Page 42 of When You're Gone

"Pocket watches, silverware...even insisted on a gaslight chandelier in our flat." Her laugh was short,devoid of humor. "Said it was more authentic."

"Authenticity can be a cozyblanket in a cold digital age," Finn mused, leaning against the bookshelfthat loomed like a sentinel over the room.

"Or a refuge," Ameliacountered, dropping the brooch back into the box. She glanced at him, herexpression unreadable in the half-light. "Either way, it doesn't stopbullets or poison darts."

"Neither does cynicism,"Finn pointed out, pushing off the shelf to stand beside her. He could see thestrain around her eyes, the toll of grief that never truly receded.

"Maybe not," sheadmitted, turning her attention to a stack of journals. "But after seeingHenry and now Clara..." She paused, a shiver running through her as if thetemperature in the room had dropped several degrees. "You realize lifedoesn't wait for you to catch up. It just keeps moving until one day, you'rethe one who's stopped."

"Like a broken clock,"Finn said, understanding the weight of her words. They both knew death wasn'tselective or fair; it took without reason or rhyme. In their line of work, thattruth was a constant companion, whispering in the dark corners of every crimescene, every hollow victory.

"Something like that,"Amelia murmured, opening a journal only to close it again. Her gaze met his,steady yet tinged with a sadness that mirrored his own.

Finn skimmed through the fadedpages of a leather-bound ledger, his eyes scanning for any hint of a pattern oranomaly that might lead them to the killer. The silence in Clara Redwood'sapartment was thick, punctuated only by the soft rustle of Amelia turning overanother fruitless page from her own pile of potential evidence. They weresearching for something—anything—that could shine a light on the shadow thathad taken Henry and Clara and left behind a trail of Victorian intrigue.

"Nothing," Amelia sighed,setting aside the last of the journals she was thumbing through. Her voice helda weary resignation, a sound all too familiar to Finn. He looked up at her,recognizing the fatigue etched into the lines of her face—a mirror of his ownexhaustion.

"Amelia—" he began, butshe cut him off with a gesture, her hand reaching out as if she were trying tograsp hold of an elusive truth that danced just beyond her fingertips.

"Finn," she said quietly,locking her gaze with his. "I've been thinking."

"About?" His questionhung in the air between them, laden with unspoken understanding.

"Life," Amelia replied,her voice a whisper. "And how I've spent so much time chasing criminalsthat I've... I've neglected to live it." Her eyes searched his, deep poolsof vulnerability that Finn felt himself drowning in.

"Amelia, you can't—"

"Please," she interjectedsoftly, her fingers brushing against his arm. "Just listen. When Markdied, a part of me died with him. And now, seeing all this death around us,it's like waking up from a long, terrible dream. I think I've waited too longto start again."

Her confession hung heavy in thestillness of the room, a raw admission that stripped away the layers ofprofessionalism and shared history between them. In that moment, Finn saw notthe composed inspector, but the woman beneath—the one who had suffered loss andcarried on, the one who stood unwavering in the face of darkness.

Without a word, he closed thedistance between them, drawn by an invisible force stronger than reason orduty. His hands found her cheeks, cradling them gently as he leaned in, hislips meeting hers in a kiss that was both a balm for past wounds and a promiseof solace in a world rife with uncertainty. It was a connection forged in thefires of shared grief and hardened by the relentless pursuit of justice.

For a heartbeat, or perhaps aneternity, they remained locked in the embrace, the chaos of their workforgotten. But reality would not be denied, and as they parted, the gravity oftheir quest settled back upon their shoulders like a mantle.

"Right," Amelia smiled,after a moment, her voice steady despite the tumult inside her. "We have akiller to catch."

Finn navigated the shadowedlabyrinth of Clara Redwood's apartment with a forensic eye, his senses keenlytuned to the subtleties of disorder amidst the apparent normalcy. Each detail,from the precise arrangement of Victorian-era knick-knacks to the faint scentof jasmine that lingered in the air, was a potential breadcrumb on the path tounmasking a murderer.

"Diary," he mused aloud,breaking the silence that had settled between himself and Amelia since theircharged moment. "If Clara chronicled her dealings, it could give usinsight into her last days. Something about the killer and their dealings withHenry. Anything would help."

Amelia nodded, her demeanor back toits usual sharp focus. The softness of their prior encounter seemed to dissolveinto the shadows, replaced by the shared determination that always definedtheir partnership. She began a methodical search through the drawers of anantique writing desk, while Finn rummaged through the bookshelves, scanningtitles and dates with a practiced eye.

"Check under the mattress,pillows," Finn suggested, sparing a glance at the neatly made bed, itscovers undisturbed save for the indent of a head on one plump pillow.

"Got it," Amelia replied,her voice even but not devoid of the warmth that now underpinned theirinteractions.

She approached the bed, sliding herhands beneath the pillow with a careful precision honed by years on the force.Her fingers encountered the edge of a small, leather-bound volume, and sheexhaled softly as she drew it out.

"Here." She held up thediary triumphantly, then flipped it open to a bookmarked page, her eyesscanning quickly.

"Anything?" Finn asked,joining her side, his curiosity piqued.

"Listen to this,"Amelia's tone was tinged with urgency as she read aloud, "'Met withChronos at Islewood Junction. Plans are progressing—'"

"Chronos?" Finninterjected. "Our poetic keeper of time."

"Islewood Junction,"Amelia continued, her brow furrowed, "now, where have I heard thatbefore?"

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