Page 44 of When 're Silent

Clara Tudor’s body lay sprawled onthe floor, a macabre centerpiece in her opulent apartment. Her once-elegantgown was now a twisted shroud around her, the fabric stained with the crimsonmark of violence. Finn’s eyes lingered on the stillness of her form, noting thehaunting resemblance to historical tragedies that echoed through time.

“I’ll speak with the forensics teamin the other room,” Amelia said. “This flat is huge. Have a look around and seeif the killer has been tidying and organizing here like some of the otherscenes, would you?”

“Your wish is my command,” Finnsmiled.

As Amelia excused herself to conferwith the forensics team in another room, Finn remained alone with Clara’slifeless figure, a silent witness to the chilling artistry of death that hadvisited this place. The weight of their task pressed down on him as he stoodamidst the grandeur turned grim play, a lone sentinel in a realm where shadowsdanced with secrets untold.

Moving through the rooms withmethodical care, Finn’s thoughts churned around The Secret Hand assassintheory. If true, he understood the implications—the killer would relentlesslypursue some linked to the crown, a shadow cast long by ancient lineage, andoffer the sacrifice up to their mysterious god. As he sifted through theremnants of Clara’s life, the sight of a framed photograph drew his attention.Clara Tudor, resplendent in evening attire, was captured mid-laughter at afundraiser for The Noble Stage. His eyes narrowed, recognizing the pattern thatwove through the victims: a thread spun from stages and performance, a motifrepeating with chilling regularity.

In the hushed corner of ClaraTudor’s apartment, where the cacophony of the outside world seemed like adistant murmur, Finn crouched low. His eyes combed over the space, every fiberattuned to the subtleties that lay beyond the obvious disarray. The plushcarpet, once a canvas for elegant furnishings, now framed a lone piece ofparchment, its edges curled like the leaves of an ancient tome weathered bytime.

Finn reached out, his fingersgrazing the rough texture before lifting the paper with a delicacy reserved forsacred relics. The script was a dance of archaic English, flourishes and loopscrafting words that spoke of forgotten eras. Beside the note rested an emblem,etched into metal - the distinct imprint of a signet ring. It was chilling inits familiarity; the killer’s signature left behind as though it were a callingcard at a high society soiree.

“Amelia,” Finn called softly,knowing that even within the breadth of the apartment, she would hear him.“Found something.”

Amelia soon entered the room whereFinn now stood.

“What is it?”

“A note and the imprint of a signetring.”

The note held secrets he could feelbut not yet decipher, whispers of a motive entwined with historical threadsthat wove through the present crime. He photographed the evidence meticulously,storing images that would soon be pored over with fervent scrutiny back at theprecinct.

As he stood, a shiver ran throughhim, not from foreboding, but from a tangible cold that seeped into the room.He glanced around, senses heightened, until he detected the source—a stream ofair that sent a nearby curtain fluttering like a ghostly specter.

Stepping closer, Finn drew back thefabric to reveal an open window, night air invading the space like an unwelcomeintruder. He examined the latch, or rather, where the latch should have been.Broken, its jagged edges bore silent witness to forceful entry—or a hastyretreat.

“Window’s unlatched,” he announced,directing the statement to Amelia, wherever she might be in the labyrinth ofrooms. This wasn’t just a break-in; it was an escape route, perhaps still warmfrom the killer’s touch.

His gaze shifted to the streetbelow, searching the darkness for any sign of movement, any hint of the shadowthat had struck down Clara Tudor. But the night held its secrets close,revealing nothing to his probing eyes. Finn memorized the scene—the position ofthe window, the angle of descent, the potential paths of flight. This breachwas another piece of the puzzle, silent testimony to a murderer’s boldness andcunning.

“Amelia, better check the otherwindows too,” Finn said, voice steady despite the racing thoughts. “Our guestmight’ve left prints.”

Finn’s fingers traced the cold,metallic remnants of the latch before he leaned forward, his head breaching theapartment’s threshold into the open air. The chill of the night caressed hisface, a stark contrast to the stifling silence within the apartment walls. Hesquinted, attempting to pierce the veil of darkness that shrouded the upscaleneighborhood below. His breath fogged in front of him, the moisture glinting inthe moonlight as if mocking his efforts to find clarity.

A sound—a mere rustle—barelyperceptible over the distant hum of city life, tickled his ears. Instinctively,he craned his neck, peering down along the ornate facade of the building. Thestreet was deserted, save for the occasional car that slid past, its headlightscasting long, spectral shadows that danced across the pavement.

“Anything?” called out Amelia fromsomewhere inside the apartment, her voice laced with the tension of their grimtask.

“Quiet as the grave,” Finn murmuredunder his breath, unaware that he was about to experience just how deceptivesilence could be. As he withdrew his head, preparing to report back to Amelia,a blur of motion flickered at the periphery of his vision.

In an instant, a hand shot up,gripping his collar with startling strength. Finn’s instincts screamed danger,but it was too late. His body jolted forward, and his temple collided with thejagged edge of the window frame. Pain exploded behind his eyes, white-hot andblinding. And then, the world went dark.

***

Consciousness returned to Finn intrickles, like water seeping through cracks in his mind. A dull throbbingengulfed his head, each pulse dragging him further from the abyss. Groaning, hetried to piece together the fractured moments before the blackness had claimedhim.

“Easy, Finn.” Amelia’s voice wassteady, a beacon in the fog that clouded his thoughts. Her hands were on hisshoulders, grounding him as he blinked against the harsh light of the room.

“Killer...” The word stumbled outof his mouth, thick and sluggish.

Amelia’s brow furrowed, her eyeshardening with resolve. “You saw him?”

“No,” Finn managed, his voicegaining strength as the pieces fell into place. “But he was here. He must havebeen watching us.”

The realization sent a shiver downhis spine. They had been under surveillance, their every move possiblycataloged by the very predator they sought to cage. The brazenness of it—thesheer audacity—was chilling.

Amelia turned to the window, hergaze sweeping the emptiness beyond. “Gone now,” she concluded. Withouthesitation, she reached for her radio, alerting the constable positionedoutside to sweep the area. Their chances were slim; their quarry was a phantom,slipping away into the night with ease.

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