Page 19 of When 're Silent

“His hands,” Finn murmured, almostto himself, “They were trembling when he picked up that book—the one that endedup on my foot.” His voice held a hint of frustration, the pieces of the puzzlenot quite aligning in his mind.

Amelia, who had been flippingthrough her notes, looked up. “Parkinson’s, maybe? He fits his profile—elderly,academic...” She trailed off, her thoughts mirroring his own. “But his frailtydoesn’t fit the killer’s MO. Quick, precise, strong enough to overpower bothvictims much younger than him.”

“Exactly.” Finn pushed off from thecar and began to pace, each step measured and deliberate. “The evidence we haveis compelling. The parchment particles, his expertise in linguistics, hisaccess to the props...” He stopped, running a hand through his hair. “But wesaw him move in that office, Winters, there’s no way he has the physicalityrequired for the crimes.”

"Could be a red herring,"Amelia suggested, closing her notebook with a snap. "Someone plantingevidence to throw us off scent. We've seen it before, especially withhigh-functioning psychopaths."

“Or an accomplice.” Finn’s jawclenched at the thought. Someone else out there, pulling strings, usingHemingway’s knowledge for their own dark purposes. It was a chilling prospect,but it would explain the inconsistencies.

“Or that.” Amelia conceded, hereyes reflecting the dying light as she regarded him. “So what’s your guttelling you? Other than needing to eat more bad hot dogs?”

Finn stopped his pacing and stoodstill, letting the weight of the question settle on his shoulders. His gut hadnever led him astray before, even when logic seemed to contradict it. He closedhis eyes briefly, allowing the events of the day to replay in his mind, seekingthe elusive thread of truth amidst the tangled web of facts and observations.

He opened his eyes, meetingAmelia’s questioning gaze with a resolute stare. “Hemingway isn’t our killer,but let’s get a constable to verify his alibi with Mrs Penrose. I still feellike Hemingway could be involved, even if more indirectly.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow, thesurprise evident on her face. “Despite everything pointing to him? That’s abold statement, Finn.”

“Too bold, too obvious,” he said,certainty lacing his words. “It’s the subtleties that tell the true story, notthe glaring neon signs. And Hemingway... he’s just another piece of thebackdrop.”

“Alright then,” Amelia replied, aspark of admiration in her tone for his instinctual read on the situation. “Butit doesn’t leave us with much to follow. We need another lead.”

Finn’s lips curved in a grim smile.“We go back to the beginning. Re-examine the evidence, look for the connectionwe’re missing. And we keep a close eye on Hemingway, just in case we’re wrong.”

“Back to square one.” Amelianodded, her determination matching his. “Feels like a rubbish version of Snakesand Ladders.”

“We’re going to have to talk aboutyour jokes, Winters,” Finn said. “They aren’t up to standards at the moment.”

Amelia walked to the car door andopened it. “You must be rubbing off on me.”

“Where to?” Finn asked. “Back tothe station?”

“No,” Amelia answered as the cloudsrushed in above them. “We should speak to the next of kin. Perhaps they’ll nosomething... Anything.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Finn was still mesmerized by theEnglish countryside, even after living there for nearly a year. As they drove,the sun hung low in the sky, despite it only being afternoon, a weary sentinelon its ceaseless march toward early dusk, as Finn Wright guided the unmarkedpolice car through winding country lanes. The farther they drove from theclamor of London, the more the landscape seemed born from another era. Fieldsstretched out like yellow green seas, weary grass hoping for Spring, resistingwinter's hold.

Beside him, Amelia sat with hergaze fixed on the file spread open on her lap. Her brow was furrowed, atestament to the weight of the case that had brought them to this corner ofEngland. The car’s engine hummed a steady rhythm, punctuated by the occasionalcrunch of gravel beneath tires.

They arrived at an old rectorynestled within a copse of ancient oaks, their gnarled limbs reaching for thefaded azure above. As Finn parked the car, he couldn’t help but feel thegravity of history pressing down upon them. The rectory, with its ivy-cladwalls and Gothic windows, held the somber majesty of a forgotten time.

“Looks like something out of aBrontë novel,” Amelia mused, her voice pulling Finn back to the present.

“Let’s hope our visit here is lessWuthering Heights and more Agatha Christie,” Finn replied, offering her a briefsmile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You are full of surprises, Finn,”Amelia said.

“I read,” he said.

“Books with pictures don’t count.”

“I told you,” he offered. “I evenwrite short stories. Did you forget my literary prowess?”

“It must have got lost in amongstall of that charm,” she said with a smile. Finn felt like she meant it, andthat stirred something deep inside of him.

They approached the rectory andFinn knocked an old blackened knocker against the aged oak of the front door.

They were greeted at the door by ahousekeeper whose stoic manner belied a watchful eye.

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