Adele’s eyebrows inched up and she tapped her pen against her whitened teeth. Interesting. Was… was it possible Angus wanted to get back together?
She read the last message, which simply said:
Please.
She sighed and pushed her phone back beneath the pile of papers in the metal tray. No sense sorting it out now. She was swamped. Hurting Angus’s feelings a little was nothing in comparison to what Agent Grant would do to her if she postponed filling out the forms another day. Besides, Angus had done his share of hurting last time they’d interacted.
Adele squared her shoulders and tried to return her attention to her paperwork.
No use.
She leaned back, emitting a quiet sigh that extended toward the ceiling as if encapsulating the yellow light and blending with the illumination. Though he’d hurt her, she wasn’t interested in hurting Angus. He’d been a good boyfriend—a solid boyfriend. Predictable? Maybe a little. Reliable, though? Certainly. Honest, too—though sometimes too nice, too hesitant.
Safe. Perhaps the best word to describe him. Rich now, too, if what she was hearing about his last tech company was anything to go by.
Her left hand inched toward the phone again, but she paused, allowing it to linger on the soft surface of the paper beneath her fingertips. All this paperwork could have been avoided, at least—mostly—if she wasn’t forced to spend so much time in airplanes, or moving between agencies. When she’d agreed to work with Interpol as a correspondent between BKA, DGSI, and the FBI, she’d thought she’d known what she was getting into. But now…
She wrinkled her nose again at the pile of folders in front of her.
Perhaps it was time to set down roots. Moving, constantly moving… It wasn’t conducive to a happy life, was it? Recently, Adele had read an article in Psychology Meritus, a journal that the FBI Behavioral Unit swore by, which said that people who constantly moved in their youth, and continued to do so as an adult, often found it difficult to connect to others. The threat of uprooting and leaving could sometimes even have a traumatic effect on a child.
Adele frowned at the memory. Could it be true? It wasn’t like she had many friends.
She thought of Robert, and a small smile played across her lips. Even Agent Grant, despite being her boss, was someone she could confide in.
Her smile faded a bit as she thought of John Renee. Crack-shot, wisecracking asshole extraordinaire. Nothing safe about John. The anti-Angus in many ways.
Frowning now, she reached for her phone, intent on calling Angus. A call couldn’t hurt, could it? Especially if he wanted her back. What would she say? Would she even know before hearing his voice?
As she picked up her phone and felt the smooth weight, it began to ring. Not vibrating this time, but a shrill chirp. The only number in her phone set to make a sound came from upstairs.
Adele’s frown deepened and she could feel the furrowed lines gouged into her forehead as she pressed the phone to her ear. “Agent Grant, I’m working on the files. Not done yet, but I should—”
“Adele, forget the files,” said the voice on the other end. “We need you upstairs.”
“Are you sure? If you give me a few more hours, I’m sure I could—”
“Forget the files, Adele,” said Agent Grant’s voice. It sounded strained, reluctant, but certain. “Hurry. Something came up.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Adele waited for the silence on the other end before lowering her device and staring at her desk for a moment. Something came up. The way Grant had said it sent a tingle along the back of Adele’s arms.
Well, roots—at least for now—could wait.
Adele pushed from her chair, pocketed her phone, and—trying not to smile too widely—distanced herself from the pile of paperwork, pushing out the door and heading upstairs to Agent Grant’s office.
CHAPTER THREE
As she stepped into Agent Grant’s office, Adele was surprised to see Ms. Jayne sitting in front of the desk, her hands clasped over her knees in a prim, patient posture. Adele hesitated and tried not to frown in confusion. She surveyed the room, half expecting to see Executive Foucault show up as well, but—this time—there was no sign of the French head of DGSI.
Ms. Jayne, on the other hand, worked for Interpol. She was an older woman, with bright, intelligent eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. She had silver hair and was a bit heavier than most field agents. Adele knew from experience that Ms. Jayne spoke without an accent, suggesting she’d mastered the English language, but it didn’t seem as if it were her native tongue.
As the door clicked shut behind Adele, she stepped further into Agent Grant’s office. If Ms. Jayne had seen fit to come herself, something had come up indeed.
Agent Grant cleared her throat behind the desk. Adele’s supervisor brushed a hand through her medium-length hair and pressed her lips into a severe expression. She was only a few years older than Adele, but had premature wrinkles around her mouth and the corners of her eyes. Lee Grant had been named after the two generals from the Civil War, and was well-known among the San Francisco field office for her forays out of the building and onto crime scenes whenever she had the opportunity or excuse to stretch her legs. Secretly, Adele suspected that Agent Grant missed the field work. And, though she’d never say it, Adele believed Grant’s skills were wasted behind a desk.
“Sharp,” said Agent Grant, nodding across her desk.
“Agent Sharp,” Ms. Jayne said, nodding with a curt bob of her perfectly trimmed hair.
“Ms. Jayne,” Adele said, hesitating. She’d never been given a first name. She nodded toward Grant as well. “How can I be of assistance?”
She waited, letting the silence linger between them as the commanding agents glanced at each other. Agent Grant broke the silence. “We have a… delicate predicament.”
Ms. Jayne’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly behind her glasses. A brief crack in her proper, prim facade, but Adele caught it before it slipped away behind bright eyes and a placid expression.
“Delicate?” said Adele. “Well, anything to get me away from that paperwork…” She chuckled weakly, but when the mirth wasn’t reciprocated, she fell quiet again.
“The locals,” Ms. Jayne began, in her normal crisp, precise tones, “believe it was a brown bear attack.”
Adele tried another smile, and once again abandoned the half-hearted attempt to lighten the atmosphere. “Didn’t know there were any brown bears in San Francisco,” she said.
Agent Grant shook her head. “The Alps.”
“The… the Alps?”
“An extensive mountain range, stretching across eight countries in Europe,” said Agent Grant in manner of explanation.
“Oh, er, well, no—yes, I mean. I know what they are. So there’s a case in the Alps?”
Adele thought about Angus’s texts. She thought about her desire to set down roots. But at the same time, a quiet, prickling chill of excitement probed up her spine. This time, she fought to suppress the smile threatening to curl her lips.
“Yes,” said Agent Grant. “As I mentioned, locals think it was a bear attack. A wealthy Italian couple vacationing at a ski resort. Both of them accomplished cross-country skiers. Both of them found dead, mauled.”
Adele nodded once. “But not a bear?”
Grant glanced to the third woman in the room. Ms. Jayne kept her hands folded over her knee and peered from behind her spectacles up at Adele. “The local search and rescue mentioned the possibility of a brown bear to the media. They’ve been running with it.”
Adele nodded. Ms. Jayne’s English, as always, was perfect, though clipped and sterile. The Interpol correspondent continued. “We are currently allowing the narrative to play. For now.”
“But you know it wasn’t a bear?” Adele hesitated. “Why the pretense?”
“It is not a pretense,” said Ms. Jayne. Again, her eyes narrowed, just barely, behind her glasses, and again the gesture was gone before the avera
ge person might spot it. Adele, on the other hand, spent a good deal of time paying attention to details. Ms. Jayne’s irritation wasn’t lost on her. But she kept her peace, allowing the older woman to continue. “A delicate situation,” she said, repeating the words Grant had used. “A wealthy Italian couple dies in Germany. And given the couple’s political connections back in Italy, well… you can understand if Interpol would like to handle this with care, to the satisfaction of all parties involved.”
“I’m… I’m confused,” said Adele, slowly tracing her finger along the edge of Grant’s desk. She kept her eyes downturned, listening but no longer watching, following the thin trail of dust dislodged from the underside of the table. “You said this has to do with the Alps. Not just one resort, not just one mountain. But the range of mountains… Am I right?”
Ms. Jayne nodded. “Yes. Astute. The Italians weren’t the only incident. Another couple—Swiss—also went missing. A couple hundred miles away. A week ago—we still haven’t found them.”
“Let me guess, also in the Alps?”
“Just so. The French Alps, to be exact.”
Adele resisted the urge to heave a sigh, doing her best to keep her expression and breathing neutral. “I see… And you’re here in person because…?”
Ms. Jayne uncrossed her legs and delicately placed both feet on the floor, before leaning forward and peering up at Adele. “The Italian couple and the Swiss couple show no connections, besides where they went missing—and even then, they were separated by nearly two hundred miles. And yet…”
“Let me guess; the Swiss family is also wealthy and important?” Adele said.
Ms. Jayne bobbed her head. “It’s important we handle this carefully. Already there are too many cooks in the kitchen. We’d like to avoid spoiling the broth entirely.”
“I’m guessing you’re not here to borrow a recipe, though.”
Agent Grant snorted softly and Adele looked up, meeting her supervisor’s eye. “They’re looking for another cook,” Grant said with a nod toward Ms. Jayne.
This time, Adele did sigh, though she tried to disguise it as a yawn, but halfway through, decided this might seem more inappropriate, and covered by quickly asking, “So you want me in the Alps to investigate an unconnected missing persons case where the culprit might have simply been frostbite or a famished grizzly?”
Ms. Jayne got slowly to her feet, adjusting her tailored suit. “Brown bears. And we have strong reason to believe the killings had nothing to do with wildlife. I wouldn’t have come if this wasn’t important. Well, Ms. Sharp—can we count on your aid?”
Adele quirked an eyebrow at Agent Grant, who grunted and nodded. “Not my say-so. Higher-ups already gave the nod. Your call, Adele.”
There was something significant in her supervising agent’s gaze as she waited, watching the younger woman. Adele looked back, but then glanced away. Another case, more traveling. She would be well within her rights to refuse…
And what?
Go back to paperwork? To Angus? To safety.
Was that really so bad?
“Please,” said Ms. Jayne. And for the first time, Adele detected a note of unease in the woman’s voice. Was this case personal to the Interpol correspondent? Why the emotion?
She hesitated, but then looked directly at Agent Grant. “As long as you get someone else to complete the paperwork, I’m in.”
Grant’s eyes narrowed, and unlike Ms. Jayne, she made no effort to conceal her annoyance. But at last, it was her turn to sigh and she waved a hand airily toward the door. “Your wish is my command. Besides, your flight is already booked.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Adele approached the third parking level with a slight skip in her step. It had been more than two months since she’d last been abroad. Her stride felt sure-footed, and thought the parking structure was walled, it felt like there was a wind ruffling her hair. Roots could wait—now that the opportunity presented itself, she felt a sudden relief at the prospect of travel. A distraction from considering her time and place in life? Perhaps—or, perhaps, some people simply weren’t meant to stay put for too long.
She cleared her throat and adjusted her sleeves as a couple of colleagues maneuvered past her, through the sliding glass security door toward the metal detectors and posted guards. Adele nodded in greeting, but then moved toward the back of the parking structure where she’d parked her sedan.
And pulled up short.
Someone was standing by her car.
Her hand inched toward her service weapon on her hip, but her fingers froze as she recognized the curly-haired silhouette. He’d been working out; his arms were at least an inch larger than last she’d seen him, and his waist an inch smaller. She eyed him up and down, enjoying the view a moment before making her presence known.
“Angus?” she called out.
Her ex-boyfriend turned suddenly, blinking out at her. He no longer wore glasses either. Contacts? Lasik? His hair was longer than she remembered, and he had a new scar on his upper lip, barely visible.
“Oh, jeez, hey… Adele,” he said, clearing his throat. In the past, he often would call her by pet names, but now he pronounced her name exactly, as if fearful he might have forgotten it.
“What are you doing here?” she said without returning the greeting.
Angus shifted uncomfortably, leaning against the hood of her car. Adele eyed where he sat with a severe expression, and he coughed and quickly pushed off the car, raising his hands apologetically. “Oh, sorry—er, sorry,” he said, quickly. “I just… was just in the area, and I wanted to make sure that…”
“I got your messages.”
“Oh…” He trailed off. “Oh,” he repeated in a hurt voice.
Adele inhaled through her nose, trying to refocus and switch gears from thinking of murders in the Alps to an awkward ex-boyfriend. “Look, Angus, I wasn’t ignoring you—I was swamped. You wouldn’t believe the amount of paperwork they shoveled onto my desk.”
Angus nodded, still communicating a hurt look in his eyes. “I get it,” he said, slowly. He glanced out over the third level of the parking lot at the afternoon sky. Then he lifted a brown paper bag. “I brought you something—they had it at the store next to work. Well, actually, it was a few blocks down. Took me a few stores to find it… But, yeah, here you go.”
He gave a lopsided smile and pushed the paper bag toward her.
Reluctantly, Adele accepted the gift if only to calm him. She glanced in the bag, and part of her smile turned authentic. “Oh, Angus,” she said, in a soft, sad voice. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I remember it’s your favorite—right? You’d eat it every morning. I like chocolate cereal too, but, haha, never as much as you did.” He nodded toward the discount box of Chocapic cereal. “It’s from Germany right?”
She lowered the cereal, gripping the bag in the same hand that had strayed toward her hip when she’d first spotted him by her car. Angus, of course, knew about her triple citizenship—American on her father’s side, French on her mother’s, and German based on their family’s relocation. But while he knew it, it sometimes struck her how considerate Angus was. Sometimes too considerate, and sometimes, in her quiet opinion, to too many people. She knew it made her selfish, but there was something Adele liked about being the only one allowed into the softer side of her partner. Angus, on the other hand, was like a golden retriever—he would expose his belly to everyone. Growing up, Adele had always preferred pit bulls. Dependable, intelligent, and fiercely loyal to only one person.
“France,” she said.
“Come again?”
“The cereal, it’s from France. Never mind—thanks, Angus. But you didn’t come all this way to drop off a box of breakfast.”
He scratched the back of his head, tousling his curly hair. She could see the indents along his cheeks where he used to wear glasses, just barely, faint—perhaps simply from sun marks. They hinted at a history—a memory.
“I—I wanted to
talk,” he said, cautiously. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking… And really taking some time…” He began to speak faster, louder, mustering up courage as if he’d rehearsed these words before.
Adele watched him patiently, quietly, allowing him to speak, but dreading what came next. Did he want to get back together? What was this about? Did she even want to know?
Roots. Roots were safe. Roots were reliable, dependable. Roots were home—somewhere to go back to.
Adele glanced out over the parking lot divide and studied the horizon, glimpsing the distant sky. A small, tiny voice—a part of her that she pretended wasn’t there—gave voice to its own opinion. Roots were restrictive. Roots were like chains. Roots kept you trapped.
“Look, Angus,” she said, cutting him off mid-sentence. “We can talk. I promise, we’ll talk. But now isn’t a good time.”
His face fell as she moved past him toward the car. She clicked the locks and tossed the paper bag with the Chocapic into the backseat. She turned and smiled apologetically, wincing. “I promise,” she repeated. “Soon. I’m heading out of town for work. After I’m back, okay?”
Angus paused, mouth half open. He really had always been nice to her. The look of hurt on his face made her feel a bit like she’d just kicked a puppy. She felt a clawing sense of guilt in her chest and desperately tried to suppress the emotion. She knew, looking at him, if she stayed longer she would change her mind. She would hear him out. And then… words had a way of convincing people. And Adele wasn’t sure she wanted to be convinced. Besides, he was the one who had broken up with her. Just because he’d sorted his shit out, didn’t mean she had too.
With quick motions, she stepped into her car, flashed another apologetic smile at her ex, and began to close the door. The haunting sense of loneliness, of guilt, of confusion chased her into the front seat and propelled the words from her mouth, “Later. I promise. I’m sorry, Angus. Really, I definitely want to talk. Just not right now. Is that okay?”
He nodded, a sad look in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Adele. I shouldn’t have come here, you’re right. Does next weekend work?”
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