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Inside the car, two policeconstables awaited, their faces half-shrouded in shadows but partiallyilluminated by the dashboard lights. Finn recognized them as officers fromChief Constable Collins' precinct.
"What's up, fellas?"Finn's voice cut through the eerie stillness, his breath forming ghostly wispsin the chilly night air.
The younger constable leanedtowards the window to address Finn. "Orders from Chief Collins himself,sir. We're here to keep watch," he explained solemnly. "If Max Vilneshows up, he'll have to come through us first, Sir."
Finn acknowledged their duty with anod. "It's usually quiet around here at night," he remarked beforeoffering, "If you lads need anything—tea or a bite to eat—I've got someleftovers inside."
“Thank you, Sir,” the youngerconstable said. “We’ll keep that in mind. You have a good night.”
Turning away from them, Finn pushedopen his cottage door and stepped inside. A peculiar sense of emptiness washedover him despite soon having the crackling fire in the hearth; it felt asthough shadows lingered where there should have been warmth and familiarity,unsettling whispers echoing off the walls like faint memories refusing tosurface.
Finn poured himself a measure ofwhiskey, its amber glow casting a warm light in the dim room. The liquidswirled in the glass, a silent companion to his troubled thoughts. Max Vilne'srecent visit to his haven flashed through Finn's mind, the chilling reminder ofthe effigies hanging ominously from that distant hill. Three figures dancing inthe wind, taunting him with their twisted presence.
The weight of exhaustion settledheavily on Finn's shoulders as he contemplated whether he would ever find peacein sleep until Vilne was captured and locked away for good. Each creak of thecottage seemed to whisper Vilne's name, a spectral presence lingering in everycorner.
Raising the glass to his lips, Finntook a slow sip, letting the fiery liquid burn momentarily before trailingwarmth down his throat. The taste was sharp, grounding him in the reality ofthis relentless pursuit.
The crackling flames in the hearthdanced with a mesmerizing rhythm, casting flickering shadows that played onFinn's tired face. As he sat in his favorite armchair, the amber glow of thefire painted the room in warm hues, creating a sanctuary from the cold nightoutside. His thoughts drifted to Amelia, his partner and confidante through thetumultuous events that had unfolded.
Amelia's grief weighed heavily onFinn's mind. He had been so consumed by his own quest for justice, chasingshadows and ghosts of the past, that he had neglected to truly see the pain shecarried within her. The loss of her fiancé lingered like an unspoken specterbetween them, a wound that time alone could not heal.
Finn realized he had been selfish,too caught up in his own turmoil to offer Amelia the support she needed. Shewas strong and resilient, but even the strongest souls bore scars that randeep. With a pang of regret, Finn understood that pushing her to open up abouther feelings would only add to her burden.
Leaning back in his chair, Finnmade a silent vow to himself. He would give Amelia space and time to navigatethe labyrinth of emotions swirling within her. Their partnership was built ontrust and understanding; he needed to respect her journey through grief withoutimposing his own solutions.
As he watched the flames crackleand dance, their warmth seeping into his bones, Finn knew that patience wouldbe his greatest ally in supporting Amelia. In this quiet moment by the fire'sgentle glow, he resolved to be there for her when she was ready to share herheartache.
Savoring another sip of whiskey,its fiery trail down his throat a bittersweet reminder of life's complexities,Finn let go of his impatience. The night stretched before him like an endlessexpanse of possibilities, each moment holding untold truths waiting to beunraveled.
Finn's thoughts shifted from thehaunting shadows of his own struggles to the intricate web of the case at hand.The timing between Emily Stanton and Lucas Henshaw's deaths lingered in hismind like a cryptic puzzle waiting to be solved. How had the killerorchestrated such precise sequences of events, weaving a tapestry of death andmystery?
Lucas Henshaw's body, carefullybound to the spindle wheel in that abandoned mill, flashed vividly in Finn'smemory. The macabre scene spoke volumes about the killer's meticulous nature,each knot and twist a deliberate act of cruelty. It was as if the murderer hadchoreographed a twisted ballet of demise, using Victorian elements as props inthis grim performance.
The realization struck Finn with achilling clarity. The killer must have calculated every move, every detailmeticulously planned to ensure that Lucas Henshaw met his end before EmilyStanton fell victim at the bathhouse. The precision hinted at a mind steeped indarkness and methodical precision, orchestrating a symphony of death withsinister expertise.
The fiery liquid scorched a searingpath down Finn's throat, the amber whiskey igniting a brief fire within him,momentarily distracting him from the relentless pursuit that consumed histhoughts. With a resolute clink, he placed the glass back on the table, itsweighty thud echoing the burden of exhaustion that bore down on him like aninvisible force.
Pushing himself up from his wornarmchair, Finn muttered to himself under his breath, "Stay focused,Wright. You're getting closer." Each step he took towards his bedroom feltheavier than the last, the wooden staircase protesting with every creak as ifwhispering Vilne's name in the stillness of the night.
As he settled into bed, a palpablesense of solitude enveloped him, leaving a void beside him that seemed to achewith absence. He looked at it before closing his eyes—that emptiness next tohim—and wondered about companionship. He remembered once being in love with hisex-fiance Demi, how he had been certain that they should marry. But time haderoded that certainty to the point where his feelings lay elsewhere, anddeeply. Finn wondered what it would be like to go to sleep at night in the armsof Amelia, and to wake up with her face being the first to greet him.
He had once thought he knew love,but to his utter shock, his feelings for Amelia ran far deeper than that.Although he had hated hurting Demi by ending their relationship, he knew thatit was the right thing to do, whether he ended up with Amelia or not.
This thought sent his mind down anocturnal rabbit hole.
Drifting on the edge ofconsciousness, Finn's mind whirled with a flurry of thoughts and conjectures.What if there were not just one but two perpetrators orchestrating thisintricate tapestry of murders? One to prey on Emily Stanton during her finalmoments broadcast live and another to meticulously design the elaborate crimescene where Lucas Henshaw met his demise.
“Could be...” Finn whispered to thenight. “Easier to make the kills line up time-wise with two. One killer couldhave made the journey between both kills, but it would have been tight. Twomakes more sense...”
This notion lingered in Finn's mindlike a thick fog as sleep beckoned him into its embrace. In that hazy realmbetween wakefulness and dreams, Finn found himself conversing silently withhimself.
"Are we dealing with twokillers?" he mused aloud in his mind.
The idea unfurled before him like adelicate thread of investigation, challenging his preconceptions and unveilinga labyrinthine path fraught with unforeseen revelations waiting to bediscovered. But those discoveries would have to wait for the dawn.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The elevator dinged open on the topfloor of the Henshaw Technologies building, and Finn stepped out, his eyesinstantly drawn to the vast expanse of glass and steel that framed the Londonskyline. Amelia followed close behind, her notebook gripped in her hand—asignal she was ready to dissect every word they would hear.
