Page 30 of When 're Silent

“Let’s hope for his sake thatBlackwood’s just a loudmouthed activist with an unfortunate hobby,” Ameliamurmured as they buckled up. Her voice held an edge of doubt, mirroring Finn’sown thoughts.

“Hope, but don’t bet on it,” Finnsaid, putting the car into first and getting them moving.

“Can we get a constable to checkthe alibis? I think I might need some time to think the case over at thecottage,” Finn said. “Get a little perspective on things. We don’t have anyfresh leads anyway... Would you mind?”

“No,” Amelia said. “If that’s whatyou want. I’m going to work late, so if you can drop me off at HQ on the way,I’d appreciate it.”

Finn let out a laugh. “If you thinkthat sort of emotional blackmail is going to work... You’d be right... I’llcome with you and we can go over things for a few hours. Then, I’m hitting thehay.”

“You just can’t get away from methat easily,” Amelia smiled.

Finn wished she knew how much of ablessing that truly was.

The car rolled away fromBlackwood’s home, leaving behind a scene etched with questions and thelingering unease that came with unfinished business.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Finn’s hand pushed open the door ofhis cottage with a fatigue that seemed to creak on its hinges. Three hours ofcombing through records and making inquiries had taken its toll.

The stale air of disuse greetedhim, mingling with the scent of old books and wood polish—a familiar aroma thatwas both comforting and suffocating in its encapsulation of solitude. Hestepped inside, the click of the door shutting behind him resonating like aperiod at the end of another long, fruitless day. The cottage in AmwellVillage, a haven provided by his friend Rob, now felt empty somehow.

Finn felt a deep unease settle intohis bones. He longed to come home to a family, to a woman he loved. But all ofthat seemed so distant now, a twinkling possibility, dipping below the horizon.

For a short time, Demi had beenthere. But now she was back in the US under the careful eye of Finn’s friendsin the FBI for her own protection, Finn could feel the loneliness sitting onhis shoulder like an imp clawing its way into his mind.

He shrugged off his jacket, thefabric whispering against the quiet backdrop of the cottage. It landed over theback of a chair, joining the silent company of shadows that stretched from thecorners of the room. A sigh escaped him, one that seemed to carry the burdensof a man who had seen too much, yet could not unsee the horrors that clawed atthe edge of his consciousness. His gaze drifted momentarily to the mantelpiecewhere a single photograph stood—a picture of him, Amelia, and Rob on a rare dayof respite, smiling, haunted by the irony that even their brightest days werecolored by the dark strokes of crime-solving.

Finn knew now that his friends wereall he had. If he was forced to return to the US and restart his FBI career, heknew he could be losing the only anchor in his personal life.

A small room he thought of as astudy beckoned him—a siren calling to a sailor weary of navigating thetreacherous waters of human malice. As Finn crossed the threshold, he wasenveloped by the chaos of his profession. Case files stacked precariously on everysurface spoke of a mind ceaselessly at work; each dossier a story, a lifeinterrupted by violence. In the center of the clutter stood an oversized corkboard that dominated the wall, a tapestry woven with the threads of ongoinginquiries. Red yarn zigzagged across the pins and notes, making connectionswhere there seemed to be none, mapping out the labyrinthine path of a killer'smind.

These were the tracks of MaxVilne’s maneuvers, but now that he had disappeared, it was time to use theboard for the Hanover and Plantagenet murders.

He approached the board with areverence reserved for altars, for this was his shrine to the chase, hisrelentless pursuit crystallized in photos, maps, and scribbled deductions.Here, amidst the sea of information, was the visual echo of his thoughts—histheories, hunches, and dead ends. The dim light from his desk lamp cast anamber glow, throwing his shadow against the board as if he were both guardianand part of the mysteries pinned there.

With a practiced motion, Finn setabout updating the board with the new case, fingers deftly adding andrearranging pieces of the puzzle, copies from Wellhaven Station andHertfordshire Constabulary aligning them with new insights gathered throughoutthe day. Each shift of paper, each new pin pushed into the cork, was an act ofdefiance against the enigma that loomed before him. And as he worked, thesilence of the cottage wrapped around him, punctuated only by the soft rustleof paper and the ticking of the clock—an ominous metronome counting down themoments until the killer would strike again.

For a moment, dread washed overhim. The thought of being old and still chasing shadows, with no one to love orto love him by his side—that was terrifying. Would he always devote himself todetective work, at the cost of his personal life?

Finn’s fingers hovered momentarilyover the files, his breath shallow in the stillness of his study. The scent ofaged paper and ink filled the air—a familiar combination that usually comfortedhim, but tonight it felt like an oppressive fog. He exhaled slowly, groundinghimself in the task at hand, and placed the manila folders side by side on thedesk’s worn mahogany surface.

Victim #1: Rebecca Hanover. Victim#2: Dominique Plantagenet. The names alone were enough to conjure images ofregal lineages and forgotten histories, but it was the similarities in theirdeaths that gnawed at Finn's mind. Both women were found with an eerie serenitypainted on their faces as though they had been laid to rest rather thanbrutally stolen from life. That was how they had been staged. The killer wantedthem to be seen like that.

Finn opened the first file, a photoof Rebecca spilling out onto the desk. Her eyes seemed to hold a secret thatnow lay beyond Finn’s reach. Next, he unfolded Dominique’s file, her image ahaunting echo of Rebecca’s—both shared the same poised elegance, a trait thathad perhaps marked them for death.

The room was quiet except for theoccasional crackle of the fire that struggled against the chill seeping throughthe cottage walls. Finn reached for the stack of photos of personal itemscollected from the crime scenes, tangible fragments of lives cut short. Amongthe possessions—a locket, a playbill, a dried rose—was a photograph thatbrought Finn to a sharp halt.

It was a picture from a localnewspaper where Dominique Plantagenet had been visiting a school production ofa Shakespearean play a few years previous. She was standing with the cast, andthere it was beneath the picture: Rebecca Hanover's name. She was one of theteenagers in the production.

Finn leaned back in his chair, theleather creaking under the shift of his weight. How had they missed this? Itwasn’t just two victims linked by similar circumstances—they knew each other.They shared a moment, secrets perhaps... possibly even the knowledge thatsomeone they knew was capable of murder.

A chill slithered down his spine ashe considered the implications. If the killer knew of their connection, was ita message? A vendetta against a hidden sin perceived through a twisted lens? Orwas it something more insidious, a murder spree intricately tied to the verythreads of their existence?

Finn Wright stood before the corkboard, it surface a maze of evidence. The edges of photographs curled slightly,as if recoiling from their neighbors: the scrawled notes, the maps with redpins like drops of blood marking the events of terror. He pinned up the photosof Rebecca Hanover and Dominique Plantagenet with meticulous care, the pushpinspiercing the board with soft thuds. The images were stark, capturing moments oflife now violently severed.

Beneath each photograph, he laidout the details of their lives and deaths. The royal lineage was there, anancient echo resonating through their existence, painting targets on theirbacks. The method of murder—a calculated brutality that spoke of intimaterage—was outlined next. And now, this newly discovered acquaintance, revealedin a candid shot of the two women.

With coffee cup in hand, the bitterliquid long since grown cold, Finn leaned back into his chair. His eyes dancedover every detail, every line in their biographies, every witness statement. Heabsorbed the cadence of their lives—their routines, their passions, andultimately, their fears. Hours ticked by, unnoticed, as he immersed himselffurther into the investigation, the sense of urgency within him building to analmost unbearable pitch.

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