Page 39 of When You're Gone

"Indeed." Clara's eyeswere steely, reflecting the museum’s ambient lighting with a polishedaloofness. "He wanted online adulation, I wanted a quiet life. Ourmarriage became... incompatible."

"You are still married. Whendid you change your name back?" Finn observed, the underlying inquiryevident in his tone.

"Redwood is my maidenname," Clara corrected, with a touch of pride. "I never neededHenry's. I always kept my own, even when we were together."

"Interesting," Finnmurmured. He exchanged a brief look with Amelia and they shared a silentconversation. Was this separation the reason for Clara's lack of distress? Orwas it simply a convenient truth?

"Clara," Finn continued,leaning forward slightly, "we're looking into a series of murders tied tosomeone with an acute interest in the Victorian era. The killer seems to befixated on ancient computers—Victorian relics. Henry is somehow caught up init."

"Are you suggesting I havesomething to do with these crimes?" Clara's lips parted in a sardonicsmile that didn't quite reach the cool detachment of her eyes. "Because Imanage a museum?"

"We have to consider allangles," Amelia interjected smoothly, her tone professional yet probing.

"Detective, my passion lies inpreserving history, not destroying lives," Clara retorted, her voicemeasured but edged with irritation. "I assure you, my involvement in theVictorian age ends at curation."

"Passion can be a powerfulmotive," Finn pointed out, watching her closely for any shift in demeanor,any crack in her composed exterior.

"Perhaps for some," Claraconceded, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp. "But my interests arepurely academic."

"Of course," Finn said,though the words were laced with skepticism. "Just doing our duediligence."

"Understood," Clarareplied, rising from her seat with the fluid grace of another era. "Now,if there's nothing else, I have an exhibit to attend to."

"Mrs. Redwood," Finnbegan, noting the way Clara's hands stilled on the glass display case she wasmeticulously arranging, "where were you last night?"

"Here," she statedwithout hesitation, her eyes not meeting his. "Working on the new exhibituntil the early hours. I often lose track of time among theseantiquities."

"Can anyone corroboratethat?" Amelia asked, skepticism thinly veiling her polite tone.

"I don’t need anyone else forthat," Clara replied curtly. She motioned for them to follow her through awinding corridor framed with Victorian portraits whose eyes seemed to followthem accusatorily.

They arrived at a nondescript doorleading to the security room, where a bank of monitors glared in the dimness. Alone guard looked up, startled by their sudden entrance. Clara didn't waste amoment, stepping forward to log into the system with an efficiency that spokeof repetition.

"Here," she said, pullingup timestamped footage. On the screen, Clara appeared, immersed in her work,the clock above her head marking the ungodly hours. She fast-forwarded throughit.

"Looks like you're telling thetruth," Finn muttered, though his instincts told him something was stillamiss. The footage was clear, showing her alone with the artifacts, but hecouldn't shake the unease that gnawed at him.

"Does that satisfy yourcuriosity, detective?" Clara asked. She seemed to be putting on a coolfront, but Finn detected something else underneath; an apprehension.

"For now," Finn conceded,giving Amelia a brief side glance that conveyed a silent conversation they hadperfected over countless cases—a shared agreement that there was more tounearth here.

"Let's move on," Ameliasaid crisply, already heading towards the exit. Finn gave one last scrutinizinglook at the monitor before following. They stepped back into the grand hall,where the morning light fought against the museum's perpetual dusk, castinglong shadows that seemed to whisper secrets just beyond his grasp.

Amelia spoke again, her tone evenbut probing. "Ms. Redwood, are you familiar with an Ezra Bellamy?"

"Of course," Clararesponded without hesitation, her fingers tracing the spine of a book bound infaded leather. "A Victorian inventor, quite ahead of his time. He believedtechnology had the potential to extend beyond its physical constraints—toinfluence the world like a force, supernatural almost."

Finn leaned forward, interestpiqued by this new information. "What can you tell us about Bellamy'sTempus Machine? It’s come up in our investigation."

"Ah," Clara said, a noteof intrigue coloring her voice. But there was something else in her that Finncould sense, a fear mounting.

She glanced up from the book, hereyes flickering with the memory of countless texts she must have devoured."The Tempus Machine was Bellamy's obsession—his intended magnum opus,though likely a dead end fueled by delusion. He claimed it could rewritehistory, not in the metaphorical sense, but literally. An unfinished symphonyof cogs and gears, never realized."

"Rewrite history?" Finnechoed, skepticism warring with curiosity within him. "How so?"

"Bellamy believed in a worldunmarred by the Industrial Revolution—a return to simplicity. But he diedbefore he could complete his work, leaving behind only cryptic schematics andwild speculation."

"Speculation that seems tohave inspired a murderer," Finn muttered under his breath. Amelia shot hima quick glance, her eyes sharp with shared urgency.

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