Page 47 of When 're Silent

“Obsession turned deadly,” Finnagreed, his gaze lingering on the collection that seemed to echo the killer’stwisted justification for each life taken—an attempt to sever the roots of ahistory that had wronged him so deeply.

The heart of the lair presenteditself as a large oak desk, a bastion amid the relics. A chair, slightly askew,hinted at recent occupation. Papers were strewn about, notes scrawled in ascript that mimicked the annals of old English, meticulous sketches of royalemblems interspersed among them. It was clear that Hastings had immersedhimself into a bygone era, blurring the lines between his identity and thepersona of the avenger he had conjured from the depths of his resentment.

“Look at these,” Amelia said,holding up a sheet adorned with a family crest they’d seen marked in blood atthe crime scenes. “He’s been planning this, studying his victims’ lineages likea genealogist plotting a course through history.”

“Except his endgame is murder,”Finn added, the disgust rising within him like bile. He could almost pictureHastings sitting there, cold and calculating, choosing his next victim with thesame detached curiosity of a scholar selecting a book from a shelf. This desk,this room, it wasn’t just where Hastings researched; it was where the SecretHand orchestrated his grim campaign against the descendants of those he deemedculpable for his family’s downfall.

“Let’s see what else we can find,”Finn said, determination setting his jaw. Together, they sifted through thepapers, searching for any clue that might lead them to Sarah Beaufort before itwas too late.

Finn’s heart hammered against hisrib cage as he stepped into the chilling embrace of Victor Hastings’ study. Theair was dense, heavy with the musk of ancient tomes and the metallic tang offear that seemed to seep from the walls themselves. Amelia moved with a silentgrace beside him, her eyes scanning the room with an alertness that matched hisown.

“Victor Hastings,” Finn mutteredunder his breath, the name now synonymous with the faceless terror they hadbeen chasing. It was no longer a question of if; the evidence sprawled outbefore them left no room for doubt. But the gnawing pit in his stomach twistedtighter as he considered the more pressing concerns: Where was Hastings now?And what of Sarah Beaufort?

“Alive or another trophy in thisgrotesque collection?” Amelia’s voice cut through his thoughts, low and steady,yet Finn could detect the edge of urgency beneath her calm exterior.

“Let’s find out,” he replied,pushing the dread to the back of his mind where it simmered like a stormwaiting to break.

They began to comb through thechaos of reports, maps, and diagrams that cluttered the oak desk, each documenta glimpse into the mind of a scholar turned executioner. Amelia sifted throughthe stacks with practiced hands, while Finn’s gaze was drawn to an open journalresting amongst the disarray. He approached it, a cold shiver slithering up hisspine.

The pages were filled with entriespenned in a meticulous hand, detailing the murders with a chilling sense ofpride and precision. Finn felt the blood chill in his veins as he readdescriptions of how each victim was chosen, the calculated planning, the colddeliberation of their final moments. This wasn’t just a journal; it was amanifesto of madness, a road map of ruin inked in the blood of innocents.

“Amelia, look at this.” His voicewas a whisper, barely audible over the distant hum of London outside thelibrary walls. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the page, from the starkreality of their killer’s psyche laid bare.

She joined him, her expressiontight as she read over his shoulder. “God, he’s savored every moment,” shesaid, her voice laced with revulsion. “We have to find him before he killsSarah Beaufort!”

“Every detail is here,” Finn added,flipping through the pages with a growing sense of horror. But as much as hewanted to slam the book shut and erase its existence, he knew that within theseentries might lie the key to saving Sarah Beaufort—if only they weren’t toolate.

Finn’s hands trembled as he turnedto the final entry of the journal, his fingers grazing the edge of the paper asif it were made of glass. The words sprawled across the page in VictorHastings’ meticulous handwriting froze him to his core. “The finale approaches,”it read, “the last act for Sarah Beaufort.” There was no specific location, noaddress or landmark to pinpoint her fate. Only a phrase that echoed with anominous tone— “where land meets sea.”

“Amelia, this is it,” Finn said,his voice steady despite the hammering in his chest. “He’s planning to end itat the coast.”

“Which coast, though?” Ameliareplied, concern etched into her features. “This island’s rimmed withshoreline.”

“Details about tides… timings…”Finn muttered, scanning the text for more clues. “He’s thorough, has to besomething we’re missing.”

They poured over the journal oncemore, their eyes racing across the entries, until a pattern emerged—a fixationon history, lineage, and the cleansing power of water. The coast wouldn't justbe any stretch of beach or cliffside; it would be symbolic, a place whereHastings could feel the weight of history bearing down upon his final act.

“Got it!” Amelia exclaimed, tappinga finger against a margin note referencing the execution of a royal during themedieval period. “Historic beheadings by the sea—Hastings must be taking her toFortune’s Coast! It’s the area where an ancient Anglo-Saxon queen was executedby the French Normans during an uprising nearly a thousand years ago!”

"It's a big slice ofcoast," Finn said. "Well, need help."

“Let’s call it in,” Ameliasuggested, already pulling out her phone.

With a deep breath, Finn steppedaway from the desk, feeling the urgency of every passing second. He watchedAmelia speak rapidly into her receiver, requesting immediate backup and a traceon Hastings. Her face was set, her determination clear even as she cracked awry joke to the operator to keep the tension at bay.

“Scotland Yard’s deploying units tothe coast and they’re pinging Hastings’ financials for recent transactions,”she reported, slipping her phone back into her pocket.

“Good. Let’s move.” Finn felt thegears shift within him, a relentless drive taking over. They had a direction, aslim thread to follow, but it was enough. Enough to fuel the hope that theymight yet save Sarah Beaufort and stop Hastings before another life wasclaimed.

Together, they hastened from thelibrary, the silence of the stacked volumes replaced by the urgency of theirmission. As they exited into the cool air of the evening, the surrounding cityseemed oblivious to the sinister drama unfolding. But not for long. With everystep toward their car, with every mile they put between themselves and thelibrary, Finn felt the unseen hand of the clock ticking down, each tick athunderous beat in the quiet symphony of the impending night.

The coastal line loomed ahead, avast expanse where land met the relentless churn of the sea. It was there,somewhere along that jagged edge, that Sarah might be held captive, her fateuncertain. Finn pressed his foot harder against the accelerator, willing thecar to devour the miles faster.

Closing in on the coast, theurgency of their mission crystallized into a visceral need to act. Every fiberof Finn’s being was attuned to the task at hand. The scenery outside blurredinto streaks of color as they raced against the dying light, the glare of theheadlights a beacon of hope piercing the encroaching darkness.

Amelia’s hand found his on thegearshift, squeezing it briefly—a gesture of solidarity that fortified hisresolve. Their hearts beat a furious rhythm, twin drums heralding the approachof what they both knew would be a final confrontation. With each passingsecond, the promise of resolution drew closer, their minds sharpened by thepressing need to end Victor Hastings’ reign of terror and save Sarah Beaufort’slife.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

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