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  The image displayed a tidy man in a neat suit speaking into a microphone in what looked like a press room. Adele frowned as she read the scroll. The Italians, by the sound of it, were condemning the investigation.

  Even as she studied the screen, the images shifted to show a helicopter shot of the resort below. This resort.

  “Shit,” Adele muttered.

  A German television host came on, announcing the attacks had been determined as murders. Adele swallowed. That couldn’t be good.

  A tourist appeared in another shot, a microphone practically shoved against her chin. The woman was shaking her head, adjusting some earmuffs as she spoke, a bit too loudly, into the microphone. “They arrested him, right on the slopes. My ski instructor.”

  Adele felt her cheeks redden even further. Another scene played across the news, this time of a couple of Swiss bureaucrats—according to the heading—also condemning the investigation by the looks of it. A disaster, travesty—the investigation was one giant mess.

  And while no one singled her out specifically, the scroll across the bottom of the screen was impossible to ignore. Comments like “failed investigation.” Or “lack of investigative integrity.” Or “overzealous detectives.”

  “Investigative integrity, my ass,” she grunted. Adele half turned, wanting to spite the television by showing it her back, but then she realized she recognized the person watching the screen. Her mood didn’t improve.

  She pushed open the glass door, pressing her hand against the cool opaque surface.

  “Dad?” she said.

  Her father turned away from the television, raising an eyebrow in her direction.

  “What are you doing here?” she said, and then she tried again, realizing her tone sounded a bit harsh. “What are you doing here, Dad?”

  He held a finger to his lips, and he pointed the same digit toward the screen.

  Adele sighed, air leaking from her like from a punctured balloon. She approached the screen, and realized the study room in the hotel was just as luxurious as the rest of the resort. Thick carpet doused the sound of her footsteps. Her father’s chair looked to be made of leather and was comfortable to the touch as her fingers grazed against the headrest. Next to the chair was another one, made of brown leather. Across from the chairs, beneath the TV, there was a fireplace. Except no fire. Her father hadn’t turned it on.

  Vaguely, Adele thought of Robert’s study back in his mansion. He’d always had a fire in the hearth.

  She glanced toward her father and then quietly moved over to the other chair. She sat down and cleared her throat. “Why did you leave the bar?” she said.

  Her father shrugged. “Can’t stay cooped up all day. I thought you wanted my help.”

  “I did. But you’re supposed to be incognito. You’re not supposed to come try to hunt down criminals with me.”

  Her father raised an eyebrow again. “So he was a criminal?”

  Adele collapsed even further into her chair, half hoping it would consume her so she could disappear for at least a while.

  “No,” she said. “Nothing illegal, just sleazy.”

  “Why did he run?”

  “Dad, it doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t have been there. You hit him. You’re a civilian in this investigation.”

  Her father’s nose wrinkled. “I’m not a civilian.”

  “No, but in this investigation you’re as good as one. You don’t have the jurisdiction.”

  Her father raised a hand, swatting away her words. “Bah,” he said. “Look, Adele, I just wanted to make sure the investigation was done right.”

  Adele bristled at this, and at first she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was something in his tone. Or perhaps just something from their past. They’d never been particularly good at working together, or communicating, or really anything. She glared at the side of his face. “What does that mean?”

  Her dad didn’t say anything, but waved a hand airily toward the TV, gesturing at the scroll across the bottom. Again, they were showing another clip of the Italian investigators condemning the investigation.

  “You think I screwed this up?” she said.

  “I think I was trying to stop a criminal from getting away. I did what I had to do.”

  “And I asked you to stay back at the bar.”

  “Right. And I ignored you.”

  “Dad!”

  “You’re welcome. We caught him, didn’t we? If we’d done it your way, he would’ve gotten away. That was your choice. You needed me.”

  Adele stared at her father. “I didn’t need you.”

  Now he rounded on her, shifting his bulk in his leather chair. He no longer glanced at the screen, but fixed his gaze on his daughter, his walrus mustache quivering as he set his lips into a firm line. “Oh? You’re supposed to be a professional. A big shot. Right? And yet you have to call me in.”

  He shifted back, crossing his arms.

  Adele stared at the side of her father’s face, stunned. First, she wasn’t sure what to say. She heard footsteps muffled behind them, drifting through the study room door. She glanced back and watched as Agent Marshall, along with another BKA operative, escorted Hans, no longer in handcuffs, toward the exit. Marshall caught Adele’s eyes and nodded once at her, a note of sympathy on her face.

  Adele looked away and said, “I don’t need your help, Dad. I wanted to ask you some things. How come you don’t remember our vacation?”

  Her father crossed his arms again, and seemed to be pulling his body close, defensive. “I told you, I do remember it. Vaguely. We went on a lot of vacations.”

  “No, we didn’t. We went on a few. And rarely did we go skiing.”

  Adele swallowed, allowing the memories to play across her mind’s eye. She remembered the bunny trails, the skiing, the hot cocoa, the hot tub, the yelling, the fighting.

  She shivered, and this time it was her turn to cross her arms and hug herself. “You and Mom would fight. Why? Something happened. I just don’t remember.”

  “I told you, I don’t remember that well. I remember the trip. But I can’t remember everything about your childhood, Adele. I have a life too, you know.”

  “I didn’t say you don’t have a life. I just find it surprising you wouldn’t remember is all.”

  Her dad turned on her again, his eyes fierce. He jabbed a thick finger toward his daughter. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  In the past, Adele would back down when her father got like this. He was an intimidating man, a demanding man. Someone you shouldn’t cross, and so she never had. But now, with criticisms of her job rolling across the screen, her father watching it, allowing it to loop, his hand near the remote… He could’ve turned it off the moment he saw her. Yet he’d left it on. As if he wanted her to see them. Wanted her to see the Italians, the Swiss, the hotel manager, everyone insulting her investigation. Was her father jealous? Was she just better?

  Sometimes, she couldn’t help but feel like she hated the man. If he wasn’t so mule-headed, her mother wouldn’t have left him. If he wasn’t such a bad investigator, he would’ve solved her murder!

  “Yes,” Adele said, voicing the simplest of her thoughts. “Yes, I say you’re lying. You know what I’m talking about. And yet for some reason you’re not willing to discuss it. Why?”

  In answer, her father turned the volume up on the TV, waving a hand once again toward the screen. “You think I’m a liar?” he said, his voice rising. “I’m a liar? Is that what they teach you at your fancy academies? That’s why you’re such a good investigator? You can’t even determine the truth in front of your nose. You’re the liar! You’re lying to yourself!”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “You’re the one who needed me here. You’re lucky I came. Your suspect would’ve gotten away.”

  Adele stared at her father. “Dad, I’m a good investigator. I’m good at my job.”

  Her father pointed toward the screen again, as if revealing a key piece of ev
idence. “Oh?” he said, his voice rising. “Oh?”

  He said it in such a patronizing way that Adele could feel her own anger burbling up. She wanted to control herself, and normally, when riled by suspects or colleagues, or even the unfortunate events with Agent Paige back in France, she’d managed to keep her calm, for the most part. She was good at long suffering. Yet, for some reason, her father’s obstinacy, his arrogance, his seeming commitment to making Adele think she was bad at her job, boiled into something close to hatred. Years of living under him, under his stupid rules, under his obnoxious lack of emotional availability, his sheer lack of affection, came bubbling to the surface all at once. Fine, let him keep his secrets. Let him keep the memories of the last vacation together. The last time Adele remembered the three of them together, happy.

  And yet the anger didn’t stop there. It continued, and Adele, with a trembling voice, said, “I’m good at my job, but you sure as hell aren’t! If you were a half decent investigator, you would’ve solved Mother’s murder! She would still be alive if you could even keep a woman!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The words came out scathing hot, like acrid whips zapping forward. The moment she said it, she regretted it. She felt the tang of guilt peal sharply through her chest. But the anger swirled through her, the vestiges of hatred also twisted in her gut. She wanted to apologize immediately, but pride stopped the words. A look of hurt also transformed to anger on her father’s face. She leaned back in her chair, wondering what he would say.

  The Sergeant stared at her with angry, vengeful eyes. And then he turned the volume up on the TV, got stiffly to his feet, and marched to the door, leaving her alone, abandoning her in the dark of the room with only the loud, blaring screen of the nightly news for company.

  “Typical,” she shouted after him. “Just typical! Just walk away, like you always do. You’re the one who refuses to have a heart! You’re the one that doesn’t even know how to talk!”

  The door shut behind her father, and he continued to march away, disappearing down the long hall. Adele swallowed, and with a violent motion reached out, snagged the TV remote, and turned off the screen.

  She leaned back in the leather chair, staring at the empty hearth. For a moment, the rage and anger continued to cycle through her. The guilt and embarrassment and shame also had their say. But as the emotions collided, filling her with anxiety, prickling her skin, they too began to fade, disappearing along with the sound of her father’s footsteps.

  Then, just loneliness.

  Alone, in the dark study room, at the top of the tower of the resort. The screen was off now, but the words still splayed across her mind. Condemnations. Judgments. People who thought she had done a terrible job. People who wanted the resorts to function rather than find the killers. People who didn’t care about justice nearly as much as they cared about checkbooks.

  And yet, these things served only to rile Adele further. Maybe she was lying to herself. Maybe they had a point. Maybe she really was bad at this.

  Adele’s sighed, a long breath ending in a weak, soft sound like half a whimper. She wished she hadn’t spoken to her father like that. She wish she hadn’t lashed out.

  But why should she care? He’d spent her entire childhood and much of her adulthood speaking to her, his only daughter, in much harsher terms. He had done it for her own good according to his philosophy. He wanted to toughen her up, to help her make something of herself.

  And yet, Adele still felt the guilt. She knew it was wrong to have said it how she said it, but not what… No… the what she actually believed. In a way, in the darkest recesses of herself, she did. If her father had been better at his job, he would’ve found Elise’s killer. If he’d been a better husband, she never would’ve left Germany to begin with.

  Harsh, biting accusations. Yet, not entirely untrue. And still, none of that made Adele feel any better. She could feel tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, and angrily she reached up, brushing them away with the back of her hand. Her skin was rigid and rough from the cold.

  She knew she was supposed to use moisturizer in the Alps, but had neglected to do so in the events of the last couple of days. There, in the dark, facing the lonely hearth, with no one for company except for her own accusing, vengeful thoughts, Adele felt small, cut off from the rest of the world.

  She missed…

  …what did she miss?

  Her mother. She missed her mother. She missed home. She never had a home. Her mother had been her home. The one person she felt safe with. The one person who had made her feel like the world might be okay. Now, though—tortured to death. Gone. Stolen from the world.

  Adele missed France. Not quite a home, but not so distant. Robert, closer than her father had ever been. And John, too.

  John was a strange one. She wasn’t sure why she cared about the man. He was gruff, obnoxious, unprofessional. All the things she’d been trained not to be.

  And yet, she cared for him. She wasn’t sure in what way. She wasn’t sure how far it went. But she knew she cared for him. He was a prickly sort, dangerous. But it was in that danger that she found a modicum of comfort. A danger directed. A skill set utilized on her behalf. But more than that, fierce loyalty. A dogged, trustworthy loyalty. She remembered the sound of his shrill voice at the end of the phone. Remembered all pretense of cool, all pretense of teasing, fading, when she’d been in a room with a serial killer. Her father had been defenseless, helpless. He’d been tied up. John had sprinted to his car, gotten in his vehicle, broken every speed record, and then shot the man through the window with perfect marksmanship.

  John had shown up more than once. He’d always had her back.

  She found her hand fumbling for her phone and pulling it out. She could still feel the wet residue of tears lacing the underside of her cheeks. She could feel her shoulders trembling, her voice cracking as she tried to murmur to herself, to calm herself.

  She cycled through the numbers and found Agent Renee’s. She paused, but then pushed through the defenses, pushed through to a point of vulnerability. She needed to talk to someone. Someone she knew had her back. Someone she knew cared about her, in his own way.

  She dialed the number and waited expectantly. She could still feel the emotion swelling through her, and saw in that moment this was a very stupid idea. She was running low on sleep, and she had drunk one too many beers with her father back at Respite in the Cliffs. She was emotionally low—perhaps this wasn’t the time to call someone. Then again, perhaps it was the perfect time. Perhaps it was her father who would wall himself off instead of deal with his emotions. And maybe that was the wrong solution. Maybe it had always been the wrong solution.

  She allowed the phone to ring, tapping one of her feet against the carpeted floor, staring into the cold hearth.

  A ring, two, three.

  No answer.

  She could feel a jet of rejection in her gut, a slice of fear, and further loneliness.

  But then, a buzz, and a voice. “Adele?”

  She swallowed, tried to speak, but found a blockage in her throat. She swallowed again, pushing back the emotions. “John?” she said.

  John cleared his throat on the other end. “Yeah, I saw the news. How did the interrogation go?”

  “It—fine. It wasn’t him. He’s a sleaze bag, not a killer.”

  “Oh. Well then, too bad.”

  “Any other connections?” she said, quickly. She’d been wanting to say something else, to ask John how he was doing. Just to speak to him about something besides work. But at the last moment fear had culled her words, and she’d given in.

  She felt a flash of shame. She was just as weak as her father.

  “Nothing,” John said. “We’re still looking, but nothing’s coming up. No other employees between the two resorts in that time frame. None.”

  “Well… that’s not good. What about guests?”

  “Harder to find that list. We’re looking into it, trying to get the rec
ords. Gonna take some time. Robert wants to do things by the book.” It sounded as if John had lowered the phone for a second, and a series of expletives filled the air, but then he lifted the phone again. “By the book is what he calls it. Waste of time is what I call it.”

  “Clever,” said Adele.

  A strange, awkward stretch of time between them. Adele wondered at his expression. Agent John Renee was a very handsome fellow. He had a scar across the underside of his chin, a burn mark that extended down to the top of his chest. He was tall, much taller than Adele even. She hated to admit it, but she missed him. She missed the easy comfort of his presence. The certainty of his presence. The knowledge that he wore his thoughts on his sleeve. He was a dangerous man. She likened him to a James Bond villain in her mind. She smiled again at the recollection. She thought of the times they’d walked into danger together, just the two of them, weapons at the ready. She thought of the way he’d rush through a hotel, charging into battle, without batting an eyelid. He hated the investigative process, but when shit hit the fan, there was no one better to have at her side.

  “Are you,” said John’s voice, hesitant, “are you okay?”

  Compassion. Shit. “Fine,” she said, her voice cracking despite her best efforts. She felt a sudden flash of shame. Had he heard the crack? Did he think she was crying. She wasn’t crying!

  She reached up and brushed angrily at her eyes.

  “Adele?”

  “I’m fine,” she repeated, a bit angrily this time.

  “Right, okay.”

  “You knew it was me,” she said.

  “Come again?”

  “When I called, you didn’t ask who it was this time. You knew it was me.”

  John grumbled on the other end, but then reluctantly said, “I was tired of your bitching. I saved your number, right.”

  For some reason, this cheered Adele’s mood. She smiled. “You saved my number?”

  “Don’t make something out of it, American Princess. I just don’t want you nagging me about it.”

  “You saved my number,” she said.

  “Yeah? Fine, I did. And you’re calling me late at night. Do you miss me? I bet you miss me, don’t you? It’s fine, my dashing good looks and charm are rarely wasted on the feminine kind.”