Page 21 of When You're Lost

He eased to a stop in a patch of weedy gravel near what appeared to be the front entrance.The building’s facade bore dark-green ivy creeping up old stone walls.A single porch light flickered—either a faulty bulb or a wiring issue.

“Okay, so Townsend’s place,” Finn murmured, switching off the engine.Darkness descended more fully without the headlights.“Let’s do this carefully.”

Eleanor reached for the door handle.“Right behind—”

“No.”Finn’s voice snapped out more sharply than he intended.He steadied himself.“Stay in the car, Eleanor.”

She frowned.“Why?You might need me if—”

“No arguments,” he insisted, meeting her eyes firmly.“You have no police or combat training.If there’s a potential killer inside, I don’t want you in harm’s way.Let me check it out.I'm sure he's fine.Call me in five minutes if I don't come back.Agreed?”

She hesitated, torn between defiance and concern.Slowly, she nodded.“Fine.But don’t do anything reckless.This isn't America.You’re not armed, remember?”

“I have these guns.”He gave a wry smile, raising his arms up for a moment.“I’ll manage.Five minutes, okay?”

She sighed and looked at him disdainfully.“Five minutes.”

He reached out and gently squeezed her shoulder.“Thank you.”Then he opened his door and slid into the cool evening air.The faint sounds of nature formed a low chorus in the background.Gravel crunched under his feet as he approached the house.

There was a short path leading to the front porch, where the flickering light cast odd shadows.Finn immediately noticed something that made his gut clench: the door stood ajar—not fully closed, as if someone had left in a hurry or forced their way in.

He stepped onto the porch, heart pounding with adrenaline.“Professor Townsend?”he called, voice low but carrying.No answer.Silence pressed back at him.He winced.If Townsend was inside, maybe he was incapacitated or worse.Maybe the killer was still here.

With a slight push, he nudged the door.It swung inward on squeaky hinges, revealing a dim hallway lit only by a table lamp at the far end.The smell of old books and a lingering hint of coffee met his nose.He stepped across the threshold, scanning for movement.

"Professor Townsend?"he repeated, forcing calm.The hallway branched left and right, presumably leading to different rooms."Police," he added, hoping it might provoke a response if someone was lurking.Still, no one answered.

He crept further, noticing pictures along the walls: black-and-white photos of a man he assumed was Townsend at various academic gatherings, mixed with some countryside paintings.A coat rack near the door had a single jacket draped over it, pockets bulging.So Townsend was likely home.Or had been.

At the next intersection, Finn paused.The corridor to the right appeared to lead to a kitchen, glimpses of counter tops visible under dull overhead lighting.To the left, the lighting was even dimmer.He made a choice, turning left, drawn by an odd sense that the hush was deeper that way.

He passed a side room that looked like an office, door half open.Nothing stirred within.The only light came from the last door at the end, cracked open enough for a faint glow to spill out—like the soft greenish tint from overhead glass.A conservatory, perhaps?

His pulse thudded in his ears as he approached.He swallowed, uncertain what he'd find."Daniel?"he tried one last time, pushing the door open.The space within, indeed, was a conservatory—large windows making up most of the ceiling and walls.Dusk tinted everything in a pale gloom.Leafy plants in pots lined the edges, some unkempt.A wrought-iron table stood at the center, next to a small fountain that bubbled quietly.

Finn froze when he saw the shape on the floor, near the table’s far side: a crumpled form, splayed on the tiles.“Professor…?”he whispered, stepping closer.The evening’s last light through the glass roof revealed a horrifying sight: a man lying on his side, one arm twisted under him, a dark patch of blood staining his shirt along the ribs.Another thin trail of blood ran from his mouth.Finn’s stomach churned.This was no accident.

A glance at the face confirmed it matched the pictures he’d glimpsed in the hallway—Daniel Townsend.Only now, that face bore a shocking detail: the professor’s hair had been braided with strands of dead grass, woven almost artfully into the man’s locks.The stiff, withered blades poked out at odd angles, looking grotesquely like a parody of a wreath or a macabre headdress.

Finn’s breath caught in his throat.Another staged murder.Another horrifying scene.He knelt, pressing two fingers to Townsend’s neck.No pulse, and the body already felt cool.The professor was gone.

“Damn it,” Finn muttered, shoulders sagging.The killer must have struck quickly, leaving this bizarre sign—like the others who’d been posed according to some art reference.

Before he could stand, faint footsteps scuffed the conservatory floor behind him.The hair on his neck bristled.Could the killer still be here?Swiftly, Finn launched himself up, spinning around.He saw a figure looming in the doorway and lunged without thinking, hooking an arm around their shoulder to slam them back.

A gasp rang out—female, not male.“Finn, wait, it’s me!”

He realized the voice at once: Eleanor.He loosened his grip, stepping back, breath ragged.“What the—?I told you to stay in the car!”

She straightened, rubbing the arm he’d wrenched.“I heard nothing from you in a couple of minutes, so—”

He shut his eyes a moment, exhaling.“You said you’d give me five minutes, not two.Jesus, you scared me.”

She looked past him to where Townsend’s body lay.Her face paled.“Oh God.Is he…?”

"He's dead," Finn said quietly, trying to keep his anger from boiling over."Look at his hair.The killers left some kind of twisted arrangement, like with the previous victims."

Eleanor swallowed, stepping closer to the body with caution.“I’m sorry I rushed in,” she added, voice subdued.“I worried you might need backup, and I… well, I just couldn’t sit there.”

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