Читать книгу Left To Run - Блейк Пирс - Страница 5

Melissa Robinson moved up the apartment steps, humming quietly to herself. In the distance, she heard the bells from the city. She paused to listen, her smile only widening. She’d been living in Paris for seven years now, yet the sounds never grew stale.

She turned up the next set of steps. No elevators in this apartment. The buildings were too old. Cultured, she thought to herself.

She smiled again and took the stairs one at a time. There was no rush. The new arrival she was going to meet had said two o’clock. It was 1:58. Melissa paused at the top of the landing, glancing out the wide window into the city beyond. She hadn’t grown up in Paris, but the place was beautiful. She glimpsed the old, yellowed stone structures of buildings older than some countries. She noted the angled pattern of apartments and cafes and crisscrossing streets through the heart of the city.

With another contented sigh, Melissa reached the door on the third floor and politely extended her hand, tapping on the frame. A few moments passed.

No answer.

She continued to smile, still listening to the bells and then glancing back out the window. She could just see the low-peaked steeple of Sainte-Chapelle spiraling against the horizon.

“Amanda,” she called out, her voice pleasant.

She remembered the first time she’d come to Paris. It had all seemed overwhelming. Seven years ago, an expat from America, resituating in a new country, a new culture. Knocks on the door had been a welcome distraction at that time. Melissa knew many of her friends in the expat community had a difficult time adjusting to the city. It wasn’t always as friendly at first blush, especially not for Americans, or for college-age kids. She remembered her time on an American campus for the first two years. It was as if everyone had wanted to be her friend. In France, people were a bit more reserved. Which, of course, was why she helped organize the group.

Melissa smiled again and tapped on the door once more. “Amanda,” she repeated.

Again, there was no response. She hesitated, glancing up and down the hall. She reached into her pocket and fished out her phone. Smartphones were all well and good, but Melissa preferred a bit of an older style. She scanned the old flip phone and noted the time on the front screen. 2:02. She scrolled through the text messages and scanned Amanda’s last text.

“I’d be happy to meet you later today. Say, 2pm? Looking forward to the group. It’s been hard making friends in the city.”

Melissa’s smile faltered a bit. She remembered meeting Amanda—a chance encounter in a supermarket. They’d hit it off immediately. The bells seemed to fade in the distance now. On a whim, she reached out and felt for the door handle. She twisted and found that it turned. A click, and the door shifted open just a crack.

Melissa stared.

She would have to make sure Amanda knew about the dangers of leaving her door unlocked downtown. Even in a city like Paris, caution preceded safety. Melissa hesitated for a moment, caught in a crisis of conscience, but then, at last, she eased the door open completely with a gentle prod of her forefinger.

“Hello,” she called into the dark apartment. Perhaps Amanda was out shopping. Maybe she’d forgotten the appointment. “Hello, Amanda? It’s me, Melissa from the forum…”

No answer.

Melissa didn’t consider herself a particularly nosy sort. But when it came to Americans in Paris, she had a sense of kinship. Almost like they belonged to the same family. It didn’t feel so much like intruding as checking in on a little sister. She nodded to herself, justifying the decision in her mind before she stepped into the apartment of a woman she’d only met once before.

The door creaked again as her elbow brushed against the frame, causing it to shift open even more. She hesitated and thought she heard voices from down the hall. She popped her head back out and looked up the hallway toward the edge of the stairs.

A young couple moved along the banister, noted her, and instead of nodding or waving, continued on their merry way. Melissa sighed and moved back into the apartment—and then froze. The fridge was open. A strange slant of yellow light extended from the compartment across the kitchen floor.

Amanda was there. Sitting on the floor, facing the opposite wall. Her back was half against the cabinet, one shoulder blade pressed against the wood, the other extending past, her left arm resting on the floor.

“Did you spill something?” Melissa asked, stepping even further into the darkened room.

Wine puddled on the ground beneath Amanda’s left arm. Melissa took another few steps and turned to face Amanda, still smiling.

Her smile froze. Amanda’s dead eyes stared up at her, gaping over a thick slit in her neck. Cold blood stained the front of her shirt, spilling down to the floor where it had thickened against the linoleum.

Melissa didn’t scream, nor did she shout. She merely gasped, her fingers trembling as she struggled to fish out her inhaler. She stumbled toward the door, grabbing her inhaler with one hand and snagging her phone with the other.

After a few puffs of air, she loosed a gurgled groan and, with trembling fingers on her flip phone buttons, she tapped 1-7 for the police.

Still gasping, back against the wall outside the open door to the apartment, she swallowed and waited for the operator to pick up. Behind her, she thought she could hear the vague, fading sound of liquid dripping against the floor.

Only then did she scream.