Page 27 of When 're Silent

“Looks homely,” Amelia remarkedsarcastically, her voice low but steady as she scanned the structure with adetective’s practiced eye.

“If by homely, you mean a bombsite,” Finn replied, pushing open the car door. The air was heavy with thescent of damp earth and something else, something that reminded him of oldpages. He stepped out, his boots sinking slightly into the soft ground as heclosed the door with a soft thunk behind him.

Together, they navigated the pathto the front door, sidestepping a rusted bicycle and an assortment of gardentools left carelessly on the lawn. As they reached the porch, the wind pickedat the loose shingles above them, echoing the restlessness stirring withinFinn. This place was a physical echo of Blackwood—the man’s essence permeatedthrough the rotting wood and shattered windows.

Amelia rang the bell, the soundhollow in the silence that followed. Finn watched her, appreciating her calmdemeanor despite the setting. She met his gaze briefly, a silent exchangebefore the door creaked open.

James Blackwood stood in thedoorway, a figure of suspicion cloaked in his twenties. His sharp featuresseemed chiseled with defiance, framed by a tangle of dark hair that fellunkempt over his brooding eyes. There was an air of intensity about him, as ifevery word spoken was carefully chosen to convey a hidden agenda. Dressed inworn jeans and a faded black t-shirt that bore the emblem of a clenched fist,he exuded an aura of rebellion that clashed with the quaint surroundings of hisneglected home. His gaze lingered on Finn and Amelia with a mix of challengeand calculation, hinting at depths darker than the shadows that danced behindhim.

“Mr. Blackwood?” Amelia inquired.

Mr. Blackwood hesitated at thethreshold, his eyes darting between Finn and Amelia with a guarded wariness. “Ican smell a pig from a mile away. What do you want? I don’t think this is agood time,” he said, his voice tight with anger.

Amelia’s gaze remained steady, hertone firm yet composed. “We have some questions regarding a matter ofimportance, Mr. Blackwood. The murder of Rebecca Hanover. It would be in yourbest interest to cooperate.”

Blackwood’s jaw clenched, hisreluctance palpable as he shifted on his feet. “No. I don’t want to talk aboutit or her. You can’t just let you barge in like this,” he stammered, a flickerof defiance in his eyes.

Amelia took a step forward, herpresence commanding yet reassuring. “We understand your concerns, Mr.Blackwood. However, if you choose not to assist us voluntarily, we will returnwith a warrant and the necessary backup to conduct our search,” she statedevenly.

Finn observed the subtle play ofemotions on Blackwood’s face—a fleeting struggle between defiance andapprehension. The mention of a warrant seemed to tip the scales as uneaseclouded Blackwood’s features.

“This is for the best, James,”Amelia said, gently this time. “Five minutes and we will be out of here. Makeit easy on yourself.”

“Or we’ll make it hard,” Finn saidin an authoritative voice. He knew Amelia was playing ‘good cop’, it was onlyfitting that he took the other role.

“I... I don’t want any trouble. Butyou’ll need to be quick,” Blackwood finally relented, his voice strained.“Fine, come in.”

As Finn followed Amelia inside,there was an unspoken tension hanging in the air—an undercurrent of suspicionand unease that lingered within the walls of Blackwood’s home. The faint scentof stale air mingled with something more acrid as they ventured further intothe shadowed interior.

Finn’s gaze swept over the dimlylit hallway as he followed Amelia into James Blackwood’s home. Blackwood was acollector, a man buried in books like Professor Hemingway. But books with adifferent bent.

Instead of historical artifacts andtattered manuscripts on British royalty, his eyes landed on cluttered shelvesadorned with books on anti-establishment politics and manifestos. The titlesscreamed rebellion, their covers bearing bold slogans and provocative imagerythat mirrored Blackwood's own defiant stance against the establishment. Finncouldn't help but notice the same simmering discontent that lurked beneath thesurface of Blackwood's demeanor. Each book was a manifesto in itself, a silentproclamation of dissent that painted a vivid picture of Blackwood's ideologicalleanings. Finn realized that this was a confrontation with someone whosebeliefs ran deep and dangerous. But were those convictions enough to fuelmurder itself?

Finn watched as Amelia's gaze sweptover the room before settling on Blackwood, who stood rigidly before them."Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Blackwood," she said calmly, herwords carrying an unspoken warning beneath their polite veneer.

Blackwood nodded tersely, an uneasytension threading through the silence that enveloped them like a shroud.

“Well?” Blackwood said, turning toface them, his voice carrying an edge that matched the atmosphere of his abode.“What do you want to know? Whether I killed Rebecca?”

Finn’s gaze didn’t waver from theitems scattered around them. It was as if they had walked into the mind of thekiller, seeing first-hand the obsessive disdain for the crown. Each pamphlet,each vitriolic article felt like a clue, but also a distraction. There was toomuch here, too many pieces that fit the profile, yet nothing that directly tiedBlackwood to the murders.

“Something like that,” Finn said,keeping his tone neutral, before pointing at the scattered books and pamphlets.“Quite the collection,” Finn finally said.

“Knowledge is power,” Blackwoodreplied cryptically, though the words felt hollow in the dense air of the room.

“Know thy enemy?” Finn saidrhetorically.

As Finn looked at Blackwood, histhoughts circled back to Rebecca Hanover’s signet ring—the royal crest that hadbeen so incongruous in her modest home. Here, amidst Blackwood’s vehementrejection of monarchy, such an item would be an anomaly, a piece out of placein his carefully curated display of dissent.

Finn knew these were only threads.He needed more if his suspicions were to prove correct. He eyed Blackwood,whose posture was rigid, his eyes a flickering dance of defiance and annoyance.The man’s voice cut through the silence, sharp as a blade.

“I’ve told you before—I had nothingto do with either death.” His words clashed with the radical literature thatwallpapered the room, their every syllable tinged with the fervor of hisbeliefs.

“Either?” Amelia said with a raisedeyebrow. “So, you are aware...”

"I keep tabs on local lawenforcement," he grimaced. "Someone has to. I know DominiquePlantagenet was killed recently as well. Then you come knocking on my doorbecause I'm an anti-establishment campaigner. Well, let me tell you, I had nothingto do with either. That Dominique lady probably got what was coming to her. ButRebecca... She meant something to me."

“It’s not hard to connect yourmotive,” Finn began, holding the man’s gaze, “your house screams ‘elites mustdie’.” He gestured to the walls, where pamphlets and posters screamed for theend of monarchy.

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