Still frowningto herself, Adele moved back over to her own vehicle. She felt her phone chirp,and glanced down as she slid into the front seat. An email attachment had beensent by Paige.
Adele wonderedagain if Paige was intentionally going out of her way to sabotage theinvestigation. But of course, if Adele went to complain to Foucault, she wouldnever hear the end of it. She couldn’t afford to make an even greater enemy outof Paige. Right now, it was a matter of petty nuisance and annoyance, butfurther escalation could prove dangerous.
Vaguely, Adelewondered how that woman had five adopted kids and a husband. She seemedinsufferable.
She sighedthrough her nose, opened the email attachment, and began to scan the reports.They would have to send a request to Foucault to get permission to approach thesocial media company for information on the expat forum. Right now, it feltlike a race against the clock. What tied these two victims together? Why werethey both missing kidneys?
Adele examinedthe photos and felt a shiver up her arms. The cuts had been small; theincisions clean. They’d been done hurriedly, though. On both victims, theincisions were matching.
Adele textedRobert: Meet you at the office. Something came up—housewarming will have towait. She lowered her phone, tossing it over onto the passenger seat, thenbuckled up, put the keys in the ignition, and set the car in gear, pulling awayfrom the curb and heading back toward the DGSI headquarters. Questions swirledthrough her mind, and the sense of urgency pressed on her like a cloud.
With matchingincisions, it meant it was the same killer, then. There had still been apossibility it wasn’t serial. But now, that notion seemed far-fetched. It wasthe same person killing these women. The only question was why? For pleasure orcompulsion? Or some other reason? And when would they kill again?
CHAPTER NINE
Shiloah Watkinsstood by the door to her new apartment, adjusting the security chain. She felta buzz in her pocket and sighed, pressing her hand against the rectangular formof her phone. She didn’t need to check to guess it was her mother texting forthe millionth time about the two murders in the city. An entire ocean separatedthem now, but her mother only seemed more interested in Shiloah’sbusiness. An echo of her mother’s voice nagged in her head, and Shiloah checkedthe locks again, then turned away from the door and moved through the smallhallway in the direction of her bedroom.
She paused bythe bathroom door and glanced in, noting her towel had fallen and was nowbunched up beneath the rack. She muttered softly to herself and approached thetowel, lifted it, and hung it again.
The showeritself was notably devoid of shampoos, and only had a single, whittled yellowbar of soap.
She’d only beenin France for a few days now and had yet to muster the courage to go groceryshopping. Shiloah reached up and tugged at her hair, she emitting a grunt ofdisgust as her fingers rubbed against the grainy texture.
It was a scarything, coming to France. She’d only graduated with a bachelor’s in linguisticstwo months before. Now, she’d be working as an English tutor.
Shiloah movedaway from the towel rack and over to the sink, peering into the mirror andstudying her expression. She had always possessed a fondness for France—eversince a study-abroad program two years ago. Now, she hoped to live herepermanently.
Shiloah heard aquiet buzzing from her pocket and reached down, pulling her phone out. As she’dexpected, there were three missed calls from her mother.
She resisted theurge to roll her eyes, but then noticed another red number next to a blue blipon the screen. She frowned. The messenger app displayed a notification from theYankees in Paris.
It was a sillytitle for a group, but a couple of blogs she’d read—in preparation for thebig move—had suggested the online community as a way to make connections inthe new city.
Shiloah scannedthe group and noticed a message from one of the moderators. They’d accepted herapplication to the group. There would be a get-together sometime in the nextweek.
It took her amoment to translate the message. A lot of them could speak English perfectlywell as they were from America for the most part, but preferred to communicatein French to help acclimate new members. Shiloah struggled with a couple of thewords, but managed to finally translate the message and determine the locationand time of the coming meet-up.
She typed, “Thankyou. See you then!” and turned from the bathroom door, heading toward herroom.
She againbrushed her hair behind her ear, wincing as her knuckles trailed against herbangs. Three days without a proper conditioner did that to someone. In thepast, her mother had often sent her soaps and shampoos in care packages to herdorm room. A lot of her friends often joked that twenty-two was the newfifteen, but in her case, Shiloah was now in another country, living on her ownfor the first time with no dorm mates to speak of.
As she turned, walkingtoward her bedroom, trying to put thoughts of her dry hair behind her, sheheard a quiet tap on the door.
Shiloah frownedand turned.
Another quiettap.
“Hello?” shecalled out.
A pause, and fora moment she thought she’d been hearing things.
But then a voicereplied, “Maintenance.”
Her frowndeepened. She hadn’t requested any maintenance. Still, she supposed perhaps thiswas routine for new tenants. “Coming!” she called.
She opened thedoor and reached for the chain. Her hand hovered for a moment before sheunhooked it. She thought of the murders her mother had read about in the news.
Her hand loweredfor second, and she pressed an eye to the peephole, peering out into theapartment hallway and noticing a man standing there in uniform with a name tagshe couldn’t quite read. He wore a yellow hat and carried a toolbox which nowrested on the banister.
The man had ayoung face boasting no facial hair. He almost looked as if he might be her age.For some reason, this put her a bit more at ease. Shiloah adjusted the chainand slid the bolt before twisting the knob and pulling the door open.
“Hello,” shesaid in French.
The
