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Finn stood in the cottage's small but cozy kitchen, ladle in hand, stirring a simmering pot of marinara sauce. The aroma of fresh basil and garlic wafted through the air, mingling with the lingering scent of candles he'd lit earlier in the adjoining living area. He paused a moment, letting the scent fill his lungs, then carefully tasted a spoonful.
Perfect. Maybe a touch more salt.
He set the ladle aside, glancing around the modest space that served as the cottage’s entire culinary domain—only a few feet of counter, plus an old gas stove and a small round table against the wall. Despite its simplicity, he appreciated how it all felt so personal, so different from any big-city apartment he’d rented in the past. This was his haven now: the walls painted a soothing pale green, a couple of framed prints hung near the window, and small wooden shelves held spices and mismatched china.
From the adjoining living area, a soft glow cast dancing shadows on the walls, thanks to the row of candles Finn had arranged. He wanted something warm, inviting—especially tonight. A break in the chaos of their investigations felt overdue, and he needed it every bit as much as Amelia did. The thought of her made him smile despite the tension still twisting in his gut from recent events.
He switched off the burner, checking on the lightly browned garlic bread in the oven, then arranged the plates on a tray: spaghetti tangled under rich red sauce, a side salad dotted with olives and feta, and a slice of the bread for each. He’d poured two glasses of red wine already. Everything was set for the quiet evening he’d promised her.
He gave a short exhalation—time to take a breath, time to shelve the murders for at least one meal. He lifted the tray and walked into the living area, where Amelia Winters sat on a small love-seat, knees curled under her. Her red hair, loose and slightly windswept from the chilly air outside, caught the candlelight’s flicker. She looked up at him, meeting his eyes with a gentle smile.
“Wow,” she said softly, lips curving in warmth. “You went all out.”
Finn shrugged, setting the plates on the low coffee table before her. “We both needed a break,” he said. “Figure candlelight can’t hurt.”
She inhaled the scent of the sauce and gave him a grateful look. “Smells incredible. Thank you.”
They clinked their wine glasses lightly, and Amelia took her first bite. A small hum of satisfaction escaped her lips. “Mmm, perfect. You’re getting better at this.”
Finn grinned. “Who says I wasn’t always a good cook? I just never had the time to prove it.”
She smiled back, but the expression flickered with a kind of heaviness that told him her mind was still burdened. He settled onto the couch beside her, one arm over the back. They ate mostly in companionable silence at first, savoring a moment that felt downright normal—two people sharing a simple meal in the soft glow of dancing candlelight, the world’s horrors locked outside.
After a few minutes, Amelia set her fork down, swirling a bit of pasta on her plate without actually raising it to her mouth. Her gaze drifted. “I appreciate this, Finn. I really do. I needed something… normal.”
He angled his head, noticing the slight tremor in her voice. “Tough day with the task force?”
She made a small sound of agreement. “Tough, yes, but also… horrifying.” She lowered her voice.
“Wendell Reed left a note, hidden at a jewelers I'm convinced he did it on a security feed so we would see it. It pointed us to a train station, so we mobilized and arrived at exactly 2 pm And…” Her voice caught.
Finn reached out, resting a hand on her shoulder. “What happened?” he asked gently.
A shaky breath left her lips. “When we got there, we found a woman’s body—tied under the undercarriage of a train.” She pressed her eyes shut, as though the memory was still raw. “She was… mangled. It was horrible. I can’t… I can’t wrap my mind around someone who’d do that.”
Finn inhaled slowly, anger stirring in his chest. “God. Amelia, I’m so sorry.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice for a moment. Her eyes glistened with unspoken horror. “I just keep seeing her there, you know? And hearing Wendell’s name in my head. He’s taunting us, taunting me. Because I was the one who arrested him in the first place. Now he’s… continuing this campaign of terror.”
Finn set his plate aside on the table, leaning closer. “Is it definitely Wendell’s doing?”
She let out a soft, humorless laugh. “He left that note for me. If we hadn’t shown up, the train would have pulled away with her body still strapped under it. It’s all so twisted.”
Gently, he wrapped an arm around her, feeling the tension in her frame. She stiffened a moment, then exhaled, letting the closeness settle her. “You think it was a message?” he prompted.
She tilted her head back, eyes shadowed by the candlelight. “Yes. He’s always about messaging. But I don’t know what it means yet—whether it’s a direct warning or some personal revenge play. Until we identify the woman, we can’t decode the significance. But with Wendell, there’s always significance. Always a purpose, even if it’s warped beyond reason.”
Finn stroked a hand over her cheek, brushing aside a stray strand of hair. Her skin felt cool under his fingers, but she leaned into the contact. “I know how you feel,” he murmured. “It’s so… senseless, the brutality of it.”
A small shudder went through her. “I try to keep it professional, to push aside the emotions, but there are days—like today—when it’s almost too much.”
He slid his other arm around her, hugging her gently. “It’s okay to feel it,” he said quietly. “You’re not a machine. You witness these horrors up close—of course it hurts.”
She closed her eyes, tears threatening to slip free. “I don’t want to break,” she whispered. “But sometimes I’m so scared… that if I don’t stop him, he’ll keep doing this, and it’ll get more personal. Maybe I’m already too involved.”
Finn pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, letting the warmth linger. His hand caressed her face, comforting her. “It’ll be all right. You’re strong, Amelia, and you have the entire task force. You have me, too—even if they won’t let me on the official detail.”
She gave a brittle laugh. “Speaking of that, the lead on the task force would drop me in a heartbeat if he could. He hates that I have a personal vendetta against Wendell. Thinks it makes me emotional. But it’s exactly that personal knowledge that might help us catch him.”
Finn pulled back a fraction, meeting her gaze. “And he doesn’t want more help from me?”
Her lips turned down. “No. He basically told me he wanted minimal outsiders. I wish you were there, though. I’d feel safer.”
A pang stirred in Finn’s chest. “I’m worried about you, too. Not being at your side… it drives me crazy. And with Wendell’s unpredictability, I’d rather I was there if he decides to target you.”
She squeezed his hand, gratitude shining in her eyes. “I wish you could be, but I’ll watch my back. I promise.”
For a moment, they let the hush envelop them, the candle flames flickering in the still air. Then Amelia cleared her throat, obviously trying to shift gears. “Anyway. Enough gloom, right? Tell me about your case.” She attempted a teasing tone. “Should I be worried about this Doctor Eleanor Matthews you’ve been working with?”
A short burst of laughter escaped Finn. “Trust me, no. Eleanor doesn’t even like me much. She’s all business, and I suspect she finds my sense of humor deeply unprofessional.”
Amelia smirked, tucking one leg under her. “But is she pretty?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Let’s just say that even if she was Miss Universe, it wouldn’t matter, because no one’s turning my head from you.”
A small flush crept across Amelia’s cheeks, and she leaned in to kiss him briefly on the lips. “Oh God, Finn. Cheesy. But... Good answer,” she winked.
He grinned, then his face grew serious again. “As for the case, it’s… complicated. We have a string of murders staged like famous paintings, all connected to a gallery, but we can’t prove who’s behind it. Harrison Blackthorn, the gallery owner, is at the center of everything, yet we only have circumstantial evidence. We even arrested him temporarily, but his alibis checked out.”
She cocked her head. “So what’s the next step?”
Finn ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident. “I don’t know. Eleanor and I came across the idea tonight that the real lead is that the paintings might be forgeries, or at least some of them. If so, there’s a motive for people to keep quiet or kill those who discover the truth. But I’m stuck. The killer left behind staged crime scenes referencing Gainsborough, Constable… even a Medusa reference. And we still can’t pin it on anyone.”
Amelia reached out, resting a hand on his forearm. “Have you looked deeper into the forging operation itself? Like, who stands to gain from passing off fakes? That might be your angle. If there’s an illegal art ring, the killer might be someone within that circle.”
Finn’s eyes lit. “Actually, that’s a brilliant idea. Focus on the forgery pipeline, see if there’s a known forger working with Blackthorn, or if certain shady dealers connect to all these victims.” He let out a relieved laugh. “That’s why you’re the genius between us. I should have zeroed in on the forgers from the start.”
She grinned faintly. “Well, maybe not the genius, but I do have my moments.”
They returned to their meal, Amelia finishing her spaghetti and praising his cooking. He cleared away the plates, setting them on the kitchen counter.
“Why don't I run you a bath?” Finn asked.
She shook her head. “Can we just curl up on the couch, watch something mindless for a couple hours?” she asked softly. “I want normal. I want to not think for a bit.”
Finn’s nodded. “Of course,” he said. “We’ll find the fluffiest show on streaming, or a sitcom. Something with zero dead bodies.”
She mustered a small laugh, relief in her eyes. Gathering the wine glasses, they moved back to the couch, switching on a low lamp by the side table. He plumped a cushion behind her, and she slid off her shoes, tucking her feet beneath her. He settled next to her, arm draped around her shoulders. The flicker of candlelight mixed with the television's glow.
For a few minutes, they sank into the sofa cushions, letting some random comedy program chatter away on the screen. Amelia closed her eyes occasionally, resting her head against Finn’s chest. A lull of contentment filled him, warmth at the simple closeness. He was about to say something—maybe a silly joke about the show—when her phone rang, a shrill reminder of reality intruding.
She stiffened and picked it up, reading the caller ID. "It's Clint from the Taskforce," she muttered, locking eyes with Finn. "Must be news."
He nodded for her to answer. She pressed the phone to her ear. “Winters,” she said.
The comedic laughter track from the TV contrasted starkly with her tense posture. Finn muted the volume. Watching her face, he saw a flicker of dread, then a tightening of her body. “Okay,” she said into the phone. “You’re sure? … Right. I understand. Keep me updated.”
She ended the call, placing the phone on the coffee table with a hollow-sounding click. Finn stroked her arm gently. “They identified the woman?”
A slow, pained nod. “Yes. She’s the sister of one of the prison guards—Shankland—who oversaw Wendell Reed’s transfer when he escaped. That’s how Wendell must have singled her out. A personal vendetta.”
Finn let out a low whistle, shock mingling with anger. “He’s targeting people linked to his captivity. He must be sending a message about the guard.”
Amelia ran a hand over her face. “I can’t fathom the cruelty. Her only crime was being related to Shankland. God.” She stared at the dark TV screen, reflection of her own troubled face partially visible.
Finn placed his hand on hers, lacing their fingers together. “I’m sorry, Amelia.
She took a shuddering breath, leaning closer into him. “Me too,” she murmured. “But if this is how Wendell operates, then it’s bigger than just me. We have to stop him.”
Finn nodded solemnly. “We will. One step at a time.”
They shared a silent moment, broken only by the distant hum of the TV’s static. Then Finn reached for the remote, switching the set off entirely. The candlelight threw warm shapes on Amelia’s features, highlighting the resolve in her eyes despite her weariness.
“You want to turn in?” he asked quietly. “It’s been a long day.”
She squeezed his hand. “Yes, please. Tomorrow’s not going to be any easier. But… tonight has helped.”
He offered a faint smile, kissing her temple. “Come on, let’s go.”
He helped her off the couch, blowing out the candles in the living area. They stepped toward the bedroom, arms around each other for support. For a fleeting instant, the hush of the cottage felt almost normal, a peaceful sanctuary against the encroaching darkness outside.
But both of them knew that dawn would bring fresh battles. Wendell Reed’s monstrous cruelty, the twisted art-murders, the potential for more innocent victims—none of that vanished with the night. Even so, for a few more hours at least, they had each other’s warmth and comfort, a small island of solace amid the storm.