Page 22 of When 're Silent

“Nothing,” Finn shook his headslightly. “Just thinking aloud.” He could feel the weight of the case like alead vest—every detail they unearthed was heavy with significance, yet slipperyas an eel when it came to tangible leads.

“Are you sure?”

“I can’t remember the last time inmy life when I didn’t feel at a crossroads,” he answered. “And I’m worried Ialways take the wrong turn.

"No, you don't," she saidwith a smile. "We've got five hard cases under our belts. You've provenyourself time and time again. And your personal life... Think of it as anopportunity opening up rather than a door closing."

“Is there an opportunity?” Finnasked.

“Maybe,” Amelia answered. “I thinkwe should call it a day and get some rest. Hopefully the night will be apeaceful one.

Finn knew that it would not be.

They then sat in silence for therest of the drive until they reached Great Amwell, where Finn bid Ameliagoodnight and retired within, hoping that things would be clearer in themorning. But the night would not let him go so easily.

CHAPTER NINE

The London night embraced him likean accomplice, its shadows draping around his form with a familiarity that feltalmost affectionate. He stood motionless, a specter blending into the darkenedalleyway, his eyes intently fixed on the soft glow emanating from a third-floorwindow of the apartment building across the street. The gentle murmur of citylife—the distant honk of taxis, the muffled laughter of passersby—played likebackground music to the scene unfolding before him.

Inside that warmly lit room,Jillian Bruce drew her bow across the strings of her violin, the notes soaring,dancing through the air with a grace that belied the heaviness in his chest.Unaware of his watchful gaze, she moved through her nightly routine, hersilhouette casting an elegant shadow against the curtains which fluttered everso slightly with each breath of the night wind.

The killer had to see her.Carefully, methodically, the killer climbed up the side of the building, movingup several pipes that clung to the outside. Finally, the killer stopped, ableto look inside.

On the wall opposite was a largeportrait, and killer grinned at it, menacingly. It was the legendary King ofScotland, Robert the Bruce. A king whose lineage was the reason the killer wasthere in the first place.

Jillian, with her lithe fingers andthe crown of auburn hair cascading over the delicate arch of her shoulders, wasmore than just another inhabitant of this sprawling city. She was a directdescendant of Robert the Bruce, her lineage woven into the very fabric ofScotland’s tumultuous history. And now, she unknowingly played for an audienceof one—a man whose appreciation for her talents was dwarfed only by thedarkness in his soul.

As the melody swelled, hermovements became more fervent, more impassioned, as though the music itselfwere a living entity within her. He watched intently, every note etched intohis memory, every shift of her body cataloged for later reflection. This was nomere observation; it was a study, a dedication to detail that would serve apurpose far beyond tonight’s voyeuristic pursuit.

In the quiet comfort of the Londonnight, the killer found solace. It was not the solace of peace or contentment,but one of anticipation—a prelude to the chaos he was destined to unleash. Thecity’s ambient glow cast a pale silver light across the alley, giving thecontours of his face a spectral quality as he peered up at her window. Hispresence was as intangible as the mist that sometimes crept along the Thames inthe early hours of dawn, yet it was there, persistent and waiting.

There was beauty in the unseen, inthe moments that lay dormant between the heartbeats of the city. As he stoodwatching Jillian Bruce, oblivious in her artistic solitude, he savored thestillness before the storm, the silent overture to a symphony of dread.

He could have stayed all night,hidden in the shadows, absorbing the sight of Jillian lost in her craft—but hispurpose required discipline, and his time here neared its end. His heartthrummed in a rhythm that competed with the distant, muffled sounds of carengines and sporadic laughter from passersby enjoying the London nightlife. Thepulse was not born of fear or cold; it was excitement that coursed through hisveins as he watched her—a performer for an audience of one.

The killer knew the time had come.His hands searched for a small diamond-tipped tool in his pockets. Pulling itout, he moved to another window of the apartment along a ledge, and carefullycut into the glass, creating a hole big enough to undo the latch.

Then, he was inside, but he movedsilently, clinging to the shadows like a ninja of old. There, he waited andwatched.

Jillian Bruce moved within herapartment with an unconscious grace, her silhouette casting long, elegantshadows on the walls as she swayed gently to music only she could hear. Herarms rose and fell, harmonious and fluid, commanding the bow and strings with anatural ease that left him spellbound. There was something innately captivatingabout her, perhaps a vestige of her noble lineage, and it drew him in, ignitinga perverse sense of attraction that twisted within him like a dark vine seekingsunlight.

He observed, patient as a sculptorchiseling at marble, noting each subtlety: the way her hair tumbled over hershoulders as she tilted her head, the slight furrow of concentration betweenher brows, the rise and fall of her chest with each breath drawn into herlungs. It was intimate, this silent study of her, and yet so detached—fittingfor one who saw people not as souls but as pawns in a grander design.

It wasn’t just her movements thatheld his attention. His eyes, sharp and discerning even in the low light,caught sight of the partially opened window at the back of Jillian’s apartment.A slender gap inviting the night air to caress the interior, whispering secretsthat only he would understand. No doubt she relished the feeling of the coolbreeze against her skin after the heat generated by hours of practice, thefresh air mingling with the scent of wood and rosin.

Jillian Bruce, a talentedviolinist, unwitting participant in this morbid dance, remained blissfullyignorant of the fate that he had crafted for her—a fate now symbolicallyresting in his hands. The lineage she bore proudly in her name had drawn him toher, a moth to the flame, and he could not resist the allure of adding her tohis collection of silenced histories.

The killer’s grip tightened aroundthe small, diamond-tipped tool hidden within his palm. His heart pounded with amixture of excitement and dread as he approached Jillian Bruce from behind, hisfootsteps silent against the plush carpet. Her music continued to fill theroom, masking any sound of his presence. With each step closer, he could feelthe weight of history pressing down upon him, urging him to fulfill his twisteddestiny.

As Jillian reached the crescendo ofher performance, her body swaying with an ethereal grace, the killer seized hismoment. In one swift motion, he lunged forward and covered her mouth with agloved hand, muffling her startled gasp. He stabbed again and again,relentlessly. Panic flashed in her eyes as she struggled against his iron grip,but it was futile. He had already planned every move meticulously. With a surgeof strength fueled by his warped conviction, he forced her limp body onto thefloor, smothering any remnants of life that remained within her.

As he gazed upon the emblem in hishand, which he dropped to the floor next to her dead hand, a shiver ofsatisfaction ran down his spine. It was as if the very legacy of Robert theBruce was sanctioning his act, compelling him to continue on this path of darkhomage. He relished the feeling, allowing it to wash over him like a dark tide.

The emblem was more than a meresignature—it was an announcement, a declaration that another chapter of historywas about to be closed by his hand. He imagined the headlines, the franticscramble of investigators trying to piece together the puzzle he so artfullydesigned, always remaining one step ahead. For now, though, the emblem was hisalone to admire.

In the solitude of the night, withLondon’s endless labyrinth sprawled out before him, he felt like a kingoverlooking his domain. But unlike the monarchs of old, his rule would bewhispered in hushed tones, his reign marked by the chilling legacy he leftbehind—one that Finn Wright, no matter how determined, would struggle todecipher.

He looked down at his hands, thedim light of a nearby lamp casting them in a pale glow. It was time to retreat,to vanish before any trace of his presence could be discovered. And the citywelcomed him back into its embrace.

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