Page 31 of When 're Silent

Finn’s eyes flickered beneath heavylids, struggling to maintain their vigil over the sea of papers that now ebbedand flowed across his desk. The clock perched on the mantelpiece chimed asomber tune, marking the passage into a new day, its hands cresting pastmidnight. Finn’s study, once a sanctuary of solitude and contemplation, hadmorphed into a battleground where shadows cast by the moonlight through thewindowpane grappled with the dim glow of his desk lamp.

With each tick of the clock, theroom seemed to grow denser, the air thick with the unsaid and the unknown. Hismind, a relentless detective in its own right, scoured for patterns within thechaos of information—a killer’s twisted breadcrumb trail. He wrestled withmotives shrouded in darkness, each theory he conjured up more menacing than thelast. Why these victims? Was it their connection to royalty, or was theresomething deeper, something personal that bound them to their fates?

It was as if the cerebral cogs weregrinding against the weight of his exhaustion, yet the urgency of the hunt keptthem turning, kept him from surrendering to the siren call of sleep. He couldfeel the answers simmering just below the surface, elusive phantoms dartingthrough the murky depths of his consciousness. The specter of the killer loomedlarge, a riddle wrapped in enigma, clad in the cloak of night.

The thoughts swirled in Finn’shead, a maelstrom of possibilities and dead ends. He leaned back, dragging hishand down his face, feeling the stubble that prickled there—a tactile reminderof the hours spent in this relentless pursuit. The taste of coffee lingeredstale on his tongue, a bitter testament to the night’s exertions. And then,without ceremony or intent, his body capitulated, sinking into the cushions ofthe couch that had become an impromptu bed among the disarray of his casefiles.

In the clutches of sleep, the realmof logic and reason gave way to the abstract theater of dreams. Here, thesubconscious reigned, painting surreal vignettes across the canvas of his mind.Finn found himself drifting through a fog-laden corridor, each step echoingwith an ominous weight. Shadowy figures emerged from the mist, their facesobscured, but their hands brandishing signet rings that glinted with sinisterimport.

The rings bore crests of power andheritage, symbols that held sway over life and death. They moved about him in asilent procession, a macabre dance that left traces of cold dread in its wake.In the dream, Finn reached out, driven by a compulsion to uncover the facesbehind the rings, to reveal the truth that lay behind their gilded veneer. Butas his fingers brushed against the cold metal, the figures dissolved into theether, leaving him grasping at the void.

Finn’s breaths came in shallowgasps, his body ensnared in the paradox of a sleep that offered no respite. Thedarkness of the room converged upon him, the unyielding silence punctuated onlyby the soft ticking of the clock—a relentless metronome counting down themoments of peace before the storm of reality would crash upon him once again.

The shrill siren of the telephonecleaved through the silent shroud covering Finn’s flat. His heart punchedagainst his ribs as he lurched from the couch, a slew of case files cascadingto the floor in his wake. The room spun for a moment, reality snapping backinto focus as Finn’s hand grappled blindly for the receiver.

“Winters?” His voice was gravel,heavy with the remnants of sleep and the burden of unspoken dread.

“Finn, we’ve got another one,”Amelia’s words fell like leaden weights in the darkened room. Each syllableseemed to steal the very air from his lungs. “He’s killed again.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The dark morning air was acrid, amix of iron and disinfectant as Finn stepped over the threshold into JillianBruce’s apartment. It was gut-wrenching in its familiarity; the same grotesquetapestry they’d seen unfurled at two other scenes. Except here, it was Jillian,a pale wraith amidst the crimson chaos, her eyes forever closed to the melodyshe’d never play again.

“Christ,” he muttered under hisbreath.

Amelia studied him with anunreadable expression before turning back to survey the room. “At least shedidn’t die alone,” she quipped dryly, nodding towards the stuffed armchairoccupied by a stoic teddy bear, its glassy gaze fixed on the tragedy before it.

“Small mercies,” Finn replied, thecorner of his mouth twitching despite the grimness of the situation. Hecrouched beside Jillian’s body, noting the precision of the cuts, thedeliberate placement of her limbs. The killer had moved beyond murder; this waschoreography.

"A similar M.O.," Ameliaobserved from across the room, her voice steady. "But not exactly. Thebody positions are all slightly different."

She pointed to a shattered vase,its flowers strewn across the floor like mourners at a graveside. “He leavessomething every time. A signature?”

“Or a tantrum,” Finn suggested,rising to his feet. He began a slow circuit of the area, his gaze rovingmeticulously over each surface, hunting for the telltale anomalies that markedthe predator’s passage. “but everything looks staged again. If we link this toa play, what significance do the flowers have?”

“Look at this,” Amelia called out,beckoning him over to the wall where a series of photos hung. Finn approached,his eyes scanning the images of Jillian, violin in hand, lost in the rapture ofperformance. The images showed several performances in elegant halls and packedvenues. She had clearly been a musician of some repute.

“Notice anything?” Amelia’s fingerhovered over the corner of one frame where a faint smudge marred the glass.Finn leaned closer, the gears in his mind churning. It was a partial print,left incomplete.

“It could be the killer, but itcould equally just be Jillian’s,” he said. “We should notify the forensicsteam.”

The air in Jillian’s apartment wastainted with the metallic scent of blood as Finn crouched near her lifelessform. His eyes, sharp and unerring, swept over the polished wooden floorboards,tracing the chaotic splatter that told a silent story of struggle and death. Itwas there, amidst the crimson chaos, that something caught his attention—a tinyscrap, nearly hidden by her arm.

“Amelia,” he called out, his voicea low murmur to avoid disturbing the crime scene’s grim stillness. “Bring methe tweezers and evidence bags.”

As she approached, Finn pointed tothe fragments of parchment, their edges jagged and soaked with blood. Thedelicate fibers looked aged, the script upon them faded and barely legible.Amelia handed him the tools with a nod, knowing better than to ask questionswhen Finn was in full analytical mode.

“Old parchment again,” he observedaloud. “This is the third time we’ve found it at the scene.”

“There’s no doubt then that thekiller thinks this is his calling card,” Amelia quipped, though her eyes weresomber. “I wonder what the writing means this time, and if it’s all from theone source text?”

“Let’s find out,” Finn replied,carefully collecting the pieces. He held one up to the light, squinting as hetried to decipher the ancient text. Each fragment seemed to be torn from adifferent page, each bearing words that spoke of history long past.

“De Bruce,” Finn murmured, his mindracing through the implications. “That’s dangerously to Jillian’s last name.”

“Wait,” Amelia said. “The only DeBruce I can think of is the Bruce.”

“Must be important if he’s the onlyBruce,” Finn quipped.

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