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Finn could feel a chill creeping in as he pulled his coat tighter around him. It was late evening, and the day’s light had fully slipped into darkness, save for the neon glow of passing traffic and streetlamps reflecting off the black asphalt. His breath came in visible puffs. Next to him, Eleanor walked briskly, her heels tapping urgently on the sidewalk.

They approached the Blackthorn Gallery with foreboding. The glass facade that usually displayed bright posters and artistic spotlights had been dimmed—shadows dominated the interior, suggesting that only minimal security lighting was on. A single lamp illuminated the door, painting the entrance in stark relief against the gloom.

Finn paused at the entrance, hand on the door’s brass handle. “Ready?” he asked softly, his breath misting the glass.

Eleanor gave a tense nod, pressing her lips together. “Do we approach Mary or Harrison first?”

“Mary,” Finn answered. “She has an emotional connection to Harrison, which has probably been used to manipulate her, and I feel like if we push, she might crack.”

Finn exhaled, mind flashing to the conversation with Amelia earlier that day—Amelia had gone off hunting Wendell Reed, leaving Finn and Eleanor to handle the forging ring's suspects. Now, the evidence pointed straight to Mary Whitmore. Their last few days of investigating had led to this moment: confronting Mary about Ely Abram's confession tying her and Harrison to the forging ring, and possibly the murders.

He turned the handle. It gave, and the door slid open with surprising ease—unlocked. A fresh wave of apprehension curled in his stomach. “Strange that they wouldn’t lock up,” he murmured, stepping into the hushed reception area.

The gallery’s main lobby lay dim, just a few overhead lights casting elongated shadows on the polished floors. Rows of sculptures and modern art pieces loomed in half-silhouette. The hush was heavy, as though the building were holding its breath.

“Mary?” Eleanor called quietly, her voice carrying through the emptiness.

Somewhere in the back offices, a faint light glimmered. Finn inclined his head in that direction. “She’s likely in her office. Let’s keep it calm until we know her reaction.”

They wove through the gallery’s main hall, past a large photograph exhibit. The usual hustle—tourists, art lovers, staff—was nowhere to be seen. Their footsteps echoed, an unsettling sound in the deserted space.

At last, they found a small corridor leading to a set of offices. A nameplate on one door read “Mary Whitmore, Assistant Curator.” A narrow strip of light shone from beneath. Finn exchanged a glance with Eleanor, then raised his knuckles to rap on the door.

“Come in?” a voice said hesitantly from inside.

Finn opened the door. The room was cramped, dominated by filing cabinets and stacked portfolios. At a small desk, Mary Whitmore sat poring over paperwork under a single desk lamp. She looked up, startled, as Finn and Eleanor stepped in.

Her eyes widened in recognition. “Mr. Wright? Dr. Matthews? What—why are you here so late?”

She rose slowly, smoothing her blouse as though to maintain composure. Finn noticed the tremor in her hands. He advanced, letting the door click shut behind them. “Mary Whitmore, we need to talk about your involvement in the forgeries.”

Mary’s lips parted, a flicker of fear crossing her face. “I—I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered.

Eleanor kept her tone level. “We have reason to believe you were aware of certain forged paintings passing through Blackthorn Gallery. And we suspect you had a role in covering them up.”

Mary swallowed hard, eyes darting from Finn to Eleanor. “I… yes, I suspected some paintings weren’t authentic. But I'm not involved in anything, I swear.”

“Ely Abrams says you knew quite a bit about the entire fiasco,” Finn added.

Mary's bottom lip quivered.

Finn approached the desk, fists clenched at his sides. “I'd hate to think you had anything to do with the murders as well, but if you did, I will find out.”

Mary went pale. “That’s not true. I never killed anyone!” Her voice pitched with panic.

But Finn had fallen silent. His eyes were wide as he glared directly at her.

“What... What are you looking at?” she asked.

Finn pointed to the painting hanging on the wall behind her.

Finn’s gaze locked onto the canvas pinned to the office wall. He stepped closer, shining a small flashlight over its surface. The painting depicted a vaguely pastoral scene, though the style seemed amateur. What caught his attention was the dried, straw-like grass embedded in the brushstrokes.

He recognized that grass. “Eleanor,” he said, voice tense. “This grass—it looks identical to the type braided into Daniel Townsend’s hair to recreate Medusa's snakes. The same shape, color, dryness level. It looks like an exact match!”

Eleanor, hovering behind him, peered over his shoulder. She’d witnessed Townsend’s grisly crime scene. “You’re right…”

Finn turned slowly, expression grim. “Mary, how do you explain that? Did you make it!?”

Mary pressed her back against the desk. “It’s from that painting’s creator. He used real grass for texture. It was a gift! I had no reason to suspect it matched Daniel Townsend’s murder scene. You have to believe me.”

Eleanor studied the brushstrokes. “Whose work is it?”

Mary swallowed hard, eyes damp. "David Smythe's. He gave it to me a few days ago as a sort of 'personal project.' He said it symbolized something about artists losing themselves in other—" She broke off, voice trembling.

Finn felt a chill run through him. “David Smythe? I spoke to him today. He gave us Ely Abram's name.” Finn couldn't quite believe it. David seemed so unassuming. So helpful and quiet.

“Has David ever given you reason to believe that he might resent people involved with the forgeries?” Finn asked.

Mary nodded fervently. "Yes, but I'm sure he wouldn't... He's… fixated on real art vs. fake art. He can't stand forgeries, hates everything about them." She seemed to sag as though relieved to finally share what she knew. "He's an art puritan—someone who believes in absolute authenticity."

Eleanor caught Finn’s eye. “If David’s giving Mary paintings that incorporate the same grass from Townsend’s murder, that suggests he might be the real killer.”

“And he might be even making a statement,” Finn mused, darkly. “Like you could be his final victim, Mary.”

Mary’s voice trembled. “He used to rant about ‘burning the forgeries if he could.’ I never thought he’d become… violent.”

Finn scowled. “Where is David now?”

Mary shook her head. “I—I don’t know. He left earlier, said he had errands. But he was furious about Harrison’s forgeries. He’s been furious for weeks.”

Eleanor exhaled, anger flaring. “So we may have pegged the wrong suspect when we suspected you, Mary. But you still participated in covering up the forgeries. We can’t ignore that.”

Mary nodded tearfully. “I know. But I swear, I’m not the murderer. If David’s behind the killings, please stop him. Stop him from hurting anyone else.”

Finn motioned for her to stay put. “We’re going to find Harrison right now. There’s enough to arrest him for forging paintings, blackmail, and more. Maybe we can glean David’s whereabouts from him. Meanwhile, Mary, you’re under arrest for involvement in the forgeries until we sort this out.”

Mary looked ready to protest, but before she could, Eleanor stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on her arm. “We’ll sort it out. But for your own safety, you’re not free to roam. If David is the killer, you might be in danger, or you might be implicated further. You understand?”

Mary grimaced, nodding. “Yes,” she whispered.

Finn signaled for her to stand. “Come with us. We’ll keep you in custody. But first, let’s deal with Harrison.”

Leading Mary out of the small office, they traversed a corridor that opened into the gallery’s main wing. The overhead lights had dimmed further with the approach of night. Each step echoed across the marble floor, painting a tense soundscape.

They turned a corner where a sign read “Private Offices—Harrison Blackthorn, Director.” A single light glowed beneath the closed door. Finn’s pulse quickened; here was the heart of the forging operation, and possibly the next piece in the killer’s plan. He signaled for Mary to stay back, while he and Eleanor approached.

The door was slightly ajar. Inside, they heard faint rustling sounds. Finn exchanged a glance with Eleanor, preparing for a confrontation. They stepped in quietly, finding Harrison behind his ornate wooden desk. He wore a sleek suit, tie loosened as though he’d been working late. On the desk in front of him, a plain cardboard package sat partially unwrapped. Harrison looked up sharply, noting Mary trailing behind Finn and Eleanor.

“What the devil is this?” he demanded, eyes raking over Mary in confusion. “What are you all doing here at this hour?”

Finn advanced, calm but firm. “Harrison Blackthorn, we’re placing you under arrest for your involvement in art forgeries, fraud, and potentially for abetting murder.” He drew out a pair of handcuffs.

Harrison’s face flushed. “Are you insane? You have no right—”

Eleanor cut him off, voice cool. “We have more than enough grounds to bring you in, Harrison. We know about the forged Jan Griffier piece in your private office, about your threats to Ely Abrams.”

A flicker of shock passed over Harrison’s face. “Ely told you?” His eyes darted to Mary, who stood pale and trembling behind Finn. “And you, Mary, you betrayed me?”

Mary couldn’t muster a reply; she only shrank back as Harrison’s eyes blazed with anger.

Finn circled around the desk, noting a half-open parcel. Plain brown paper half torn away. A chill of warning etched through his soul. Something was off. “What’s in that package, Harrison?” he demanded.

Harrison lifted it warily. “I don’t know. It was waiting for me when I got here,” he snapped, ripping more of the wrapping. “Some kind of worthless—”

Suddenly, Finn’s heart lurched in alarm. He spotted a faint LED beneath the partially removed paper. Finn had seen such improvised devices before.

“No!” he shouted, lunging forward with outstretched hands.

But it was too late. Harrison had already flipped the remainder of the wrapper aside, revealing a small contraption wired with a battery and chemicals. In a single second of awful silence, the LED blinked from green to red. Finn crashed into Harrison, trying to knock the package away.

A thunderous boom erupted, drowning all sense of time. A bright flash of fire and force tore through the office, blasting the desk into shards and sending Finn hurtling backward. Deafening ringing filled his ears, the shock wave hammering his chest.

He barely registered shards of glass and wood raining around him. The room spun in chaos—light, noise, and debris swirling in a moment that felt both infinite and instantaneous. He heard Eleanor’s scream, muffled by the detonation. Mary’s cry somewhere off to the side. Smoke churned in the air, acrid and suffocating. Fire alarms shrilled, echoing distantly in the roar.

The shock of impact slammed Finn against the wall, pain jolting through his back. He fought to focus, vision blurred by swirling dust and flickering flames. His last coherent thought as the explosion’s aftermath crackled around him was raw, desperate fear. Another painting had come to life in the worst way possible, the great fire of London—and now, trapped in this fiery blast, they were all at the killer’s mercy.