CHAPTER SIX

The darkness of the night clung to Finn as he made his way towards his quaint cottage in Great Amwell, the gravel crunching beneath his boots like a whispered warning. A heavy silence hung in the air, disturbed only by the haunting hoot of an owl in the distance. As he drew closer to his front door, a patrol car sat ominously nearby, its red and blue lights painting the surrounding trees with an ethereal glow.

Inside the car, two police constables awaited, their faces half-shrouded in shadows but partially illuminated by the dashboard lights. Finn recognized them as officers from Chief Constable Collins" precinct.

"What"s up, fellas?" Finn"s voice cut through the eerie stillness, his breath forming ghostly wisps in the chilly night air.

The younger constable leaned towards the window to address Finn. "Orders from Chief Collins himself, sir. We"re here to keep watch," he explained solemnly. "If Max Vilne shows up, he"ll have to come through us first, Sir."

Finn acknowledged their duty with a nod. "It"s usually quiet around here at night," he remarked before offering, "If you lads need anything—tea or a bite to eat—I"ve got some leftovers inside."

"Thank you, Sir," the younger constable said. "We'll keep that in mind. You have a good night."

Turning away from them, Finn pushed open his cottage door and stepped inside. A peculiar sense of emptiness washed over him despite soon having the crackling fire in the hearth; it felt as though shadows lingered where there should have been warmth and familiarity, unsettling whispers echoing off the walls like faint memories refusing to surface.

Finn poured himself a measure of whiskey, its amber glow casting a warm light in the dim room. The liquid swirled in the glass, a silent companion to his troubled thoughts. Max Vilne"s recent visit to his haven flashed through Finn"s mind, the chilling reminder of the effigies hanging ominously from that distant hill. Three figures dancing in the wind, taunting him with their twisted presence.

The weight of exhaustion settled heavily on Finn"s shoulders as he contemplated whether he would ever find peace in sleep until Vilne was captured and locked away for good. Each creak of the cottage seemed to whisper Vilne"s name, a spectral presence lingering in every corner.

Raising the glass to his lips, Finn took a slow sip, letting the fiery liquid burn momentarily before trailing warmth down his throat. The taste was sharp, grounding him in the reality of this relentless pursuit.

The crackling flames in the hearth danced with a mesmerizing rhythm, casting flickering shadows that played on Finn"s tired face. As he sat in his favorite armchair, the amber glow of the fire painted the room in warm hues, creating a sanctuary from the cold night outside. His thoughts drifted to Amelia, his partner and confidante through the tumultuous events that had unfolded.

Amelia"s grief weighed heavily on Finn"s mind. He had been so consumed by his own quest for justice, chasing shadows and ghosts of the past, that he had neglected to truly see the pain she carried within her. The loss of her fiancé lingered like an unspoken specter between 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. She was strong and resilient, but even the strongest souls bore scars that ran deep. With a pang of regret, Finn understood that pushing her to open up about her feelings would only add to her burden.

Leaning back in his chair, Finn made a silent vow to himself. He would give Amelia space and time to navigate the labyrinth of emotions swirling within her. Their partnership was built on trust and understanding; he needed to respect her journey through grief without imposing his own solutions.

As he watched the flames crackle and dance, their warmth seeping into his bones, Finn knew that patience would be his greatest ally in supporting Amelia. In this quiet moment by the fire"s gentle glow, he resolved to be there for her when she was ready to share her heartache.

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 endless expanse of possibilities, each moment holding untold truths waiting to be unraveled.

Finn"s thoughts shifted from the haunting 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 his mind like a cryptic puzzle waiting to be solved. How had the killer orchestrated such precise sequences of events, weaving a tapestry of death and mystery?

Lucas Henshaw"s body, carefully bound to the spindle wheel in that abandoned mill, flashed vividly in Finn"s memory. 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 had choreographed a twisted ballet of demise, using Victorian elements as props in this grim performance.

The realization struck Finn with a chilling clarity. The killer must have calculated every move, every detail meticulously planned to ensure that Lucas Henshaw met his end before Emily Stanton fell victim at the bathhouse. The precision hinted at a mind steeped in darkness and methodical precision, orchestrating a symphony of death with sinister expertise.

The fiery liquid scorched a searing path down Finn"s throat, the amber whiskey igniting a brief fire within him, momentarily distracting him from the relentless pursuit that consumed his thoughts. With a resolute clink, he placed the glass back on the table, its weighty thud echoing the burden of exhaustion that bore down on him like an invisible force.

Pushing himself up from his worn armchair, Finn muttered to himself under his breath, "Stay focused, Wright. You"re getting closer." Each step he took towards his bedroom felt heavier than the last, the wooden staircase protesting with every creak as if whispering Vilne"s name in the stillness of the night.

As he settled into bed, a palpable sense of solitude enveloped him, leaving a void beside him that seemed to ache with absence. He looked at it before closing his eyes—that emptiness next to him—and wondered about companionship. He remembered once being in love with his ex-fiance Demi, how he had been certain that they should marry. But time had eroded that certainty to the point where his feelings lay elsewhere, and deeply. Finn wondered what it would be like to go to sleep at night in the arms of 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 that it was the right thing to do, whether he ended up with Amelia or not.

This thought sent his mind down a nocturnal rabbit hole.

Drifting on the edge of consciousness, Finn"s mind whirled with a flurry of thoughts and conjectures. What if there were not just one but two perpetrators orchestrating this intricate tapestry of murders? One to prey on Emily Stanton during her final moments broadcast live and another to meticulously design the elaborate crime scene where Lucas Henshaw met his demise.

"Could be..." Finn whispered to the night. "Easier to make the kills line up time-wise with two. One killer could have made the journey between both kills, but it would have been tight. Two makes more sense..."

This notion lingered in Finn"s mind like a thick fog as sleep beckoned him into its embrace. In that hazy realm between wakefulness and dreams, Finn found himself conversing silently with himself.

"Are we dealing with two killers?" he mused aloud in his mind.

The idea unfurled before him like a delicate thread of investigation, challenging his preconceptions and unveiling a labyrinthine path fraught with unforeseen revelations waiting to be discovered. But those discoveries would have to wait for the dawn.