sides, his eyes on her, searching, earnest. “Is there anything I can do?”
She hiccupped once, twice, glanced toward the smashed bottle against the wall. And said, “Let me drive back to the motel.”
He cracked a smile. “I think I can do that.” He moved toward the passenger side, patting her on the shoulder as he did. As he passed, Adele caught his arm, pulled him. She looked him in the eyes once, and then leaned in, studying his lips. He breathed heavily, his face only inches from hers.
“John,” she said, softly, the emotion still swirling in her, but she suppressed it.
“Adele?” he asked.
“I like your scar,” she said.
He swallowed but didn’t reply. Then she leaned in, stepping on her toes, and pressed to kiss him.
John didn’t react harshly, but he held her and gently pushed her down; he kissed her on the forehead and gave her a quick hug. “You’re in no state to make decisions right now,” he said.
And then he turned and got in the passenger seat of the car. He shut the door and waited, watching her through the windshield.
Adele stared at him, stunned. “I’m in no shape?” she said, calling through the window. “You just downed a bottle of whiskey!”
She opened the front door and got in the driver’s seat, studying him, not upset, not frustrated, more curious.
“Maybe some other time,” he murmured, his voice gentle. “It’s been a rough day.”
Adele shook her head. Then she placed the key in the ignition and turned them. John had just drank a bottle, and yet he seemed the more sober of the two. Somehow, even in that moment, with just the two of them, he was still protecting her. The same way he had protected her back in the hospital. The same way he had protected her in the cabin.
Somehow, in the car, just with John, she felt the faintest of burdens lifted from her shoulders. She found she could breathe a bit easier. Her thoughts traveled to her dad. “You think they’re going to recover?” she said, softly as they pulled out of the parking garage.
“Those kids? Some of them, maybe.”
“I don’t just mean will they live,” Adele said. “Do you think they’ll recover? Do you think you can go through something like that and make it out on the other side alive?”
For the first time, John’s voice hardened. But his frustration didn’t seem directed at Adele. He said, “I keep getting told it’s possible. But if you ask me, no. If you go through something like that, there’s no coming back.”
He scratched at the scar on the underside of his chin. For a moment, Adele thought of the speakeasy hidden in the DGSI basement.
She thought of the photos on the wall of the military squadron. John’s friends. Friends she’d never met.
“I think you’re wrong,” Adele said, quietly. She picked at the steering wheel as she drove.
He sighed. “I hope you’re right.”
Both of them drifted off into quiet silence, driving away from the parking structure.
“Why do you think they did it?” John said, his voice still soft.
Adele swallowed. “The kids said something… Some of them weren’t lucid. A couple of them seemed to have been down there for years. But one of them, that fellow who went missing at the search party, he’s still there. Alive. Shaken but aware. By the sounds of things, the Kloses were trying to build a family.”
John looked at Adele. “A family?”
“Yeah, I don’t know the full story. But what I picked up on they had a kid of their own once, that baby seat. Kid died. Wife was unable to have any more children. After that, some sort of accident. I don’t know. But anyway, they moved out here ten years ago.”
“The woman give any more information up?”
Adele shook her head. “They’re still interviewing her. But honestly, I don’t think I care.”
“You want to know how many people were killed?”
“It’s a lot,” said Adele. “But no, I don’t want to know. The police can handle it. Some truths are best left undiscovered—at least for me.”
They dwindled off again.
“So those two sick twists were kidnapping kids to make some sort of weird family in the woods?”
Adele sighed. “Yeah. They would let their captives out once a month just to wander the vicinity of the garden. But if they ever stepped on any of the plants they were punished. It was all messed up, John. It’s just,” Adele trailed off, “just pure evil.”
He sighed and leaned his head against the glass as Adele drove them back to their motel.
More questions bubbled in Adele’s mind, but she couldn’t bring herself to utter them. For now, silence felt appropriate. The quiet felt comforting. John’s presence, as in the parking structure, as on the field, as in the hospital, as every time they went into danger, muted some of the terror, softened some of the pain, and protected her against some of her own anxiety swirling in her chest. Perhaps it wasn’t all up to her. Maybe, maybe, there were some people she could trust. Some people who were of some help.
***
It felt nice to be back on the plane, nowhere to go but up and across.
John was snoring softly next to her, his head once again pressed against the cool glass of the window. The small nozzle of air wafted into the cabin from above. Adele fidgeted, tapping her fingers against the edge of her armrest. The seat between her and John was empty and contained only her laptop bag. Part of her wanted to check to see if anything had come in from work, but another part of her was grateful for the quiet of the plane ride back to Paris.
For a moment, she spun her phone beneath her fingers on the upright tray. Perhaps she ought to call the Johnsons when they landed. She smiled at the thought. The fear they’d felt would be assuaged at last. The distance from their daughter would soon be over—they would be reunited. Not everyone was so lucky.
Adele felt her eyes turn suddenly wet. She could feel tears threatening against her cheeks. She stared at the back of the seat, still spinning her phone.
No, perhaps she wouldn’t call the Johnsons. Perhaps, now, it was best to give them time and space to recover and heal. Amanda’s fate had been different from Elise’s. Her mother had suffered horribly to the point it had perhaps been a mercy she hadn’t survived.
But one thing was similar in the two cases. One thing that Adele could cling to.
The cases were investigated by the same agent. She’d solved Amanda’s case… which meant, perhaps, she could solve her mother’s as well…
Adele shifted, leaning back now and lifting her hand from her phone.
As John snored, her mind whirred. She wasn’t sure exactly what had passed between them the previous night. She had been strained, angry. The events of the day had left her drained. But most of her anger had been directed at her father. He had concealed evidence. Not much. A tiny clue. And yet, evidence all the same.
Adele stared at the back of the headrest in front of her. Part of her felt in order to justify her level of frustration with her father, she needed to make something of the clue. Candies.
But what?
She watched as an airline attendant moved between the seats, pushing a drinks trolley. Adele’s own plastic cup of ice sat, melting and condensing on her folded tray table.
She had kicked off her shoes, which were tucked beneath the seat in front of her. Her toes pressed through her socks against the rough carpet of the airplane floor. She leaned back, closing her own eyes, thinking.
Candies. Something about candies.
Adele thought back to France. She thought back to her childhood. Her mother had used to call her Cara. A pet name. Nothing much.
Candies.
It had to mean something. She thought the candy was poisoned. Or someone had switched candies. It didn’t make sense.
Switched. Adele went very still.
Candies. Switched. Funny? Someone was switching the notes. Funny?
Candies. Switching. Funny?
Adele’s eyes widened.
Her mother’s favorite candies, Carambars. They would always stop at the same shop on Adele’s walk home from school with her mother. They would pick up the Carambars, unwrap them, and read the jokes written on the notes inside. One of the fondest memories Adele possessed.
The candies were fine, but it was the jokes on the wrappers that were most the enjoyment. Adele felt a slow trickle of realization settle on her.
Someone was switching the notes. Candies.
What if someone had been switching the wrappers of the Carambars? Writing their own notes on the candies? What if someone had been stalking Adele’s mother, and had used her pattern of buying those candy bars as a way to communicate with her?
Adele gripped her tray now, her fingers pressing white against the gray plastic.
It wouldn’t have been the postman then. It couldn’t have been. No, they picked the candies up from the small corner store.
A store Adele knew; it was still owned and operated by the same older gentleman. She had visited the store just two weeks before for her first groceries in the area. Not only had she gotten an apartment in their old building, but some of the same habits had returned too. Her old school was still nearby. The jogging trails her mother had used were nearby. And the small corner grocery store that sold them the Carambars was nearby.
Adele stared at the back of the headrest, her pulse quickening, her fingers clenched against her seat. Now, all sensation of peace, gratitude at their moment suspended in the sky with nowhere to go and nothing to do, receded, fading in the face of the inevitable weight between the start of their journey and the inevitable landing.
They couldn’t land quick enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Back in Paris. Feet on the ground. She had lied to John when he’d offered her a ride home. Somehow, she hadn’t wanted him with her for this.
Her holster was on her hip, tucked beneath her jacket, her gun unclipped. Easy to access. If she needed it, it would be there.
She strolled with purposeful steps, leaving the taxi behind her, out front of her apartment. She paid extra for him to wait. She hadn’t even gathered her luggage.
The taxi had seen her credentials, and she doubted the man would steal any of her stuff. Besides, she needed to make a stop. She strolled along the corner, down the sidewalk, moving past one bus stop, a second. A newsstand, a glass display with different ads for the movies playing in the theaters nearby.
But Adele ignored all of it, her eyes focused, her movements quick. She hastened along the sidewalk, turned the corner. She spotted the small grocery store at the very end of the section of sidewalk. Beyond, through the
glimpse of trees on the other edge of the park, she could just see the first tower of the private school she’d gone to.
Elise had made sure her daughter had the best education possible, despite the difficulty of their situation.
Her pace quickened, her eyes fixed on the grocery store.
Gobert’s. White letters along a green awning drooped over the windows. Items were crowded on the shelves inside. She had stopped here many times before. They always carried Carambars.
Her pace quickened, and she moved toward the door. She knew the grocery store owner. An older man. No wife, no kids. Not fair, and yet, still, this was a consideration. Something that often cast suspicion in an investigation. A pitiable thing, for someone’s loneliness to be turned against them, but justice wasn’t known for its mercy.
And Adele didn’t care for it either right now.
Jokes. Switched. Candies. Funny?
She moved to the door, steadied herself, and inhaled deeply. She felt small all of a sudden, standing on her own on the sidewalk, outside the small corner store. The windows glinted, some of them smudged. She could see fingerprints at about waist high where a child had been admiring a red bike in the window.
She pushed open Gobert’s front door. Moved in, the familiar bell jangling above. Her spine prickled at the sound. She’d heard it so much growing up. Memories came back. Most of them pleasant.
Now, though, that was all changing.
She came to a halt in front of the cash register. A woman was checking out, a child at her side tugging at her, pointing to some of the long sticks of candy in the jars on the front counter. The older man behind the counter had a newsboy cap angled over his head, and he was winking at the kid, nodding toward a couple of the licorice sticks.
The kid’s eyes widened behind his mother’s back. He took one of the sticks, and the man held up a finger to his lips and winked. The kid grinned and took another stick, shoving both of the pilfered candies into his pocket behind his mother. The woman paid for her bread and milk, bid farewell, and then turned. Something in Adele’s expression must’ve bothered her because she paused, frowning. She moved her child to the other side, away from Adele, sheltering him. With another couple of furtive glances toward Adele, she clutched her bag of groceries and moved from the store, leaving. Another ring of the small bell.