Page 10

Finn pressed the accelerator a bit harder than he normally would, the late-afternoon sun dipping low on the horizon behind them. The roads were emptying now, with rush hour ended, leaving only a faint orange glow in the sky. Beyond the front windscreen, in the gathering dusk, fields blurred by on either side, dark shapes under a faint haze of twilight. Next to him, Eleanor Matthews gripped the door handle, her expression tense. She said nothing, but her posture made it clear she wasn't comfortable with how fast he was driving.

“Almost there,” Finn said, glancing at the directions scrawled on a piece of paper. They had hustled out of Blackthorn Gallery less than half an hour ago, after David Smythe shared that Professor Daniel Townsend might be at risk—and the address he’d provided was thirty miles south, on a rural lane near the outskirts of Windsor.

“I don't think you should drive so fast!” Eleanor said. “He's not in imminent danger, the killer was too busy killing Edmund Garner.”

“Still, I'd like to get there ahead of time.”

She gave him a sidelong look, pushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “I know. Just… watch the corners. This old Corvette doesn’t exactly handle like a new car, does it?”

The remark might have been lighthearted in other circumstances, but her voice quivered with genuine worry. Finn couldn’t blame her. The sun was almost gone, and the two-lane road offered little visibility. However, the sense of urgency burned brighter inside him: Victoria Palmer, Edmund Garner, and now the possibility of a third victim, all connected to those staged murders. They had gleaned from David that Townsend and Harrison Blackthorn had a heated argument three nights ago. That was enough to make Finn’s gut feel like they were close to a suspect.

“We’ll be fine,” he said, forcing calm. “Look, we’re pulling onto his road.”

Sure enough, an unpaved drive appeared on the right, partially concealed by overgrown hedgerows. Finn slowed the car, turning onto the gravel. Twigs and stones crunched under the tires. The beginning glow of twilight etched the silhouette of a modest country house up ahead—a two-story structure with a steep roof and a scattering of tall trees behind it. Lights glimmered in a few windows, but something about the place looked quiet, almost deserted.

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.”

Finn ground his teeth, forcing himself to be calm. “Eleanor,” he said, trying not to shout, “I appreciate the concern, but you’re not trained for this. We have no idea if the killer was still here. Next time, do what I ask. You almost got yourself hurt, or me knocking you out in the dark. Understood?”

She nodded reluctantly, eyes lingering on Townsend’s face. “Yes, understood.” Then she looked away, hiding the flash of upset at his admonishment.

He softened, putting a hand gently on her arm. “Thank you for worrying. But please, let me handle the risk. Let’s call this in.”

She gave a short nod. “Right.” Pulling her phone out, she dialed the emergency line. Within seconds, she was speaking in a low tone, giving the address, informing them of a discovered homicide.

While she did that, Finn surveyed the body more thoroughly. Townsend's shirt had a gaping tear on the left side, sticky with blood. Possibly a single deep stab wound. The braided grass in his hair reeked of something musty like it had been pulled from the yard. "All these details," he said to himself. “The killer invests time in these weird little touches.”

Eleanor finished the call, stepping back to join him. “Police will be here in minutes. But look at that grass.” She crouched carefully, avoiding the blood pool. “Dead grass, braided like… well, it reminds me of snakes writhing from his head. Like some sort of Medusa imagery. Possibly referencing an old painting or sculpture.”

Finn stood straighter, pondering. “Medusa… Any idea of which painting it could be referencing?”

“I do,” Eleanor said, frowning thoughtfully. “Caravaggio did a Medusa, but this is more in line with Rubens’s interpretation from the 1600s—he depicted Medusa’s hair as serpents, but look here, some of the grass has been coiled around on the floor next to the body. Rubens's Medusa has snakes coiled on the floor exactly like that.”

Finn stared at her, impressed despite the grim context. “So it’s another painting reference. That’s three now: The Cornfield , The Blue Boy , and now a Medusa-inspired piece. Any more, and he'll be able to start his own gallery..."

“Finn, please...”

“Apologies. But remember what I said, sometimes levity in the worst places is the only way through.”

She rose to her feet, her expression tightening. “We do have a strong lead: all three victims had connections to or run-ins with Harrison Blackthorn. Victoria worked with him, Edmund had an argument, and now Townsend apparently argued with him, too. I'm no police officer, but I’d say that’s enough reason to bring him in for questioning. Are you allowed to arrest people?”

Finn ran a hand over his face, a weary sigh escaping him. "Yes, but I have to be careful with it. I'm technically a consultant detective, and usually, I have Amelia with me, who is an Inspector. But... We can't wait for more bodies to surface. If Harrison's behind this, or if he knows who is, we need to corner him. And if he isn't… well, we at least need to see what the link is."

Eleanor folded her arms, gaze flicking again at the motionless body. Finn took out his phone and dialed. It was quickly answered.

“Rob... I've found another victim,” Finn said.

There was silence for a moment. “Christ,” Rob answered. “Are you safe?”

“I think so,” Finn replied. “We'll need some units here and a forensics team. I wouldn't mind Wednesday on this, if you can get her.”

“Agreed,” Rob answered. “Send me the address.”

The call ended and Finn took one last glance at the poor man on the floor, before walking towards the exit to Eleanor. Finn knew they had to wait for the police, but as soon as they arrived, he'd be gunning for Harrison Blackthorn.