Page 48 of When You're Gone

She gazed one last time at thegrave that held so many of her lost dreams. Amelia stood in the stillness ofthe cemetery, her breath forming ghostly tendrils in the cold night air. Thesense of solitude was palpable, wrapping around her like a shroud as she facedthe stone sentinel of Mark's grave. She took a deep breath, the sharp scent offreshly turned earth and age-old stone filling her nostrils, steadying hernerves.

"Mark," she began, hervoice barely above a whisper, "if there's some part of you out there... ifyou're listening, I need a sign." Her eyes searched the darkness,half-expecting to see an ethereal figure or feel a comforting touch. Anythingto guide her through the twisting path of grief and longing that lay beforeher.

Silence was her only answer, savefor the rustle of leaves in the gentle night breeze. It was the kind of quietthat could drive a person mad with its intensity, the kind that seemed to pressdown on your chest and demand your secrets.

Finn would have scoffed at suchsuperstitions, Amelia mused. His logical mind dissected the world into evidenceand deduction. Yet even he couldn't explain away the human need for connection,for a sign that they weren't alone in their struggles.

As she waited, the air grew colder,seeping into her bones. Then, a sudden movement caught her eye. Her gazesnapped to the left, where a shadow flitted between two headstones in thedistance. Her heart hitched, the adrenaline rush all too familiar, like a sirencall summoning her back to duty.

Amelia's hand instinctivelyclenched. Her practical mind urged caution, while her police training screamedfor action. She strained her eyes against the darkness, trying to discern ifwhat she'd seen was a trick of light or something more sinister.

The graveyard, once a place ofsomber reflection, now felt charged with potential danger. Every mausoleumappeared to her as a possible hideout, every statue a silent accomplice towhatever lurked among the graves.

"Come on, Amelia," shemuttered under her breath, chiding herself for letting the unease get thebetter of her. "You've stared down killers without flinching."

But as another flicker of movementdisturbed the night, this time closer, she knew that, rational or not, herinstincts had been triggered. There was something here with her—a presence thatdid not belong amidst the solemn rows of the deceased.

And in that moment, Ameliaunderstood that the sign she had asked for was not one of assurance or closure.It was a warning, as tangible as the chill that now crept up her spine.

Amelia's heart raced as the shadowsdanced with menacing intent, transforming the cemetery into a labyrinth offear. With each step, the sense of dread coiled tighter around her, like ivy onancient stone. Grasping for something familiar, something real, she thrust herhand into the pocket of her coat and fumbled for her phone.

"Come on," she whisperedto herself, her breath forming clouds in the chilly air. Anxiously, she swipedthe screen, searched for Finn's contact, and pressed call. The ringtone,usually a sign of impending support, now seemed absurdly out of place amidstthe whispering leaves and watchful angels.

"Pick up, Finn," shemurmured, her voice barely above a hush, as if speaking louder would invoke theattention of whatever lurked just beyond sight. Her eyes darted between theheadstones, seeking any movement, any hint of what had stirred the stillness ofthe night.

But the phone call, which shouldhave been her lifeline, was met with silence. A glance at the display confirmedher fears: No Service. The reality of her isolation settled heavily upon her, acloak woven from threads of vulnerability.

"Damn it." She stuffedthe phone back into her coat, her fingers trembling slightly. This wasn't thetime to panic; she needed to think like a detective, not a scared civilian.Amelia reminded herself that she'd faced peril before, alongside Finn, theirpartnership a blend of his methodical approach and her instinct.

In the darkness of the graveyard,though, logic seemed distant, as if muffled by the earth that cradled thesilent residents beneath her feet. Here, among the relics of lives long passed,her connection to the world of the living was tenuous—a single thread frayed bythe lack of reception.

"Mark, I could use some helpright now," she said softly to the headstone, hoping for strength frommemories of her lost fiancé. But Mark's silent epitaph offered no comfort, onlythe stark reminder of mortality etched in stone.

Gathering the remnants of herresolve, Amelia steeled herself against the night's embrace. This was no timefor sentiment or fear. She was Inspector Amelia Winters, and she would not beundone by shadows and a signal-less phone.

Amelia’s breaths came in shallowgusts, her heart pounding a steady rhythm against her ribs as she navigated thelabyrinth of headstones and tombs. She moved with the practiced caution of adetective who had learned to trust her instincts as much as the evidence beforeher eyes. The moon played peek-a-boo behind scudding clouds, casting achiaroscuro of light and shadow upon the graves, each one a potential hidingspot for whomever—or whatever—had stirred in the darkness.

She kept her movements measured,her eyes scanning the environment with an intensity borne of years on theforce. Each step was deliberate, avoiding the gravel paths that would betrayher presence with their telltale crunch underfoot. Instead, she trod upon thegrassy spaces between, using the sound of the wind through the trees to coverany inadvertent noise she might make.

A gust sent a shiver down herspine, but Amelia refused to acknowledge it. Fear was a luxury she couldn'tafford; fear made you sloppy, and sloppiness got you killed. She thought ofFinn, his wry humor a constant through the stormiest cases, how he'd quip abouttheir predicament if he were here now. The thought lent her a modicum ofcomfort.

Up ahead, the cemetery gatesloomed, a silhouette of wrought iron that promised safety and connection to theworld beyond this necropolis. Just a few more yards, Amelia told herself, justa few more steps to—

The sudden grip was iron-strong,snatching her from her thoughts and the promise of escape. Before she couldreact or cry out, she was yanked backward, her feet stumbling over the unevenground. Panic flared, raw and primal, as she was pulled into the gaping maw ofan old tomb, the kind that whispered stories of Victorian mourning and morbidcuriosity.

"Let go—" Amelia managed,her voice strangled by the vice-like hold. But her demand was swallowed by thedarkness as she was dragged deeper into the crypt, the smell of damp earth andage-old decay filling her lungs. Her training kicked in, and she fought back,twisting in the assailant's grasp, aiming for where she estimated the kidneyswould be.

There was no time to think of Mark,of Finn, or of the killer they sought; there was only the here and now, thefight for survival in the clutches of an unknown foe. And as the last sliver ofmoonlight was blotted out by the closing door of the tomb, Amelia steeledherself for what would come next in the pitch-black embrace of the past.

Amelia's breaths came in short,sharp gasps as she fought against the iron grip of her assailant. She couldn'tsee his face, but she could feel the malice pouring off him like heat from afire. The darkness of the tomb closed around her, suffocating and absolute.

"Vilne?" she hissed,trying to make out any feature, any clue that might tell her who had ambushedher in this place of death.

There was no answer, only the soundof her own heart pounding in her ears and the distant hoot of an owl outside.She twisted again, trying to use her elbows, her feet—anything to loosen thevise-like hold. But it was like fighting a shadow, a creature of the night withthe strength of the grave itself.

The man pulled and heaved, andAmelia screamed one word as she found herself disappearing into the coldembrace of a tomb.

“Finn!”

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