Page 34 of When 're Silent

“Dressing room?” the man saiduncomfortably. “We are still trying to rehearse for tonight’s concert.”

“And I don’t want any of your othermusicians to share Jillian’s fate,” Finn said abruptly. “Please lead the way.”

“Of course. But I still don’tunderstand what can be gleaned from rummaging through the poor dead girl’sthings.”

“We believe Jillian was receivingthreats before she died,” Amelia explained. “It’s possible she received some ofthem here at her place of work. Please, lead on.”

The manager nodded.

As they moved deeper into thelabyrinthine backstage, the echoes of their footsteps seemed to press closer,eager whispers from the past clinging to the edges of Finn’s perception. Hecould feel the history of the place, every performance and every secret itheld, now marred by the stain of violence.

“Here we are,” the manager finallyannounced, halting before a door marked with a brass plaque, ‘Jillian Bruce’.The name stood as a solemn marker, the once bright star of a talented violinistsnuffed out too soon.

“Thank you,” Finn said, his tonegentle, acknowledging the manager’s grief while trying to appease his curiosityfor what lay beyond that door.

Finn stepped into the dressingroom, the scent of resin and wood polish mingling with a chill that seemed toseep from the walls. The place was untouched since Jillian’s last performance,her presence hanging in the air like the final note of an unfinished symphony.Amelia followed close behind, her steps measured and respectful as if enteringsacred ground.

His gaze fell upon the violinresting on the makeup table—a Stradivarius by the looks of it, its varnishedsurface reflecting the dim lighting with a sorrowful gleam. It lay silent, itsstrings taut, as though poised to resonate with the touch of its master whowould never return. Finn's fingers hovered over it, a surge of reverencestopping him short of contact. He wondered about the melodies it held captive,the joys and heartbreaks it had voiced under Jillian's deft touch.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Amelia’svoice cut through the silence, tinged with a hint of melancholy.

“More than that,” Finn replied, hiswords soft. “I used to believe that musical instruments take a piece of theperformer with them. It’s a piece of her soul left behind.”

“Why, Finn?” Amelia said, soundingsurprised. “That was almost poetic.”

“I do write, you know.”

“I said almost,” she said with agrin. “Don’t get carried away with yourself.

They moved through the room, theair thick with the echo of rustling sheets of music and the ghostly applause ofaudiences past. Finn opened drawers and rifled through personaleffects—lipsticks, scores, handwritten notes—all the mundane artifacts of a lifeinterrupted. Amelia scanned the vanity, her reflection staring back at heramidst a clutter of brushes and powders.

“Over here,” she called out, hertone shifting to one of urgency.

Finn joined her, his eyes narrowingon the letters spread across the tabletop. The ink was faded, but the scriptwas unmistakable, each letter meticulously formed with an almost obsessiveprecision. He recognized the style; it was similar to the threats they’d foundin Jillian’s flat.

“Another message from our scribe,”Finn muttered, his mind churning. “At least this is in a form of English I canunderstand. ‘Thou shalt pay for thy lineage’s sins.’ or something to thateffect.”

“Someone’s taking their historyquite seriously.” Amelia picked up a letter, studying it with a frown. “Orsomeone wants us to think they are.”

“Either way,” Finn said, tracingthe loops and flourishes with his fingertip, “it’s a direct link to the othervictims. All part of the theater, all with ties to royalty. We can be certainthe three deaths are part of a spree now.”

“Seems like our killer wants us tounderstand why he’s doing what he’s doing,” Amelia quipped, even as her eyesstayed locked on the threatening prose. “I think that’s why he’s leaving thesenotes.”

“He keeps varying some of the crimescene details,” Finn muttered. “He wants to keep us confused enough to wonderif we’re missing something.”

Taking out an evidence bag, Finncarefully pocketed the note for later analysis.

From somewhere nearby, a violinbegan to play.

“Can you hear that or am I goinginsane?” Finn asked.

“Yes,” Amelia said. “Though I wastempted to say no and gaslight you.”

“They must be doing a sound check,”Finn said. “For a moment, I thought...” The ghostly echo of a violin’s lamenthad barely faded when the discordant shatter of props in the distance joltedFinn from his reverie. Violence was afoot, and it was near. He exchanged aglance with Amelia, her eyes reflecting the same flicker of urgency thatsparked within him. Without a word, they slipped into the shadows that clung tothe walls of Royal Albert Hall like an ancient tapestry.

“Backstage,” Finn mouthed, his handinstinctively reaching for the sidearm he no longer carried. They moved as one,their footsteps a muted symphony on the plush carpet, passing through thelabyrinthine hallways that hummed with the whispers of performances past. Here,history bled into the present—a murder most foul in a setting steeped ingrandeur.

Finn’s gut tightened as theyapproached the commotion, the scent of sawdust and paint lingering in the air.His eyes searched the dimly lit corridor, catching the briefest glint ofmovement—a shadow darting between the colossal silhouettes of stage props.“There!” he hissed, pointing towards the fleeing figure, a stark blot againstthe otherwise meticulously organized backstage area.

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