Left To Die

“Don’t, Sharp—shoot him. Do it now! Do it, or we’re both dead.” Her father’s voice cracked. “Don’t you—don’t you dare. Please. Honey, please. Don’t—I’ll be fine. Don’t—” This time he howled in pain as the scalpel bit deeper, dragging across his chin down to the collarbone, in the same position where John had his burn marks.

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.”