Page 6

Amelia stood on the lone platform of Ludgate Station, cradling a takeaway coffee in her gloved hands. The sky was bleak overhead, and a thick mist had gathered across the tracks that stretched out in both directions. Through the haze, the station's modest sign—white letters reading “Ludgate”—was barely visible. If it weren’t for the occasional crackle of voices in her earpiece, she might have believed she was entirely alone.

In the thin afternoon light, she scanned the limited structures along the platform: an old wooden bench, a small enclosed ticket office, and a metal shelter for rainy days. There were no large boards or bustling crowds here—just a handful of passengers, a few of them reading newspapers or checking their phones. The place felt remote, an odd limbo between farmland and commuter lines, as though it couldn’t decide which it belonged to.

Amelia drew her coat tighter around her. The chill seeped through the mist, making the entire scene more eerie. She found herself thinking it must be what standing in purgatory felt like: suspended between two worlds, waiting for something to happen. The swirl of fog across the tracks only deepened that sense of unreality.

A voice crackled in her earpiece: Inspector Harris McNeil “Any sign of Wendell yet, Winters?”

Amelia pressed a finger discreetly to her ear. “Negative. I see a couple of local travelers waiting for the two o’clock train, but no one matches the description. This won't be simple. If he is here, it's only because he wants us to find him.”

Static hissed momentarily before McNeil spoke again. “Stay sharp. The second we see him, my officers will storm the platform and grab him.”

Amelia exhaled, resisting the urge to pace. She’d positioned herself near a small station bench, far enough from the ticket office to avoid drawing attention. Two other figures leaned against a distant railing, chatting softly, neither looking suspicious. She wondered if they were undercover members of the task force or genuine locals. Hard to tell in all this mist.

As she took a step forward, the sound of footfalls on the concrete platform alerted her. A man with short, sandy hair and a lean frame strode past—Detective Clint, wearing a plain jacket and carrying a folded newspaper under his arm. He didn’t meet Amelia’s gaze, just continued on and settled onto a bench about fifteen feet away, opening the paper as though uninterested in his surroundings.

Through her earpiece, she heard Clint’s low mutter, “I don’t like this at all. Too quiet. I think you're taking a risk, Amelia.”

She responded just as quietly, lips barely moving, “Your concern is noted, Detective. But I’m certain the note left in the jeweler’s was for me. Wendell wouldn’t pass up the chance to toy with me.”

“McNeil thinks so, too,” Clint murmured, ruffling the newspaper as if turning pages. “We just need to be sure we’re not being lured into a dead end.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Amelia said, eyeing her watch. It was 1:52 PM. The train was scheduled to arrive at precisely two.

"Everyone remain alert," McNeil's voice interjected in her ear. "We have plain clothes across the platform and near the ticket office. The station master is on standby. Let's hope nobody spooks him if he shows. Keep the chatter to a minimum."

Amelia’s heart pounded at the prospect of confronting Wendell again. She tried to quell the uneasy swirl in her stomach by focusing on the meager details: the shape of the ticket office, the distant shape of farmland behind the station, the swirl of fog that concealed the horizon. The place truly felt like a stage set for something ominous.

Suddenly, a shrill scream shattered the silence. Amelia jerked upright, spinning toward the small ticket office building. The other passengers jumped, startled.

“Winters, is that you?” McNeil asked urgently.

Amelia was already sprinting across the platform, coffee forgotten as she rushed to the doorway. Inside, a woman in a station clerk’s uniform stood behind a narrow counter, rolling her eyes dramatically. Another clerk, younger, stood by a back door with tea staining her blouse and dripping onto the floor.

Amelia glanced around, breath still racing. “Is everything all right? We heard someone scream—”

The older clerk waved a dismissive hand. “Apologies. My colleague Martha here spilled her tea and got hot water on her wrist. You’d think it was the end of the world the way she yelped.” She shot the younger woman a mildly reproachful look.

Martha’s face was flushed. “I—I just burned my hand a little. I’m sorry for alarming anyone. I was surprised, that’s all.”

Amelia blew out a breath, relief mingled with frustration at the false alarm. She forced a tight smile. “No worries. Just… be careful. Hot tea can be nasty.”

“Tell me about it.” The older clerk sighed, bending to pick up a dropped cup. “Sorry again for the commotion.”

With a nod, Amelia ducked back outside, heart still beating a touch too fast. She spoke softly into her earpiece, “False alarm. A spilled cup of tea.”

Clint let out a low grunt. “Better that than an actual emergency.”

Amelia thought for a moment that had Finn been there, he'd have made a joke about a bunch of British people getting worked up over a cup of tea. She could really have used his sense of humor right then.

She retook her spot on the platform, checking her watch. 1:58 PM. The train was due in just two minutes. A flicker of movement caught her eye: a tall man in a hooded jacket stepping out from behind a metal shelter on the opposite side of the platform. The hood partially concealed his face. He glanced around, posture tense.

Amelia’s instincts flared. “Possible suspect,” she murmured. “Tall male, hoodie—he just stepped out from the far shelter.” She flicked her gaze around to see if any of the other plainclothes officers were closer.

“I see him,” Clint replied quietly, though he didn’t move from his bench. “Should we approach?”

McNeil's voice broke in. “No direct ID yet. Let’s make sure it's him.”

Amelia nodded to herself, shifting position. The man was pacing near the platform edge now. She started walking along the concrete, casual but purposeful, closing distance. The mist still clung to the tracks, and a distant rumble signaled the train’s imminent arrival. The station’s single loudspeaker crackled with static.

At 1:59, the man in the hoodie began walking toward the far end of the platform, away from most other passengers. Amelia followed, half a dozen yards behind, heart thudding. Over her earpiece, she heard Clint quietly say, “I’ll circle around the other side. If he tries to bolt, I can intercept.” She caught a glimpse of Clint rising from his bench, folding the newspaper under his arm as he headed off in the opposite direction.

The train pulled into view, a dull metal shape emerging from the mist with a squeal of brakes. Amelia kept her gaze on the hooded man, who paused momentarily, then looked over his shoulder. She couldn’t see his face clearly.

He strode forward again, stepping toward one of the train doors. It hissed open, and he slipped inside. Amelia cursed under her breath. “He’s boarding the train,” she hissed into the comm. “I need a better look.”

“Careful,” McNeil warned. “There are a lot of civilians on that train.”

“Roger that,” she replied, heart hammering as she stepped onto the same carriage a second later. Her eyes darted left and right, scanning the seated passengers. The hooded figure had vanished, presumably moving further down the carriage.

Clint’s voice crackled: “I’m coming in from the next door. If he heads that way, I’ll see him.”

Amelia walked down the narrow aisle, searching each row. The seats were half-empty, mostly subdued travelers. She saw no sign of the man’s hoodie. Then an older woman gestured politely for her to pass, so she obliged, murmuring an apology. Another passenger read a magazine, not looking up. No one matched the figure’s height or attire.

“Where did he go?” Amelia muttered. She reached the end of the carriage, where a small corridor led to the onboard toilet. A rectangular sign read “Engaged,” the lock indicator glowing red.

She pressed a finger to her earpiece. “He’s in the toilet, I think. Engaged sign is on. Could be him changing or hiding.”

Clint’s tone turned wary. “I’m at the carriage connector.”

Amelia inhaled, stepped closer to the toilet door. “Police,” she called out, rapping her knuckles on the metal. “Open up. We just want to talk.”

No immediate response. She jiggled the handle, but it was locked from inside. She felt a surge of anxiety. If it was Wendell, cornered, he might be armed. “Police,” Amelia repeated, voice sharper now. “Open this door.”

The lock clicked, and the door slid open. A lanky man in a gray hoodie stared at her, brow furrowed. “What’s the problem?” he grumbled. “Can’t a bloke take a dump in peace?”

She blinked, taking a swift step back. “We… sorry, sir.” Her gaze flicked over his face—no sign of Wendell’s distinctive features, no sign of a disguise. “We had reason to believe—”

He scowled, zipping up the hoodie. “You've got the wrong bloke, love.”

Amelia exchanged a quick glance with a plainclothes officer who’d sidled near the carriage door. “Apologies,” she said stiffly. “We, uh, must have made a mistake.”

“Bloody ridiculous,” the man mumbled, brushing past her to take a seat.

Amelia pressed her earpiece. “Not our suspect. Just a passenger. I’m getting off the train before it leaves.” She could hear Clint sigh in relief from the adjacent aisle. So it was a false lead—someone who merely resembled Wendell.

As Amelia moved to exit the train, the quiet station sounds resumed—footsteps, a faint announcement garbled by static. Then an odd drip-drip sound reached her ears. She paused on the platform, glancing down. Something dark trickled from beneath the carriage. Her stomach lurched.

She bent to look, heart thundering. In the dim shadows under the train, she could make out a figure—or rather, a body pinned to the undercarriage by rope. A slick wetness that could only be blood dripped onto the rails. Amelia’s mouth went dry, and a cry tore from her throat.

“Stop!” she shouted at the driver, who was leaning out of his cab window. “Don’t move the train! We have a situation!”

"Go, go, go!" McNeil yelled over the radio.

Within seconds, half a dozen undercover officers and uniformed police converged on her position, the tension crackling in the air. McNeil came rushing from the other end of the platform, and Detective Clint sprinted out of the carriage, both looking alarmed.

Amelia pointed, voice low. “There’s a body—under the train. A woman, tied up under there.”

McNeil looked and then stood up, his face paled. “God help us,” he muttered. He signaled to the others to cordon off the area.

Clint placed a hand on Amelia’s shoulder, concern flashing in his eyes. “You all right?”

She swallowed, stepping back so the forensics crew could approach. “I’m fine,” she lied, gazing once more at the twisted shape. “This must be what Wendell wanted us to find. But we're missing something.”

McNeil nodded grimly, turning to speak urgently into his radio. The station staff, wide-eyed and shaken, gathered at a distance. Passengers began to realize something was terribly wrong, and an officer shouted for them to move away.

“Who is she?” Amelia asked, voice unsteady. The question hung in the stagnant mist, unanswered. The woman’s face was concealed by the tangle of rope and the awkward angle. Blood smeared her hair.

No one spoke for a moment, the shock too raw. Finally, McNeil shook his head. “We won’t know until we get her out from under there.”

Amelia closed her eyes briefly, wishing she could block out the gruesome sight. Another victim. Another life ended in Wendell's twisted game. "He left that note at the jeweler's specifically so we'd come here for the 2 PM train. We walked right into his plan."

“Or he lured us,” Clint said, biting his lip. “But at least we found her. If the train had started moving—” He didn’t finish the sentence.

Amelia forced herself to meet McNeil's gaze. “We'd have seen the trail of blood left behind... We need to find out who the victim is. Then figure out if she’s connected to Wendell or one of us. Because if he’s leaving bodies like this…”

McNeil set his jaw, frustration emanating from him. “We’ll have the body identified. Meanwhile, station’s locked down. Let’s do our jobs.”

Amelia nodded, stepping away from the grisly scene. She wiped a shaky hand across her forehead. Her earpiece crackled faintly, but all she could think was the same question: Why did you kill this woman, Wendell?

It echoed in her mind even as she ushered passengers off the platform, even as forensics went to work, even as the creeping dread settled deeper and deeper into her bones, that Wendell Reed would always be one step ahead. And with no immediate answer, she could only stand there, the cold mist coiling around her, sorrow and anger twined in her chest.