Page 9 of The City Of Fractured Memory

“Coincidence,” he snaps, repeating his words from many of our previous conversations on the subject. “You’re chasing ghosts, Wren. You always have been.”

Heat spikes under my collar, but I force myself to breathe slowly. “It’s not ghosts. He stopped sending notes months ago, and now I’ve had two messages from him the same night of the seer’s murder. He even admitted knowledge of the murder in one of them. It’s a connection. You know it, even if you won’t admit it.”

His eyes harden. He leans forward now, voice dropping into that low, oily register he uses when he thinks he’s being reasonable. “What I know is that you’re letting an old obsession bleed into your work again. You want protection from your admirer, fine. I can arrange wardens, an escort if you can’t stomach the idea of being alone at night. But I won’t let you derail another case chasing after some phantom.”

Protection. He says it like I’m a fragile porcelain doll instead of someone who’s stood knee-deep in corpses. He says it like he’s offering me a gift, but it tastes like a leash. I’ll never be free of men thinking they know what’s good for me, thinking they know better.

My teeth grind together, but I don’t let him see the anger that claws at my ribs. I’ve already let too much show, too many times. “Keep your protection,” I bite out, each word clipped. “I don’t need a leash. I need you to listen.”

But his eyes have already glazed with dismissal. He’s written me off, the way he always does.

And I hate that it still hurts.

My rage starts to coil further into my bones, and my fingers tighten into fists. I open my mouth––to say what, I don’t yet know, but I do know it’ll likely damn me. But before I can speak, I’m interrupted from the impending doom of my own making by the door slamming open. Xavier launches himself over the threshold, barely stopping in time and narrowly avoiding ploughing straight into me.

“What is the meaning of this, Detective Blackwood?” Starling yells, slamming his fist onto the desk. “My office is not a pen for wrangling you unruly animals!”

Xavier crosses his hands behind his back and he bows his head in respect, his breathing still slightly heavy. “Many apologies Chief, but there’s been another murd––Octavia?” His gaze snaps to mine as he realises I’m standing less than a hairsbreadth from him. “What’s going on?”

“She was just leaving,” the Chief growls. “Now what’s so urgent about this murder that you felt the need to barge into my office like that?”

“The circumstances, sir. It’s just like the seer,” he explains.

Starling nods to himself. “Deal with it immediately, Blackwood. You’re both dismissed.”

We both go to leave, but he speaks again, not bothering to look at us as he continues with his paperwork. “Make sure Miss Wren leaves the building, Detective.”

I bristle, once again opening my mouth to bite back, but Xavier grabs my arm without another word and pulls me out into the corridor, closing the door behind us.

Before I can admonish him he spins me round and pins me with a concerned stare that makes me pause.

“I need you, Octavia. Now.”

Six

Another locked room. Another riddle dressed in blood.

Like before, the air tastes of iron before I even cross the threshold, metallic and sharp at the back of my tongue. Blood, fresh, perhaps no more than three hours old judging by the saturation where it has not yet dried. The body sprawled before me is less a corpse and more a puzzle piece, placed deliberately, almost mockingly, within this sealed box.

A second corpse is a serious concern, and I know Xavier is under a lot of pressure to solve this quickly, so for my friend’s sake, I put my ego aside this time and focus.

First, the obvious. I run my gloved hands along the door frame as I examine it––barred from the inside, hinges still firm, no sign of tampering. I look across to the other side of the room and see the windows are also locked. I walk over and run my finger through the weeks of undisturbed dust along the sill, seeing no track of ingress and no scuff marks. Even the faint cobwebs in the corner remain intact, the fragile threads unbroken. No one came through here and no one left. The room is a tomb without an opening. Whoever––or whatever––did this had no way of getting in here, and yet they managed it.

The victim—Maribel Hartley—lies in the centre of the small room of the inn, her eyes wide and glassy, mouth frozen in a silent plea. Blood blooms across her skin, but no obvious wound cuts her flesh. A body leaking without a source, just like before.

How does one bleed without being broken?

A shiver threatens to climb my spine, but I pin it down. Emotion is interference, even when it is a rare occurrence for me. Mindweaving will be required shortly, of course, but only after careful containment. I cannot afford contamination of perception, not when the crime itself is a performance designed to bewilder me.

I catalog the details––the blood pools outward evenly with no drag marks, meaning she died where she fell. Her fingernails are also clean, so no clear signs of a struggle. No noticeable scents of poison either and no trace of incense or ritual ash. It’s too clean, too careful, which means it must surely be deliberate.

The walls close in on me as I circle. I’m vaguely aware of Xavier lurking on the threshold, my Shadow following me in my periphery as I explore, my usual anxiety triggered by its presence trying to interrupt my concentration.

This room is speaking to me, but only in half-truths, though one thing is clear to me. Whoever arranged this wanted impossibility to be the loudest witness. They wanted the city to believe the killer is untouchable, a phantom slipping past locks and bolts. But phantoms leave fingerprints of a different kind. I kneel beside the body, trying to see the truth through the puzzle. The blood has meaning, and even the impossible has seams. And Voyd damn me, I will find where they fray.

Xavier wasn’t wrong when he said I would like this one.

It’s puzzles like these that I live for.