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Finn parked on the dimly lit side street adjacent to Blackthorn Gallery, cutting the Corvette's engine as he scanned the line of cars stretching along the curb. Soft music and hushed chatter drifted from the building's main entrance, where a discreet red carpet and a small gathering of well-dressed guests signaled a private opening event. Evening sky stretched overhead, starless with a low haze of cloud, and the old storefront glowed beneath brass lanterns. Clearly, the gallery was in the midst of its exhibition launch—a perfect time, Finn thought, for them to show up uninvited.

Next to him, Eleanor checked her phone, her expression tense. “Looks like Harrison went ahead with the exhibition tonight,” she confirmed. “From the looks of it, he’s put a lot of money into this event.”

"That's precisely why we're here," Finn replied, taking a measured breath. "We can't let him slip away. If Harrison's hands are clean, we'll find out soon enough. But if he's behind these murders or connected to the real killer, then tonight's the best time to confront him."

Eleanor nodded, her blonde hair catching the glow from a nearby streetlight. “We should be ready for anything. He might try to bluff his way out, or worse. Take my lead, and if anything gets rough, take a step back and call for backup. Okay?”

“As you wish.”

They stepped out of the car and followed the short walkway to the gallery’s double doors. A uniformed attendant gave them a polite but questioning look. Finn flashed his Home Office ID. The attendant’s eyes widened briefly, then he stepped aside, letting them in without a fuss.

Inside, the gallery foyer radiated a warm, inviting glow. Polished floors and neutral-toned walls set off clusters of tasteful artwork. Well-dressed patrons milled about, sipping champagne. Music from a small quartet in the corner drifted softly across the space. Yet beneath the refined sheen, Finn detected an underlying tension—whether from their own sense of urgency or the knowledge that three grisly murders loomed in the background.

Harrison Blackthorn was easy to spot, standing near a large painting of a pastoral scene, deep in conversation with two elegantly dressed guests. He wore a tailored navy suit, hair perfectly styled. A forced smile graced his features, though his eyes flicked nervously around, as if anticipating trouble.

“There he is,” Finn murmured to Eleanor, nodding toward Harrison. “Let’s see if he tries running.”

Eleanor offered a tight smile. “If he’s not guilty, he’ll have nothing to hide. Right?”

Finn didn’t answer. They navigated through the crowd, weaving past displays of modern sculptures and a few recognizable prints of British masters. The clink of glasses and low laughter momentarily masked their approach. Still, as soon as Harrison’s gaze landed on Finn’s face, the gallery owner stiffened. He mumbled something to his companions, then took a step back, scowling.

“Mr. Blackthorn,” Finn said, voice calm yet firm. “We need a word.”

Harrison’s jaw tightened. “You again. I’ve already answered your questions, and I’m hosting an event. Must you keep harassing me?”

Eleanor interjected with measured civility, “Three people are dead, each staged in grotesque references to famous paintings. All three victims had links to you and your gallery. We have cause to suspect—”

“Rubbish,” Harrison snapped, hushing his tone so the nearby guests wouldn’t overhear. “I told you—someone’s trying to connect me to these murders. I’m as much a potential victim as anyone. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

Finn squared his shoulders. “We’d like you to come to the station for further questioning.”

Harrison’s eyes narrowed. “During the most important exhibition of our calendar year? Absolutely not! I have important clients, important pieces to unveil. If you want to talk, schedule something tomorrow with Mary.”

Eleanor spoke softly, “We can’t wait. This is urgent. Professor Daniel Townsend has been killed.”

“Daniel? Well, that's a damned shame. But it has nothing to do with me!” Harrison’s face flushed with anger. He spun on his heel, striding away through the crowd. “I’ve had enough of this,” he muttered under his breath. “Leave me alone.”

Finn shot a look at Eleanor. “He’s panicking,” he said quietly. “Let’s not cause a scene. I’ll follow him. It looks like he's heading for that doorway.”

They slipped through the throng, trying not to shove guests aside. Harrison moved fast, heading toward a roped-off area that likely led to the gallery’s back rooms, where employees prepared exhibits. A sign reading STAFF ONLY dangled from a cord. He ducked under the rope, glancing back once with wild eyes. Finn quickened his pace, ignoring the startled murmurs of onlookers.

“Mary!” Harrison called, spotting his assistant across the room. She was in a corner, speaking to another staff member. But she only managed to look up as Harrison disappeared into the restricted corridor. Finn caught Mary’s eye, a fleeting moment of confusion on her face, before she returned to her conversation.

Eleanor stayed at Finn’s heels, but the corridor was narrow and cluttered with crates and canvases leaning against the walls. The overhead lights buzzed softly, leaving pockets of shadow along the way. The swirling sound of violin music and chatting faded, replaced by echoing footsteps.

“Harrison, stop!” Finn shouted, voice echoing. “We only need to talk with you!”

From up ahead, Harrison’s footsteps pounded louder, ignoring Finn’s demand. The corridor twisted, leading into a larger storage area. Row upon row of statues, half-draped in protective sheets, formed a forest of white, eerie shapes in the dim light. Crates labeled FRAGILE and DO NOT OPEN lined the walls. The air smelled of old paint and polish.

“Damn,” Finn muttered, pushing aside a large crate. “Why is there always something in the way?”

Eleanor, breath coming in shorter puffs, tried to keep up. “He’s… definitely not acting innocent,” she managed.

They heard a clatter as Harrison apparently knocked over something in his haste. Finn peered around a statue of a robed figure and spotted Harrison’s silhouette darting past a row of tall marble columns, presumably old exhibit pieces. The gloom made it hard to see, shadows distorting everything.

“I think you should head back into the hall,” Finn said.

“I'll stay for now.”

“Stay close, then...” Finn whispered to Eleanor, though he realized that her ability to keep pace might be limited. He pressed on, weaving between dusty artworks. One statue of a Grecian woman loomed, arms outstretched, making the passage feel eerily claustrophobic.

Eleanor trailed behind, pausing momentarily when she nearly knocked over a bust on a crate. “I can’t see where I’m— Finn?”

He’d already moved ahead, spotting a flash of Harrison’s navy suit near the far corner. “This way,” he called back quietly.

As he entered the next section, the corridor branched in two directions. A faint scraping noise came from the left, followed by hurried footsteps. Finn chose left, diving past a trolley of rolled canvases. The tension soared—he pictured Harrison careening through the labyrinth of back rooms, desperate to escape. If the man had nothing to hide, why run?

There was a crash from around the bend. Finn raced to the corner and glimpsed a door labeled DELIVERIES. It swung shut with a soft thud. "Got you," Finn muttered, pushing it open.

Beyond was a short hallway leading to the gallery's back door—an exit presumably used for loading big art pieces. Fresh nighttime air filtered in, suggesting Harrison had managed to unlock it. Indeed, the heavy door now stood ajar, a sliver of moonlight illuminating the loading bay outside.

Finn burst through. The small cement landing was lit by a single overhead security lamp. Stacks of wooden pallets and metal bins lined one side. No sign of Harrison at first. Then Finn heard scuffling steps—someone running.

“Finn? Finn, where are you?” Eleanor’s voice carried from inside, but he had no time to wait. He slipped out the door. A glimpse of motion at the corner of the building told him Harrison was trying to circle around. Finn sprinted across the concrete, boots slapping loudly.

In the distance, a security fence loomed, topped with barbed wire. Past it lay a narrow alley. A clank echoed as Harrison evidently tried to slip out the side gate. Finn lunged around a stack of pallets, scanning. For a moment, he thought Harrison had vanished. Then he heard a faint “Ow!” followed by a pained hiss.

“Harrison?” Finn shouted, rounding a rusted metal bin. No response but a scraping sound of shoes against gravel. Another pained groan.

He saw a shape crumpled near the fence—a man on one knee, clutching his leg. Drawing closer, Finn realized it was indeed Harrison, who half-whirled to face him, eyes flaring with resentment.

“You— get away!” Harrison spat. “This is entrapment, or… or something!”

Finn halted. Harrison was clearly hurt, likely having tripped over something in the dark. “Stop resisting, Harrison,” he said, trying to keep calm. “We just need to ask questions. You made it worse by running.”

Harrison cursed under his breath, attempting to rise. Just then, another figure emerged from the shadows—Eleanor.

Harrison glared at her. “This is your fault! I tripped—tripped over your foot! I’ll sue the police for assault!” He pointed accusingly at Eleanor.

She raised her hands. "I'm not in the police," she said flatly. "And the only witnesses are these crates… or, at best, the moon up there. Good luck with that."

A crack of humor danced in Finn’s eyes as he approached, pulling a pair of cuffs from his jacket pocket. “Quite a story you’d have. But I’m pretty sure we can handle it.” He nodded to Eleanor. “Nicely done.”

She shrugged, a half-smile ghosting her lips. “He wouldn’t stop, so I might have… extended my leg at the right moment.”

Harrison let out a frustrated cry, still clutching his ankle. “You can’t do this. I haven’t—haven’t done anything!”

Finn knelt, deftly snapping the plastic cuffs around Harrison's wrists. "You're under arrest, Harrison Blackthorn, on suspicion of involvement in multiple murders. You have the right to remain silent.." He cast a quick look around, seeing if any security or staff were near. No one, apparently, as Finn finished reading him his rights. The muffled sound of the gallery's music drifted from the closed door. "We'll take you in."

Harrison muttered another curse, clearly in pain but equally incensed. “I’ll have your job for this, you incompetent—”

“Good,” Finn muttered. “I wouldn't mind putting my feet up for a while.”

Eleanor drew out her phone. “I'll call Rob to send a local unit and come pick us up. Because I don’t think we can shuffle Harrison all the way through the exhibit in front of the guests.”

Finn nodded, pressing a hand gently on Harrison’s shoulder to keep him from trying another escape. “We’ll see what you have to say back at the station, Mr. Blackthorn.”

***

Two hours later, they found themselves at Hertfordshire Constabulary: a large brooding building of brick and glass, fluorescent lights buzzing in the corridors. After some triage by station medics—Harrison’s ankle was mildly sprained, no major harm done—they escorted him to an interview room. Finn sat on one side of the metal table, Eleanor next to him, while Harrison was across from them, arms uncuffed now but still wincing occasionally.

A digital recorder on the table clicked on. Finn gave a formal statement of date and time, reading Harrison his rights once more. Harrison glowered, crossing his arms. The overhead lighting gave his face a haggard cast.

“All right,” Finn began calmly. “Harrison, we need to discuss the deaths of Victoria Palmer, Edmund Garner, and Daniel Townsend. All three had recent run-ins with you, were found staged in references to famous paintings, and we have reason to believe they’re tied to your gallery. Want to tell us what’s really going on?”

“Where the hell is my solicitor!?”

“We can wait, you don't have to talk to us until you have legal representation,” Finn said.

Harrison exhaled a bitter laugh. “You think I'm afraid of saying the wrong thing and landing in prison? I told you everything before. I had arguments, yes. But arguments aren’t murder. Why would I kill them? You think I get some thrill out of that?”

Eleanor leaned forward. “Your behavior suggests you’re either hiding something or you’re extremely paranoid. Running away tonight didn’t help your case.”

He shot her a glare. “I ran because you keep treating me like a criminal. I’ve lost business deals since people have questioned the authenticity of the paintings I display, and no doubt clients are spooked by your incessant visits. My entire gallery’s reputation is on the line. So yes, I panicked.”

Finn kept his voice even. “Victoria Palmer suspected a forgery at your gallery. Edmund Garner also argued with you. Daniel Townsend, an art professor, quarreled with you days ago. They all ended up dead.”

Harrison’s gaze flicked from Finn to Eleanor, then down at the table. “What do you want me to say? I disagreed with them, sure. They all thought I was trying to pull a fast one at auction. But I have an alibi for the nights in question. Victoria died on a Tuesday—I was at a private collector’s dinner, with a dozen witnesses. Edmund was killed two nights later—I was in London, attending a charity function, also with multiple witnesses. And Daniel Townsend today? I was at the gallery all day. My assistant Mary can confirm all the details.”

Eleanor frowned, glancing at Finn. “Were you alone at any point during these dinners or events?”

Harrison let out a short sigh. “Briefly to use the restroom, like any human being. But I wasn’t gone for hours. You can talk to them. They’ll verify I was there practically the entire time.”

Finn tapped the table. “We’ll check. But if your alibi stands, then how do you explain all your victims being linked to your gallery—and the killer referencing artworks from your exhibits?”

Harrison swallowed, eyes darting. “I don’t know. Maybe someone hates me, wants me implicated. A rival gallery owner, an ex-employee, or… or some deranged person who fixates on our curated shows. In all honesty, I'm afraid I’m next on their list.”

Eleanor studied him intently. “You claim you’re a target, not the perp. Have you been threatened? Seen anything suspicious?”

He shrugged helplessly. “No direct threats, but how else can I interpret these murders? They’re obviously staged to point at me or my gallery. Why else replicate paintings we’ve recently showcased?”

Finn exchanged a glance with Eleanor. If Harrison truly had an airtight alibi for each murder, it posed a serious complication. They only had circumstantial evidence tying him to these crimes.

“Look,” Harrison continued, weary frustration creeping into his voice, “I don’t want any more people dying, especially if this psycho is using me as a scapegoat. But you can’t pin these murders on me. Check my alibis. You’ll see.”

After a beat, Finn nodded. “We will. And if they hold, we have to let you go. But we’ll be keeping an eye on you—because if you’re not guilty, you may indeed be in danger.”

“Danger?” Harrison let out a hollow laugh. “That’s an understatement.”

"Who might want to kill you or destroy your reputation?" Finn asked.

“Half the bloody art community in London,” he let out a sigh. “The truth is, I make more enemies than I do friends. But I can't think of any single one person who might want to go to such lengths.”

“And what about the question of a forgery? Have you been displaying fakes at the gallery?” Finn asked.

“No!”

“I wonder if all of the paintings in this case went through your hands at some point,” Finn added.

“I swear,” he replied, his eyes sincere. “I’ve got nothing to do with this.”

At last, a knock on the door signaled an officer stepping in. He murmured to Finn, “Mary Whitmore at the gallery has verified some of Mr. Blackthorn’s whereabouts today during the Townsend murder.”

Finn ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I'll need to know the exact time of death to verify that... All right. Let’s call it a night, then.”

Finn looked at Harrison. “Looks like you’ll be spending the night in a cell until we check out your story.”

“But…” Harrison looked defeated.

“No buts,” Finn said. “I it all works out, you at least know you’ll be out tomorrow. If it doesn’t, well...”

Eleanor flicked off the recorder. With a final glower, Harrison rose. Finn told him bluntly, “Have a good night.”

Harrison soon limped away on his sprained ankle, accompanied by a constable, occasionally spitting curses about the police hounding him. His complaints faded away as he was led downstairs to the cells.

"It occurs to me," Eleanor said, "that you might be right. Perhaps all of the paintings involved have been at the Blackthorn gallery. Remember the printout David gave us at the gallery with the names of all the paintings?"

“Yeah,” Finn said. “You’re right. So far, it contains the names of the paintings used by the murderer, as well as others.”

“I wonder if they are all fakes,” Eleanor pondered out loud.

Finn lingered in the corridor, fatigue settling deep in his bones. The overhead lights harsh on his eyes, and a faint rumble of activity from other offices wrapped around him. He caught Eleanor’s eye. She looked equally spent, hair mussed and jacket rumpled. Their chase and interview had drained them, and they were no closer to identifying the real killer.

“You're not used to the hunt, are you?” Finn asked with a smile.

“I can keep up,” she said.

“No doubt.”

She sighed. “We have to keep digging for a link. If Harrison’s telling the truth, we’re missing something else connecting to those paintings.”

Finn rubbed the back of his neck. “Agreed. But for now, let’s get some rest. It’s been a day.”

She nodded, then parted her lips as if to say something else, but nodded and said “good night, Finn.”

“Do you need a lift?” Finn asked.

“No,” she said. “Rob has organized something for me. See you tomorrow.”

She disappeared through a set of double doors.

“Sure. Tomorrow,” Finn echoed.

Another wave of exhaustion hit him. He grabbed his coat and exited the building into the cool night air, and as he did so his own phone vibrated. He pulled it out.

A text from Amelia:

“Can I stay tonight? Think I need a shoulder.”

A small smile made its way to Finn's tired expression. Worry and relief mixed in his chest. He typed back:

“Of course. Always. x”