Page 36 of When 're Silent

“Murder is no trivial matter, MissThompson,” Amelia said, her tone sharpening like a blade. “And your protestsseem more... personal than political.”

“Personal?” Margaret leaned back inher chair, her laugh devoid of humor. “If opposing the celebration of a bloodyhistory is personal, then yes, I suppose it is.”

“Seems to me,” Finn interjected,“that there’s more to this story. So why don’t you start from the beginning—whydid Jillian Bruce hate you?”

“Because I spoke the truth,”Margaret answered, her voice unwavering. “And truth, Mr. Wright, is ofteninconvenient. Indeed, it can be painful.”

In that cold room, beneath the buzzof the overhead lights, Finn felt the weight of every unsolved case pressingupon him. He studied Margaret’s face, searching for the crack in her armor, butfound only the hardened resolve of someone accustomed to standing alone againstthe tide.

“Perhaps,” he mused aloud, a faintsmile playing on his lips, “but truth also has a way of coming out, one way oranother.”

As the interrogation stretched on,each question parried with practiced ease, Finn’s admiration for Amelia’stenacity grew. Together they pressed, probed, tested every angle—but MargaretThompson was an enigma, a fortress with walls too high to breach. And as muchas Finn hated to admit it, his gut told him they were barking up the wrongtree. She was hiding something, yes, but was it murder?

Finn shifted his chair slightly,the metal legs scraping against the concrete floor with an abrasive echo thatfilled the sparse room. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the cold steeltable separating them from Margaret Thompson. The fluorescent lights abovehummed a monotonous tune, casting an artificial glow over the scene. Finn feltthe familiar flicker of adrenaline as he prepared to pivot the interrogation.

Margaret’s gaze remained unwaveringas Finn and Amelia delved deeper into their questioning. The stark room feltlike a battleground, with words as weapons and silence thickening the airbetween them.

“Miss Thompson,” Finn began, hisvoice cutting through the tension like a blade, “we’re not just here aboutJillian Bruce. What can you tell us about Dominique Plantagenet and RebeccaHanover?”

A flicker of surprise danced acrossMargaret’s features before she composed herself, her posture regal even in theface of suspicion. “I may have disagreed with their privileged lineage, but Iam not a murderer,” she retorted, her tone laced with defiance.

Amelia leaned in slightly, her eyessharp with scrutiny. “Your views on monarchy are well known, but these murdersseem to carry a vengeful touch, much in line with your writings. How do youexplain that?”

Margaret’s lips curled into adisdainful smile. “Vengeful touch? I may despise what royalty represents, but Iam no executioner. My weapon is my pen, not a blade.”

Finn studied her reaction closely,searching for any hint of deception in her words. “Yet each victim had ties toroyal ancestry,” he pointed out, his voice probing yet controlled.

"Coincidence," Margaretdismissed with a wave of her hand. "Their bloodline does not make theminnocent or untouchable in the eyes of history. Besides, I think you've beentoo involved in recent serial killer cases, Mr Wright. Oh yes, I know you fromthe press. Perhaps it is you who sees something personal in these murders.Didn't America abandon the monarchy? All I want is the same for us."

Amelia’s gaze bore into Margaret’sown, unyielding. “And what of the notes left at each crime scene? Themeticulous planning that mirrors historical deaths—does that align with youractivism or your writing?”

“They certainly have an author’sflair,” Finn added.

Margaret’s facade faltered for amoment before she regained her composure. “I may challenge the monarchy’slegacy, but I would never resort to such barbarism. My fight is waged throughdiscourse and debate, not bloodshed.”

Finn observed the subtle nuances inMargaret’s demeanor—the slight tremor in her hands, the fleeting glint ofuncertainty in her eyes—as he pushed further. “Your convictions are clear, MissThompson, but we need more than words to rule out your involvement in thesemurders.”

Margaret’s gaze remained steady,her demeanor unwavering as Finn and Amelia pressed on with their questioning.The stark room felt suffocating, the weight of suspicion hanging heavy in theair.

“Miss Thompson,” Finn’s voice cutthrough the tension like a sharpened blade, “can you account for yourwhereabouts on the nights of Rebecca Hanover and Dominique Plantagenet’sdeaths?”

Margaret’s lips curved into a coolsmile, her eyes meeting Finn’s with calculated composure. “I’m afraid thoseparticular evenings escape me,” she replied smoothly. “But I can assure youthat my pursuits did not involve royalty or bloodshed.”

Amelia leaned forward slightly, hergaze sharp and probing. “And what about the night Jillian Bruce was murdered?Can you provide an alibi for that night?”

A flicker of something unreadablepassed through Margaret’s eyes before she spoke. “Ah yes, that night,” shebegan, her tone taking on a hint of intrigue. “I was in the company of agentleman named Albert Marling.” She reached into her pocket and produced areceipt from a quaint Italian bistro in Soho, dated the evening of JillianBruce’s death. “We had dinner at La Luna Rossa that night.”

Finn took the receipt, studying itintently. The details seemed to align with Margaret’s claim. He glanced atAmelia, who nodded subtly in agreement.

“It seems you have an alibi for thenight Jillian Bruce was killed,” Finn acknowledged, his voice neutral butprobing.

Finn observed her closely,searching for any sign of deceit or evasion in her words. The room fell silentfor a moment, tension crackling between them like electricity.

Amelia spoke next, her voice sharpand direct. “Your association with these victims is undeniable due to yourbeliefs and writings,” she pointed out. “But we will need more than just analibi to clear you of any involvement in these murders.”

As Margaret met their scrutinyhead-on, Finn couldn’t shake off the lingering doubt that lingered like ashadow over their interrogation—a doubt that whispered there was more beneaththe surface than met the eye.

“An alibi is enough,” Margaret saidpointedly.

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