Page 39 of When 're Silent

The space was a capsule ofJillian’s life, untouched and hauntingly personal. Sheets of music layscattered across a polished mahogany desk, the intricate notes spiraling likethe thoughts of their absent composer. Finn’s gaze was drawn to a leather-boundnotebook lying open; its pages were filled with annotations for a newpiece—something grand and emotive about Robert the Bruce.

“Another royal connection,” Finnmuttered to himself, tracing a finger over the sketched image of a signet ringnestled between the staves. It was meticulously detailed, featuring the emblemof the Bruce lineage.

“Did Jillian display her royalheritage? A ring like this?” Amelia asked, her question piercing the heavy airof the room.

“That is an emblem of the Brucefamily, yes, but we’ve never owned such a ring,” Mrs. Bruce responded, her browfurrowing in consternation. “She must’ve seen it somewhere else.”

“Or someone showed it to her,” Finnadded thoughtfully, the implications of this detail spreading through his mindlike ink in water. He exchanged a look with Amelia—another piece of the puzzle,albeit one shrouded in mystery.

As they left the room, Finn feltthe presence of Jillian Bruce lingering in the quiet hum of displaced air, inthe resonance of unsung melodies. The clue of the signet ring lay heavy in histhoughts, a silent whisper from the victim leading them closer to the shadowthat had extinguished her light.

"I don't feel too well,"Mr Bruce said.

His wife took his arm. “It’s okay,Love.” Mrs Bruce turned to Amelia. “We’ll be downstairs.”

Amelia nodded as they left theroom.

“Breaks your heart,” Finn said. “Wehave to find this guy before anyone else has to grieve their daughters.”

Finn thumbed through several pagesof Jillian Bruce’s diary, hoping for a glimpse into the mind of a woman whoselife had been cruelly cut short. Each page was a tapestry of thoughts andevents—a concert here, a rehearsal there—but nothing that screamed sinister orunusual. He could feel Amelia’s presence behind him, her silence a sharedfrustration.

“Seems like she kept detailedrecords of her day-to-day, but it’s all... ordinary,” Finn said, closing thediary with a sigh. The room, once an incubator for Jillian’s creative energy,now felt like a mausoleum preserving the mundane aspects of her existence. “Shemust have really still felt at home here to leave her diary.”

“Maybe she had two,” Amelia mused.

“That diary tells me she neverquite left home,” Finn said, sadly.

Amelia leaned over his shoulder,peering at a photo pinned to a corkboard—Jillian beaming on stage, violin inhand. "She lived for music. It's all here, every part of her life, exceptfor the one we need."

“Unfortunately, killers don’t tendto RSVP,” Finn quipped, running a hand through his hair. A coping mechanismthey both relied on, humor in the face of despair, a way to keep their headsabove the dark waters they waded through daily.

They scoured the rest of the room,under beds, inside closets, beneath stacks of sheet music, each nook holdingthe potential key to unlocking the identity of a murderer. But as time went on,the promising leads dwindled, leaving them with a collection of dead ends.

“Nothing,” Amelia declared, a hintof defeat edging into her tone. She perched on the edge of Jillian’s bed,fingers idly tracing the floral bedspread. “We’re missing something; it’s likechasing shadows.”

“Shadows have to come fromsomewhere,” Finn mused aloud, though even his own optimism was beginning towear thin. He glanced at the clock—time slipping away with nothing to show forit.

As they prepared to leave, Finn’smobile vibrated sharply against his thigh. He fished it out, the screenlighting up with Rob Collins’ name. “Rob?” he answered, the Chief’s voicecrackling through the speaker.

“Finally, a break,” came Rob’surgent reply. “The killer has made contact with us.”

Amelia gave Finn a worried look, agaze that said the world and their investigation was about to be turned upsidedown.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Finn’s gaze was locked onto theparchment sprawled across the conference room table, its edges curling likewithered leaves. The low hum of the Hertfordshire Constabulary headquartersfaded into a distant murmur as he leaned in, his eyes darting between the OldEnglish script and the arcane symbols that looked more like relics from aforgotten age than pieces of a message.

“Are we certain this is from ourkiller?” Amelia’s question pierced the thick air of concentration. Her voiceheld a measured calm, betraying none of the urgency that had brought them tothis emergency meeting.

Rob Collins, ‘Rob,’ to Finn sincetheir college days but ‘Chief’ to everyone else in the room, didn’t miss abeat. “The details match up—things about the murders we’ve kept from the press.And Dr. Carter confirmed it’s the same type of parchment left at each scene.”

Finn’s mind raced as he scrutinizedthe cryptic communication. The killer’s choice to weave archaic language withthese symbols was no random act—it was intentional, taunting. It spoke ofsomeone not just living in the past, but obsessed with it.

“Symbols now, instead of plaintext. Why?” Amelia mused aloud, her brow creasing in thought.

Finn straightened slightly, lettingout a slow breath. “We need to understand what they represent,” he said, hisvoice steady despite the cacophony of questions thundering through his head.Each symbol seemed to be a piece of a larger puzzle—a puzzle that could crackopen the twisted mind behind these killings. “I do wonder, about old ProfessorHemingway. Didn’t he say that he studied cryptography as well as having anextensive knowledge of Old English and other periods?”

Amelia nodded. “He did. But we’dneed something to go on. We can’t arrest someone just because they’re smart.Let’s keep looking.”

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