Page 41 of When 're Silent

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The hushed sanctum of along-forgotten wing within the venerable London library was where the killerfound solace, surrounded by the silent scrutiny of history’s elite. The mustyscent of antique tomes mingled with the faint musk of varnished wood, providingan oddly comforting aroma to the Killer as he traced his gloved fingers overthe gilded frames that housed the stoic faces of kings and queens longdeceased.

A singular bulb hung precariouslyoverhead, casting a sallow glow upon the portraits that watched him from everywall. Its light flickered, as if even electricity hesitated to disturb thissolemn chamber. And there among the oil-painted eyes, some bore the mark of histriumph—a red X slashed across canvas and wood with surgical precision, marringthe visages of those who had become unwitting participants in his lethallegacy.

He moved through the room withreverence, each footfall muted by the thick carpet underfoot. Here, amongechoes of past grandeur, he imagined himself a curator of fate, the arbiter oflife and death. This quiet corner of the world belonged only to him and to thememories of his conquests.

As he approached the mahogany shelfthat cradled his most prized possessions, the Killer’s pulse quickened. Hiscollection of mementos, each a testament to his work, lay before him—a symphonyof silent screams and unspoken stories. His hands, steady and sure, reached outto the newest addition: a rare porcelain doll, meticulously crafted withdelicate features and soft, curling locks of hair that mirrored Jillian Bruce’sown.

This doll, unlike the other crudetokens, was special. It spoke of an intimacy, a connection with his victim thattranscended the mere act of murder. He positioned it on the shelf with care,ensuring it stood prominently among the lesser souvenirs. It was more than atrophy; it was a symbol of his evolution, a reflection of the growingcomplexity of his desires.

With a tenderness that belied hiscruel nature, the Killer caressed the fine lines of the doll’s face, admiringthe artistry of its creation. The way its glassy eyes seemed to hold a glimmerof life, the way its small porcelain hands were poised as if caught in a momentof grace, it was almost too perfect an effigy of the woman whose last breath hehad claimed.

For a moment, he allowed himselfthe indulgence of recollection—the memory of Jillian’s fear, the sound of herplea, the resistance fading from her delicate body as he took from her what wasnever his to claim. He relished these memories, for they were all that remainedof his victims once their flames were extinguished, and he stood alone in thedarkness of his lair, shrouded in the omnipotence of his acts.

The air in the secluded chamber wasthick with dust and silence, a crypt for the forgotten wing of an ancientlibrary where history whispered through the decrepit shelves. Shadows clung tothe walls like specters, but one area stood bathed in the light of a single,stark bulb, illuminating the Killer’s private exhibition. With the meticulouscare of a curator crafting his final showcase, he retreated a few steps fromthe shelf that cradled his latest acquisition—the porcelain doll, a chillinglikeness of Jillian Bruce.

His eyes roamed over thecollection, each piece a sinister echo of a life he had snuffed out. There wasRebecca Hanover’s silver comb, its once-shiny teeth now stained and dull,discarded in the aftermath of her death. Dominique Plantagenet’s antique broochlay next to it, a jewel missing from its ornate setting, much like how her lifehad been so abruptly cut from the fabric of existence.

No mere murderer, he fashionedhimself an artist, and these were his masterpieces. The memories surged forwardunbidden: Rebecca’s apartment, where he relished the shock that crossed herface when she recognized the inevitable; Thornheart House, where Dominique’sblood had flowed as freely as the wine at the banquet she’d never leave. Andthen there was Jillian, her apartment a silent stage for their final, deadlydance. Each recollection brought with it a resurgence of the thrill—the chase,the plan, the execution—all woven into a tapestry of power and control thatonly he could appreciate.

Among the scattered mementos, a newtoken caught his eye, distinct in its simplicity—a violin string, coiled arounda small figurine. This was not a part of his usual ritualistic trophies. It wassomething more—something personal. He reached out, fingers tracing the cold,smooth texture of the string. The tactile sensation conjured the vivid image ofJillian’s horror-stricken visage, eyes wide with the dawning realization of herfate, her pleas dissolving into the final, silent plea for mercy that would nevercome.

The Killer allowed himself a momentto savor the memory, the dominance he had exerted in snatching away her future.Then, his attention was drawn to a photograph placed deliberately amongst thechaos. Clara Tudor smiled back at him, her eyes alight with vivacity, her lipscurved in an expression of joy so pure it was almost painful to behold.

He leaned in closer, studying herfeatures with an intensity that bordered on reverence. In that smile, he sawnot just a challenge, but a promise—a promise of the continuation of his granddesign. Clara Tudor, unaware and alive, was yet another chapter waiting to bewritten, another life ready to be woven into the dark tapestry of his making.Her bright demeanor mocked him from the photo, seemingly impervious to theshadows that crept ever closer. But he knew better. He understood the fragilityof life and the ease with which it could be extinguished.

The killer’s breath formed mistyhalos in the cold air of his hidden sanctum, each exhale a silent whisperamidst the thick tomes and dust-covered relics of his private chamber. The dimglow of a single bulb cast shadows that danced across walls lined with royalhistories, their spines cracked and worn from years of obsessive study. Hemoved with a predator’s grace, every motion deliberate as he circled hiscollection, the artifacts of his conquests.

His gaze lingered on the porcelainlikeness of Jillian Bruce, whose addition had been the latest triumph in hisseries of calculated retributions. The doll, with its hauntingly accuraterepresentation, was more than just another trophy; it was a symbol of hismeticulous craft, an embodiment of the lives he’d claimed with such precision.He adjusted the violin string that adorned the small figure, ensuring itsprominence amongst the other mementos.

Then he turned, drawn as if bymagnetic force, to the photograph that had captivated his attention since itsplacement. Clara Tudor’s image beamed up at him, her smile exuding a warmththat seemed to radiate through the grainy picture. But beneath her veneer ofhappiness, he saw the potential for his next masterpiece—a canvas yet untouchedby his dark artistry.

As the seconds ticked by, the urgewithin him swelled like a tide, pulling him closer to the edge of action. Hisfingers twitched with eagerness, itching to orchestrate the demise that wouldnot only silence Clara Tudor’s bright smile but also serve as a crescendo tohis sinister symphony. The game beckoned him forward—unrelenting, irresistible.

He traced the outline of her face,his touch ghosting over the photograph as though he could reach through timeand space to touch the very life he yearned to extinguish. Anticipation coiledtightly within him, a spring ready to uncoil at the opportune moment. Heimagined her eyes wide with the realization of her fate, the moment when shewould understand that she was nothing more than a pawn in his grand scheme.

Clara Tudor, the enigma that pulledat his thoughts, was destined to be the next note in his deadly composition.The thought of claiming her filled him with a fervor that bordered on ecstasy.In the quiet of the library, surrounded by the ghosts of monarchies past, hemade his silent vow.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Finn leaned back in the train seat,watching as Amelia’s gaze lingered on the passing landscape, her eyes tracingthe blur of colors that swept by. The compartment was quiet except for thesteady cadence of the wheels, a lulling soundtrack to their introspection.Breaking the silence, he spoke, his voice a soft rumble amidst the train’srhythm.

“The trains are so different here.”

“How so?” Amelia asked.

“The size, mainly,” Finn explained.“It’s funny, even after a year of being in the UK, I still see things that takeme by surprise.”

“You must miss home, Finn,” Ameliasaid, gently. “Do you never want to go back and visit family?”

“Most of my family are gone,” Finnsaid, trying to hide the pain of it. “Estranged or otherwise.”

“What about the town you mentionedwhere you grew up, no friends still there?”

“Yeah, there are,” Finn said, “Butit’s tricky revisiting your past.”

“That’s true,” Amelia answered.“What was it like when you were a kid?”

---