Page 23 of When 're Silent

CHAPTER TEN

Despite the morning sun, thesteering wheel felt cold under Finn Wright’s grip as he navigated theunassuming streets of a silent suburban neighborhood. The houses, lined up likeaging sentries, bore witness to the lives unfolding within their walls. Onesuch dwelling, a modest two-story with peeling white paint and a shingle roofin need of repair, held secrets that Finn was determined to uncover. It was thehome of the first victim, Rebecca Hanover.

Sleep hadn’t come easy the nightbefore, but it rarely did for Finn when his mind was on a case.

“Number forty-two,” Amelia Wintersstated from the passenger seat, her finger pointing to the house that seemed toshrink away from their scrutiny, as if it could recede into the shadows of itsown dark history. She consulted her notes briefly, then slid them into hersatchel without another word, her face set in a stoic mask that Finn had cometo recognize as her armor against the emotional toll of their grim work.

Finn parked the car, the engine’shum dying into silence as he turned the key. He stepped out onto the curb,feeling the weight of the winter air press against him, thick with the comingrain and laden with an ominous whisper that seemed to emanate from the houseitself. Amelia joined him, her gaze sweeping the street before returning to thetask at hand.

“Let’s see what Rebecca’s ghost hasto say,” Finn murmured, more to himself than to Amelia. He led the way up thecracked walkway, his hand resting on the service pistol concealed beneath hisjacket. Not that he expected trouble in broad daylight, but old habits diedhard, and he had long since learned to trust the prickling sensation on theback of his neck—the silent alarm bell that seldom lied.

The front door of Rebecca Hanover’sformer home offered no resistance as Finn turned the key provided by the localpolice. It swung open with a muted creak, revealing a narrow hallway coatedwith the dust of abandonment. Sunlight filtered through dirty windows, castingangular patterns across the floorboards and illuminating particles of dust thatfloated lazily in the still air.

Stepping inside, Finn allowed thedoor to close behind them with a soft click. The sound seemed too loud in thehush of the house, a violation of the sanctity of the crime scene that stoodpreserved in time. He drew in a breath, tasting the mustiness of disuse, andfelt an involuntary shiver snake down his spine—an echo of the horror that hadonce unfolded within these walls.

“Feels like walking into a crypt,”Amelia murmured, her voice low and reverent.

"We all live in crypts of ourown making," Finn replied, his eyes scanning the entrance for any signthat might connect this place to the murder of Dominique Plantagenet. Buteverything lay untouched, frozen in time as a place of everyday life violentlyinterrupted. Finn wondered if the lack of any sign of a struggle or break-inmight mean that Rebecca knew the killer, trusting him until it was too late.

He could almost sense Rebecca’spresence here, a lingering imprint of fear and surprise forever etched into theatmosphere. This was where she had lived; this was where her story had ended.Finn led the way, his footsteps deliberate and cautious as he navigated thenarrow hallway of Rebecca Hanover’s former home. He observed the walls, touchedby the faintest hints of yellowing wallpaper that had peeled at the edges likeold scabs. The stale air was heavy, carrying a silence that seemed to pulsewith unanswered questions. Amelia followed close behind, her presence a steadyreassurance amidst the gloom.

Finn’s eyes darted from one cornerof the hallway to the other, his senses heightened by the eerie stillness thatenveloped them. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and he discreetlywiped it away with the back of his hand. He couldn’t shake off the feeling thatthey were being watched.

“You know, Amelia, I’ve alwayswanted to meet a friendly ghost. Maybe one will pay us a visit.”

Amelia chuckled softly, her eyesscanning their surroundings. “Well, if one does, let’s hope it doesn’t have anyunfinished business to attend to.”

As Finn took another cautious stepforward, his foot collided with an old wooden chair leg that had beencarelessly left in the hallway. The chair teetered precariously for a momentbefore crashing onto the floor with an echoing thud.

Startled by the sudden noise, Finnjumped back instinctively and let out an embarrassed yelp. “Whoops! Justtesting my reflexes.”

Amelia burst into laughter atFinn’s reaction, unable to contain herself any longer. “Smooth move, fearlessdetective.” Finn feigned bravery as he straightened his posture and adjustedhis jacket.

“Just making sure you’re on yourtoes too, Inspector Winters.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow playfullyand crossed her arms over her chest. “Oh please, Finn. I’m always on my toes.”

The levity was momentary as a gloomdescended once more upon the place.

“Check the baseboards, corners,”Finn instructed tersely, voice barely above a whisper, “Any sign of forcedentry, any disturbance.”

Their eyes combed the environment,searching for the subtle deviations that might connect this scene toDominique’s—a thread to follow in the labyrinthine weave of their case. As theymoved, each step felt like a descent further into the psyche of the individualwho’d shattered the sanctity of these walls. Finn’s jaw clenched; themethodical undoing of lives was an act he could never reconcile with, much lessunderstand.

In the living room, the furniturelay draped in ghostly white cloths, undisturbed since the investigation hadconcluded. The couch’s outline beneath its shroud was soft, unassuming, belyingthe violence that had once breached its confines. It was all too easy topicture the killer here, moving with cold precision through the space.

“Nothing out of place,” Amelianoted, echoing his own observations. Her tone carried the weight offrustration, a reflection of their shared need to find something—anything—thatwould guide them toward a lead.

“Let’s see where she was found,”Finn said, leading the way to the back of the house. His mind was a taut wire,every sense sharpened on the edge of anticipation.

The room was modest, the bed madewith a meticulousness that spoke of Rebecca’s character, the tidiness thatmarked her life now a silent exhibit of her end. Finn approached the bed,squaring his shoulders as if bracing against an unseen adversary. Here, amidthe stillness, the lack of struggle was palpable—the scene was entirely devoidof the chaos that typically accompanied violence.

“Like Dominique,” he murmured, moreto himself than Amelia. “No signs of resistance. It suggests surprise...trust,maybe?”

“Someone she knew... Or someonelight on their feet,” Finn mused.

Amelia drew closer, her gazelingering on the pillowcase, smooth except for the hollow where Rebecca’s headhad rested that last time. “Both victims caught off guard,” she mused, “andboth times, no one heard a thing. Professional, efficient.”

Finn nodded, absorbing the room’sdetails—the placement of a bedside photograph, the angle of the open window’scurtains fluttering softly in the gentle breeze. It was a freeze-frame ofnormalcy, disrupted only by the memory of what had transpired. Finn’s handsitched for his notepad, the compulsion to document each minute observation awell-honed instinct.

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