Page 38 of When 're Silent

“We know... Please come in,” shesaid softly, stepping back to allow them entry. Her words hung heavy in theair, a poignant reminder of the tragedy that had befallen their family.

Amelia and Finn exchanged a briefglance before following Jillian’s mother inside. The hallway was adorned withfamily photos capturing moments frozen in time—smiles frozen on faces nowmarred by loss. The scent of fresh flowers mingled with an undercurrent ofsadness that permeated the atmosphere.

Jillian’s mother led them into theliving room where remnants of her daughter’s life lingered—a violin restingagainst an armchair, sheet music scattered on a coffee table. The room feltsuspended in time, caught between memories of joy and the harsh reality ofloss.

“Hello,” a man with gray hair said,sitting in an armchair. He looked as pale as a ghost. Finn instinctively knewhe was Jillian’s father.

Seated on a worn sofa, Jillian’smother composed herself before speaking again. “Thank you for coming,” shebegan, her voice trembling but resolute. “I know why you’re here... I justcan’t believe she’s gone.”

Finn felt a lump form in his throatat her words, the weight of grief settling heavily upon him. Amelia placed acomforting hand on Jillian’s mother’s shoulder as she spoke gently, “We arehere to help and to find justice for Jillian.”

Silence enveloped them like asuffocating blanket as they sat together in shared mourning for what had beentaken from them—a daughter lost to senseless violence. In that moment ofprofound loss and unspoken understanding, Finn knew that their pursuit fortruth would be fueled by more than duty—it would be driven by the need to bringclosure to those left behind by tragedy.

“Someone from Albert Hall called usearlier,” Mrs. Bruce uttered, her voice brittle with grief, cutting through thepleasantries that seemed so hollow under the circumstances.

Finn felt the discomfort tightenaround his chest; he believed such news should always come from those trainedto deliver it, to manage the fallout. Yet he kept his face composed, a mask ofprofessional stoicism, though his insides churned with empathy for the family’spremature plunge into mourning.

Amelia leaned forward, her elbowsresting on her knees as she bridged the gap between official inquiry andpersonal concern. “Mr. and Mrs. Bruce,” she began, her tone gentle, “was thereanything recently that struck you as odd about Jillian’s behavior? Anything atall?”

Finn observed the couple from hisposition, noting the flickers of recollection in their moistened eyes. He couldalmost see them rifling through the catalog of recent memories, searching foranomalies.

“Jillian,” Mr. Bruce started, hisvoice heavy, “she was more anxious lately. About her performances.” His thumbrubbed against the armrest, a rhythmic motion betraying his own anxiety.

“More than usual?” Finninterjected, watching closely for any sign of evasion or uncertainty.

“Yes,” Mrs. Bruce chimed in,nodding slowly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “She always cared deeplyabout her music, but this was different. There was a…a tremor in her voice whenshe spoke of the future.”

“Did she mention why?” Finnpressed, his gaze lingering on their faces, searching for the unsaid words thatoften lingered in the silences.

“We don’t know,” Mr. Bruceadmitted, shaking his head, a gesture of defeat. “But we felt it—something wasamiss. She seemed…haunted.”

Finn exchanged a glance withAmelia, noticing the slight narrowing of her eyes—a silent signal that she toosensed the undercurrents of something larger at play. He appreciated thisnonverbal shorthand they’d developed; even amidst the grimness of their work,their camaraderie offered a semblance of reprieve.

“Mrs. Bruce,” Amelia continued, hervoice soothing like a balm, “Jillian was a musician. Did she ever cross pathswith Rebecca Hanover or Dominique Plantagenet? They were both involved in thearts as well.”

“Rebecca and Dominique?” Mrs. Brucerepeated, the names seeming to trigger a distant connection. “It’s possible.The arts community is close-knit. And Jillian... She played at various venuesover the years.”

“Could you think of any particulartheater where their paths might have crossed?” Amelia probed further, her penpoised above her notebook, ready to document any sliver of information.

“Several theaters,” Mrs. Bruce saidafter a moment, furrowing her brow in concentration. “The Lyceum, the RoyalOpera House... But I can’t say for certain if she knew them personally.”

“Thank you,” Amelia replied warmly,offering a comforting smile. “Every detail helps.”

As Amelia scribbled notes, Finn satback, his mind churning with possibilities. The connections were tenuous, butthey were there, woven into the fabric of the victims’ lives like an intricatetapestry waiting to be unraveled. It was in these threads that he hoped to findthe pattern that would lead them to the killer.

Finn felt the tension in the roomtighten like a bowstring as he broached the subject. “Did Jillian ever stayhere with you?” he asked, his voice steady but infused with an undercurrent ofurgency.

"Of course," Mrs. Brucemurmured, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Her room is just as sheleft it. She would come by often to escape the pressures of her performances.In fact, she often liked to keep some of her things here, so it would alwaysfeel like her own space."

“May we see it?” Finn pressed,sensing a reluctance from Mr. Bruce, whose mouth had set into a firm line ofresistance.

"I don't know..." Mr.Bruce began the protective instincts of a father warring with the necessity ofthe investigation. "It feels wrong to let strangers roam through her mostprivate space."

His wife reached across, placing ahand over his. “Love, it could help them find who did this to our Jillian.” Hervoice was soft yet carried the weight of conviction. “We need to do everythingwe can.”

After a moment that hung suspendedlike a dissonant note, Mr. Bruce relented with a sigh that seemed to carry allhis grief. “Alright,” he conceded, rising stiffly from his armchair. “Thisway.”

They ascended the stairs, each stepcreaking underfoot, speaking to the age of the house—a comforting sound in lessdire times. Jillian’s room lay at the end of the hallway, her name stillpainted on the door in elegant script, a poignant reminder of happier days.

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