CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Finn"s sleep was a restless theater of shadows, the elusive figure of Max Vilne flitting through the crowd in his dreams, always just beyond reach. His head throbbed with the echo of the recent blow, and the line between reality and illusion had been smudged.

The sharp rapping at his door startled him into wakefulness, his heart lurching in his chest as if trying to escape the unease that clung to his subconscious. Groggy, he peeled himself from the tangled sheets, limbs heavy with a reluctance born from the disquiet of his dream.

Stumbling across the cold floorboards, Finn reached the window and thrust it open. The brisk night air stung his cheeks, pulling him further from the remnants of sleep. Below, Amelia stood, her silhouette etched by the silver glow of the moon, her eyes reflecting an urgency that knotted Finn's stomach.

"Amelia? What time is it?" His voice scratched, throat raw as if he'd been shouting in his sleep.

"I"ve been trying your phone for ages," she stated, her tone carrying the weight of unspoken news.

"Sorry," Finn mumbled, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye. "I was dead to the world."

"Seems you needed it." There was a hint of concern in her voice that softened the edges of her authoritative demeanor.

"Ha," Finn scoffed out a dry chuckle, squinting down at her as he leaned on the windowsill. "This feels very Romeo and Juliet."

"Except you"re Juliet, up there in the window," Amelia retorted, a wry smile touching her lips despite the situation.

"Touché, Inspector Winters," Finn replied with an attempt at lightness, though the jest faded quickly in the face of her grim expression.

"Get dressed," was all she said before turning away, leaving Finn haunted by the certainty that the nightmare he"d woken from had merely shifted into reality.

Finn"s hand hovered over the staircase railing, a chill from the night air still clinging to his skin as he descended. He could hear Amelia pacing in the foyer below, the soft tap of her shoes against the wooden floorboards a stark contrast to the urgency that had pulled him from his bed.

"Amelia," he called out, his voice steadier than moments ago.

At the sound of his footsteps, she halted, turning to face him with an intensity that bordered on impatience. Finn reached the bottom step and met her gaze, the gravity in her eyes telegraphing the severity of what was to come.

"Tea? Coffee?" he offered, gesturing toward the dimly lit kitchen. It was a feeble attempt to inject some normalcy into the early hours of their impromptu meeting.

"No time," Amelia replied briskly, her hands clasped together as if to physically hold back the tide of information she was about to unleash. "Another person has been murdered."

The words hung heavily between them, a grim echo of the pattern they were becoming all too familiar with. The silence was brief, but it allowed the reality to sink its claws into Finn"s already weary mind.

***

They arrived at the abandoned post office at daybreak, the building standing like a haunted relic amidst the silent street, a place forgotten by time but remembered by malice. Crime scene tape flapped weakly in the breeze, the only sound apart from their approaching footsteps.

"Inspector Winters, Finn," greeted Rob, emerging from the shadows that clung to the entrance. His expression was grim, his usual stoicism failing to mask the concern etched into his features.

"Chief," said Amelia, nodding.

"Rob," Finn said wearily, "what have we got?"

"Name"s Henry Walsh," Rob said, leading them through the vacant corridors of the post office.

"Like Emily Stanton, Henry was a live streamer Big following. Millions in fact. This will be all over the news. He was only twenty-six."

"Damn," Finn muttered under his breath, his thoughts momentarily drifting to the youth snuffed out so callously, another life reduced to a statistic in their growing investigation.

"Here." Rob stopped short, and they rounded a corner into a room that once might have bustled with postal workers, now reduced to a tomb of scattered envelopes and dust.

"This is getting worse by the day," Rob commented, an understatement that resonated with the cold fact that they were now staring at a spree with no end in sight.

Amelia"s rubbed her temples, a subtle sign of her rising frustration that Finn had come to recognize. He shared the sentiment, the weight of each victim pressing down on them, demanding an answer.

"Let"s take a look," Finn said, stepping closer to the scene, his eyes scanning the environment that had become Henry Walsh"s final stage.

Henry Walsh"s body was a grotesque marionette, slumped over the tarnished brass of old postal scales. The grime of the abandoned post office clung to him as though he were part of its decay. Finn crouched beside him, the cut across his neck a violent contrast to the pallid skin, stark and deliberate.

"Clean," Amelia observed quietly from over Finn"s shoulder, her voice steady despite the tableau before them. "No other bruises..."

"Means he knew his killer and was taken by surprise or..." Finn straightened up, surveying the desolation around them, "was forced here at gunpoint. No signs of a struggle."

"Voluntarily walking into your own death," she mused, with a note of irony that didn"t quite mask her underlying horror. Their breaths formed wisps in the chill air, fleeting evidence of life amidst so much death.

At that moment, Rob approached, holding out an evidence bag that seemed almost insignificant compared to the scene. "This was left for you, Finn."

Finn"s fingers closed around the plastic, his eyes locking onto the slip of paper within, a note that read: "Like a nocturnal spy, return back home to the FBI."

"Damn it," Finn murmured, his heart thudding in his chest. "He's directly involving me now."

"Could be a lucky guess, your identity, I mean," Amelia offered, but her tone lacked conviction.

"No," Finn said, his gaze still fixed on the mocking message, "this is personal." He could feel the threads of the case tangling, the killer"s awareness of him a new complication in an already deceitful net.

"Vilne?" Amelia asked, her dark eyes searching Finn"s face for confirmation.

"Yes," Finn replied, pocketing the evidence bag. But the doubt lingered, a nagging sensation that they were dealing with more than just one man"s vendetta. A shiver ran down his spine that had little to do with the cold.

Finn"s thoughts churned with the rhythm of his heartbeat, persistent and unyielding. As he stood over the body, the note"s taunt echoed in his mind, an insidious whisper that promised no peace.

"Could be anyone who reads the tabloids," Amelia said, her voice slicing through the tense silence. "Your face has been plastered on every front page since this nightmare started."

"Sure, but Maggie Beckett pointed straight to Vilne when she sang," Finn countered, the pieces clicking together like clockwork in his head. The image of Vilne, a spectral figure in the crowd, seared into his memory from the day they"d cuffed Maggie. He rubbed the tender spot at the back of his skull — a painful souvenir from the altercation.

"Then why doubt it"s just him?" Amelia pressed, her brows knitting as she scanned Finn"s face for clues he hadn"t voiced.

"Because Vilne is a beast, Amelia." Finn"s voice was steady, but a flicker of frustration sparked behind his eyes. "The guy I grappled with wasn't as strong . Different build, different fighting style."

"Someone else," Rob interjected, his tone laced with the weight of realization. "How can you be sure?"

"Instinct," Finn replied, his gaze drifting back to Henry Walsh"s lifeless form. "And fear. That masked man wasn"t sure he could take me; Vilne never doubts himself. I doubt he'd wear a mask, either. It wasn"t Maggie Beckett, as she was in custody during last night"s kill."

"Two killers or more?" Amelia mused, the gravity of their situation settling over them like the dust motes dancing in the beams of the crime scene lights.

"Or maybe two pawns," Finn suggested, his mind racing ahead, "moved by the same hand… I want this to be over…"

Amelia placed a reassuring hand on Finn"s shoulder, her touch grounding him in the midst of swirling frustration. "We"ll get through this, Finn," she said softly, her eyes reflecting a steadfast resolve that matched his own.

As Finn"s phone buzzed with an incoming call, he glanced at the screen to see Director Seward"s name flashing. With a deep breath, he answered, "Director, isn"t it the middle of the night where you are?"

"Finn," Seward"s voice was calm and measured, a stark contrast to the chaos of their current case. "How are you?"

"I've been better, Sir," Finn replied. "How are you doing?"

"I wanted to inform you that the FBI higher-ups are reviewing your involvement in the Vilne case. A decision will be made soon regarding your status."

"You mean," Finn said, "that they've gotten sick and tired of waiting for the court case, that they want me out of the FBI, now?"

"We don't know that," Seward said, gently. "You know, there are a lot of us fighting your corner."

"I know, you've always had my back," Finn said.

"You've made quite a wave in the UK," Seward said. "Whatever happens, you should be proud of that."

Finn nodded grimly, steeling himself for the outcome. "And the court case for the damage to the hotel?"

Seward"s reply was tinged with regret. "No updates on that front yet. The wheels turn slowly."

The mention of Vilne brought a shadow over their conversation as Seward continued, "Our colleagues at the Home Office have kept us informed about the Vilne case. Stay vigilant, Finn. The last time you stared him down…"

"He nearly killed me," Finn replied coldly.

"Just be careful, my friend."

"I will, Sir" Finn affirmed, his jaw set with determination. The weight of uncertainty hung heavy in the air between them as they exchanged parting words, each knowing that the looming decisions could alter Finn"s path irrevocably.

"Are you okay, Finn?" Amelia"s voice cut through the heavy silence, her concern palpable in the dimly lit post office.

Finn forced a reassuring smile, his words a facade to shield the storm brewing within him. "I"m fine,

Amelia," he replied, though the weight of uncertainty bore down on him like an iron shroud.

Rob approached them, his expression grim yet determined. "Forensics is finishing up," he informed them, his tone carrying the gravity of their situation.

Finn"s gaze swept over the desolate post office, each detail etched in his mind like a macabre painting. The stillness of death hung heavy in the air, a suffocating reminder of Henry Walsh"s final moments. "He must have known his killer," Finn muttered, his voice cutting through the silence. "Either willingly walked into this or..."

Amelia"s steady voice interrupted his thoughts, her practicality a grounding force amidst the grim scene.

"We should speak with his next of kin," she suggested, her eyes flickering with determination.

As if on cue, Rob stepped forward, his expression grave yet resolute. "His wife is Clara Redwood," he informed them, his words laden with significance. "She works at the Albert Victoria Museum."

Finn turned to Amelia, a flicker of realization crossing his features. "Victoria? That"s a bit of a coincidence, considering we"re looking for a killer with a Victorian obsession."

Amelia nodded in agreement, her gaze shifting to her watch as she noted the time. "It"s 8:30 AM now," she stated calmly. "The museum will be opening soon."

"Then we need to speak to Clara Redwood and tell her that her husband is dead," Finn said, stoically.