Page 40 of When 're Silent

A shiver of anticipation traileddown Finn’s spine. He was part excited, part worried about the killer’s changein notes. It may have been because they were getting close and the killer nowwanted to put them off, but Finn worried that if the killer was going throughsome sort of psychological change, that this could lead to escalation and moredeaths.

Amelia caught his eye, a glimmer ofshared resolve passing between them. Even in the face of darkness, they foundsolace in their camaraderie, exchanging a wry grin that served as a silentacknowledgment of the grim humor that kept them grounded.

As they poured over the parchment,the symbols began to whisper secrets, hinting at an obsession with history,lineage, perhaps even ritual. Finn’s analytical mind pieced together fragmentsof knowledge, drawing from old texts and cases long since buried in thearchives of his experience.

Finn’s gaze lingered on theparchment, the symbols etched into its fiber as if mocking their efforts todecipher them. The room was a cavern of thought, where shadows of past crimesplayed across the walls in the dim light of the computer screens. Amelia leanedback in her chair, her eyes clouded with frustration and fatigue. It was thenthat Rob, standing with an aura of quiet authority, broke the silence that hadsettled over them.

“Look,” he began, his voicemeasured, “we’re running circles around these words and getting nowhere. Let’sshift gears for a moment—focus on what we know about the materials our killerfavors: antique parchments, archaic symbols. There has to be a reason for thisspecific choice.”

Amelia straightened up, consideringthe Chief’s angle, while Finn felt a tinge of respect for Rob’s ability to seethrough the fog of dead ends. They were indeed at a standstill, and thesuggestion pricked at his detective senses. He nodded slightly, the motionalmost imperceptible.

“Right, Rob,” Finn agreed.

They turned to the databases,hungry for any scrap of knowledge that might connect the dots. Digital archivessprawled before them, vast and unyielding, but they persisted, driven by theurgency that the killer’s next move could be imminent. Finn’s fingers flew overthe keyboard, summoning records of antiquities dealers, museum acquisitions,and obscure collectors who dabbled in the macabre trade of historical relics.

“Anything that looks out of place,”Amelia said, her voice a soft hum against the click-clack of keys. Her sharpmind was a beacon in the murkiness of conjecture. Finn appreciated herintuition as much as he did her quick wit, which often cut through the tensionwhen it threatened to overwhelm them.

“Here,” Finn pointed to a list thatappeared on his screen, each entry a whisper from the past. “Dealers whospecialize in medieval artifacts. Could be our killer is sourcing his materialsfrom one of these.”

“Or knows someone who does,” Ameliachimed in, leaning closer to scan the list. Their heads nearly touched, twodetectives united in purpose and determination.

Hour after hour, they siftedthrough transactions and correspondences, every so often exchanging glancesthat spoke volumes—each look a mix of hope and weariness. The symbols from thenotes became their silent companions, hovering at the edges of their vision asthey combed through data, hoping to unearth a connection that would lead themto the shadow that had cast such a pall over Hertfordshire.

As time wore on, Finn felt thethreads of the case twisting, intertwining with the fibers of the ancientparchment, as if history itself was a labyrinth they needed to navigate. Yetneither he nor Amelia would allow themselves to fall prey to despair; instead,they fortified themselves with shared resolve and the occasional dry quip thatonly they could appreciate amidst the gravitas of their hunt.

The glare of the computer screenhad long since ceased to be a nuisance, fading into Finn’s mental periphery ashe and Amelia continued their digital excavation. He felt the muscles in hisneck protest from the hours of tension, and he rolled his shoulders in anattempt to dispel the discomfort. Amelia, ever observant, caught the smallgesture.

“Hit a wall?” she asked, her tonelight but her eyes keen with concern.

“Feels like it,” Finn admitted,rubbing at his eyes before refocusing on the task at hand. “But walls are meantto be scaled, or broken through.”

“Or to hide treasures behind them,”Amelia added, her lips curving into a wry smile.

Finn couldn’t help but smirk inreturn; it was their way—their silent pact to keep spirits buoyed in the faceof adversity. He turned back to the symbols, tracing one with a fingertip onthe screen. That’s when he saw it—a connection, a semblance of familiarity thattugged at his memory.

“Amelia, look at this,” he calledout, his voice low but urgent. She was immediately at his side, her presence acomforting solidity.

He pointed to a symbol, intricateand ancient looking. “Doesn’t that symbol match up with a couple on theparchment?”

Her eyes narrowed as she studiedit. “You might be onto something. It does bear a resemblance to—”

“The Temple of the Silver Sun,”Finn read out loud, looking at info online.

“What else does it say?” Ameliaasked.

“Long thought extinct,” Finn mused,his mind racing through the implications. The Temple of the Silver Sun—asubculture entwined with mysticism and British history, its members shrouded insecrecy and bound by allegiance to a forgotten creed. “Most historians believethe society crumbled long ago, but some suggest such a group could still existacross the British Isles.”

“Could our killer be a modern-daydisciple?” Amelia pondered aloud, turning to Finn with a speculative gleam inher eye.

“Or obsessed with their teachings,using their symbolism to communicate,” Finn suggested, feeling a flicker ofexcitement amidst the ominous undercurrent of their case. “Either way, we’vegot a new angle to pursue.”

Amelia was already steps ahead, hergaze locked onto the screen as she began searching for more information. “Ifthis is a language he’s speaking, then we need a translator. Someone who candecode the intricacies of this subculture.”

“An expert in esoteric societies,perhaps?” Finn raised an eyebrow, impressed with Amelia’s quick thinking.

“Exactly.” Amelia straightened, herresolve hardening into determination. “I’ll reach out to the universityarchives first thing tomorrow. Oldbridge is one of the oldest universities inthe world, if they don’t have a specialist in ancient cults and forgottensocieties, they must know someone who is.”

Finn nodded, feeling a surge ofhope amidst the fatigue that clung to his bones. This was progress, howeverslight, and in their line of work, every bit counted. The Temple of the SilverSun—an arcane piece of the past that could very well illuminate their path tocatching a murderer who seemed as much a specter as the victims he left behind.

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