Page 35 of When 're Silent

Amelia nodded, already in motion.Finn followed, his legs pumping, heart racing, the chase igniting a fire thathad often been dormant since his suspension. They weaved through the maze ofcorridors, dodging haphazardly placed costumes and sets that told stories of athousand different worlds.

He could hear the ragged breaths ofthe suspect ahead, the clattering of disturbed objects marking their desperateattempt at escape. The adrenaline surged through Finn’s veins, sharpening hisfocus. Each corner turned was a gamble, each doorway crossed a chance encounterwith the unknown.

"Split up?" Ameliasuggested her voice a terse whisper as they neared another fork in thebackstage labyrinth.

“Left,” he decided, veering downthe hallway where the sounds of pursuit seemed loudest. She nodded again,peeling off to the right with a determined set to her jaw. Finn pushed harder,the suspect’s silhouette now coming into clearer view with each stride.

Finally, they reached a cul-de-sacof dressing rooms, the suspect cornered. Props loomed like silent sentinels,bearing witness to the impending confrontation. Finn skidded to a halt, hispulse thrumming in his ears. There was nowhere left to run. The suspect turned,their back pressed against a door adorned with fading stars, their chestheaving with panicked breaths.

“End of the line,” Finn said, thewords slipping out in a cold, even tone, though his insides churned with a mixof triumph and dread. He could feel Amelia’s presence behind him, a reassuringsolidity in a world of shadows and doubt.

The suspect eyed them both, thewhites of their eyes glaring in the half-light, calculating the odds, weighingthe chances. But Finn knew the game was up. This was it—the moment before themask was ripped away, revealing the face of the puppeteer who’d orchestratedthis deadly dance.

Finn’s muscles tensed as thesuspect lunged forward, a blur of desperation and fear. With reflexes honedfrom years in the field, Finn intercepted, grappling with the shadowy figurewhose breath came in ragged gasps against his ear. Fabric strained and tore asthey twisted in a violent dance, each seeking to overpower the other. Thesuspect’s elbow jabbed into Finn’s side, eliciting a grunt of pain that echoedoff the nearby props—a cacophony of distress in the otherwise silent backstage.

“Persistent, aren’t you?” Finn spatout through gritted teeth, his grip tightening like a vice. He could feel thesinew and bone beneath the suspect’s clothing, the frantic pounding of a heartracing to escape its inevitable conclusion. The scent of sweat and fear mingledin the air, pungent and acrid, as if the very walls absorbed the essence oftheir struggle.

In the midst of the fray, he sensedrather than saw Amelia move—a swift shadow converging on their position. Herarrival was a jolt of electricity, spurring him onward. Their assailantthrashed wildly, a cornered animal with nothing to lose. Amelia’s hand foundthe crook of the suspect’s arm, her fingers steel traps, and together theyforced the flailing limbs behind a back that arched in resistance.

The suspect groaned and shouted“get off me!”

“Easy there,” Finn murmured, thoughhis voice bore an edge sharper than any blade. His former life as a SpecialAgent had prepared him for this—the close-quarters combat where every decisioncould be your last. Yet it was the first time since his suspension that he feltwholly alive, his past failures fueling his resolve rather than hindering it.

Amelia grunted as she avoided astray kick, her tenacity a beacon in the dimly lit corridor.

The suspect’s struggling waned,their energy spent, as the reality of capture set in. Finn’s heart hammered inhis chest, not just from the exertion but from the knowledge that each piece ofthis macabre puzzle brought them closer to a truth that seemed to lurk justbeyond reach.

“Looks like we’ve got our ownprivate performance,” Finn quipped, even as his hands remained unyielding.Amelia’s response was a stifled chuckle, incongruent with the gravity of theirsituation, yet somehow perfect.

“I’d have preferred a box seat anda glass of rose.”

Together, they stood, the suspectsubdued and pulled to their feet.

As the suspect’s struggles subsidedinto defeated whimpers, Finn caught a glint of metal against their skin. Hiseyes narrowed, focusing on the object—a ring, ornate and imposing. Withdeliberate care, he twisted the ring free from the suspect’s finger, holding itup to the light. A chill ran down his spine as he recognized the emblem etchedonto the surface: Robert the Bruce’s emblem, an unmistakable symbol of Scottishroyalty and power.

“Margaret Thompson,” Finn said, thename rolling off his tongue with disbelief as he eyed the ring in his palm. Itwas a piece of the puzzle they hadn’t anticipated, a link that tied thehistorian’s controversial views directly to their case.

“You have the right to remainsilent…” Amelia began.

Amelia’s voice was steady as sheread Margaret her rights, the metallic click of the handcuffs punctuating eachword. As Finn watched Margaret’s face, he saw defiance there, but also fear.Fear of what came next, fear of the truth being unearthed.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Finn Wright’s gaze locked onto thefigure before him, a juxtaposition of scholarly intellect, criminal suspicion,and a lean physical strength that could only come from diligent training.Shackled wrists rested on the metal table in the observation room, the cuffsglinting under the harsh fluorescent lights. Margaret Thompson, historian andnow suspect number three, bore her restraints with a kind of regal disdain. Theair was thick with tension, a silent battle of wills set against the sterilebackdrop of Hertfordshire Constabulary.

“Miss Thompson,” Finn began, hisvoice steady, echoing slightly in the sparse chamber, “we’ve got a fewquestions about your interactions with Jillian Bruce.”

Margaret’s lips curved into asardonic smile, her eyes sharp behind the lenses of her glasses. “Interactions?Is that what we’re calling civil protest now?”

“Let’s not dance around thesubject,” Amelia chimed in, sliding a notebook across the table towards thesuspect. “I’m assuming you know she’s been murdered. Your name was found atJillian Bruce’s home, labeled as a ‘hateful woman.’ Why would she write that?”

“Because I disagreed with herchoice in music.” Margaret’s defiance rose like a shield. “Some of those piecesglorify an institution built on the backs of the suffering masses—themonarchy.”

“Opposing viewpoints don’t usuallyend in murder,” Finn pointed out, leaning forward, elbows on the table. Hismind was alight with details, digging for inconsistencies, for the slip thatwould unravel the truth.

“Of course not,” Margaret repliedcoolly, her voice dripping with condescension. “But I suspect you know thatalready, Mr. Wright. You’re just trying to connect dots that aren’t there.”

Amelia’s fingers tapped a staccatorhythm on the tabletop, the sound a counterpoint to the tension. Finn couldalmost see the cogs turning in her head, the same relentless pursuit of goodthat drove them both. Their partnership, though forged in the fire of thisinvestigation, had become his anchor, their mutual respect and dark humor asalve against the grimness of their task.

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