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Finn was on the train, seated in a half-empty carriage that rattled and swayed as it slowed to a halt. He was almost mesmerized by the gentle movement. Outside the window, the world looked strangely bright, every color sharper than real life. The carriage lights flickered. He rose from his seat, noticing how quiet it was—no chatter, no conductor’s voice. Then, with a soft hiss, the train stopped at a small rural station.

Peering out the glass, Finn saw Amelia standing on the platform. She was smiling at him, eyes warm, and she offered a gentle wave. The sight of her lifted his heart; everything in the dream felt painfully vivid.

He moved quickly to the doors and pressed the button to open them. Nothing happened. The button gave an unresponsive beep, but the doors stayed firmly shut. He jabbed it again, more urgently this time. Still nothing. Amelia was waving at him, looking as though she couldn’t hear his muffled calls.

“Amelia!” he shouted, pressing himself against the clear doors. “I can’t get out!” He slammed a fist on the window. She just kept smiling, beckoning him forward.

Suddenly, the bright dream light dimmed. Finn’s eyes flicked to the far end of the platform, where a tall figure emerged—a silhouette that he recognized with a jolt of terror: Wendell Reed, knife glinting in his hand.

“No…” Finn whispered, dread pounding in his chest. “Amelia, behind you!” He shouted again, frantically hammering on the door, but her face betrayed no awareness of the approaching threat. She waved again, as if to say, Is everything all right?

Wendell came closer, each step slow, menacing. Finn felt panic seize him. He yanked at the door’s edge, trying to wedge his fingers between the seals. “Open up, damn it!” He could see Wendell was just a foot or two behind her.

Amelia continued to wave cheerfully, still oblivious.

Finn screamed, “Amelia, run! Turn around!” But the glass muffled his voice, and it was as though she existed in a bubble separate from his frantic warnings. His hands clenched on the metal door frame until his knuckles whitened, but it refused to budge.

Then Wendell struck. He lunged forward, driving the blade into Amelia’s back. Her expression changed in an instant—shock and pain flickered across her features, and Finn let out a hoarse cry that tore his throat. The world seemed to shudder, everything going dark at the edges.

“No!” he screamed.

Finn jolted upright in bed, chest tight, breath ragged. Darkness swathed the room, broken by a soft glow from his digital alarm clock. He clawed at the sheets, trying to steady himself. For several seconds, all he could hear was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“It was just a dream,” he muttered, fighting to reel in the panic. Yet it felt so real, his mind replaying the image of Amelia’s wave, Wendell’s knife.

The alarm clock showed 6:00 AM. Finn exhaled, raking a hand over his sweat-damp hair. He turned to the empty space beside him in the bed. On nights like these, he wished more than ever that Amelia were with him. But the covers were undisturbed on her side.

He grabbed his phone from the bedside table. A single message notification glowed:

“Sorry, crashed back at mine as was exhausted. Will call you later. Had quite a day. Love you. A. x”

His tension eased marginally. She was safe. She hadn't come over last night after her work finished with the task force. He let his shoulders sag, relief flooding him enough that his pounding heart began to slow. "She's all right," he told himself. "She's fine."

He lowered himself back against the pillows, closing his eyes, hoping for a few more minutes’ rest. But the phone rang, abrupt and sharp in the predawn hush. Finn groaned, fumbled for the device, and answered. “Oh, what now?” he mumbled under his breath, then spoke into the receiver: “Yeah?”

Rob's familiar voice crackled through “Finn, you better get here. There’s been another murder.”

Finn went rigid, the last threads of grogginess burning away. “Another one? You’re certain it’s the same killer?”

“Not certain yet,” Rob replied quickly, “but it looks staged again. Meet me at Thornfield Manor. I’ll text you the address. We need you on site. Eleanor is already on her way.”

A fresh knot of worry coiled in Finn’s gut. “All right. I’ll head out in ten.”

“Thanks, mate.” The line clicked off.

Finn set the phone aside, staring at the dim ceiling. Another murder. Another possible reference to the killer who had posed Victoria Palmer’s body in that grotesque imitation of a famous painting. He forced himself out of bed, ignoring the dull ache in his limbs and the lingering dread from his nightmare. Danger haunted Amelia in his dreams, but reality proved it might be lurking for anyone else, too. And if this new victim connected to the same case he was working on, the killer was stepping up the pace.

***

By the time Finn arrived at Thornfield Manor, the sun had broken over a low ridge of hills, painting the stone facade in pale morning light. Several squad cars and an unmarked vehicle sat parked near the main gate, uniformed constables milling about. He recognized the tension in their faces—the usual hush after a violent crime. A short nod from one officer allowed him through, and he parked behind Rob’s car.

He stepped across the gravel drive, noting the grandeur of the estate: tall windows, sprawling gardens. But crime scene tape fluttered around the front door, and the atmosphere felt heavy and quiet. Inside, the foyer was opulent—marble floors, a sweeping staircase, and walls laden with large paintings in ornate frames. The hush pressed on Finn like a weight.

Voices drifted from a corridor on the left. Finn followed them until he reached a wide doorway leading into a study. Inside, he spotted Rob and Eleanor near the center of the room. On the floor between them lay the body: a man in an expensive-looking suit, blood staining his abdomen where a deep slash left his insides exposed like chopped liver. Finn shuddered at the sight. Forensics team members were already taking photos and bagging evidence.

Rob turned at the sound of Finn’s footsteps. “Glad you’re here,” he said, voice subdued.

Finn swallowed the knot in his throat and joined them, eyes on the corpse. “What do we have?” he asked quietly. “Is this connected to Victoria Palmer?”

Eleanor, her posture precise and her face set with grim composure, inclined her head. “We think so. The victim is Edmund Garner, an art collector. He was found with multiple injuries, but the staging looks reminiscent of another painting. We just discovered certain… details.”

Finn glanced around the lavish study—rich wood paneling, a massive mahogany desk, and a smoldering fireplace with no actual flame. “He was a collector, you say?”

“Yes,” Rob confirmed. “A man named Bremner, the victim's butler, discovered him this morning. He must have been killed last night. No forced entry—someone apparently came in with his permission.”

“Who?” Finn asked.

"We're waiting to question the butler further about that," Rob said. "But it was supposedly an elderly man."

Finn’s gaze lowered to a patch of white powder near the body. “What’s that on the floor?” He knelt, studying the chalky substance as a forensic tech carefully brushed it into a sample bag.

Eleanor exchanged a look with Rob. “We’re not certain yet. We'll need to get everything analyzed to be sure. The forensics team ruled out anything hazardous.”

Finn straightened, exhaling. “All right, so which specific artwork is this referencing, Doc?”

“Doc?” Eleanor asked with a sigh.

“Humor him,” Rob said. “Believe me, it's less hassle.”

Eleanor pointed at the body. “Notice the victim’s arms: the right hand is holding a hat, and the left arm is posed on his hip. And if you look at his mouth—” She knelt carefully, opening the man’s jaw to reveal a dark bluish stain. “I think it’s paint, not ink. That’s consistent with Gainsborough’s The Blue Boy , a famous portrait featuring a figure in blue attire with a certain posture—hat in one hand, other hand on the hip. The killer probably forced the victim’s mouth open, used the paint to highlight the color. That's my conclusion, at least.”

Finn shook his head, unnerved. “Another posed victim. The killer is systematically replicating scenes from iconic paintings. First The Cornfield , now The Blue Boy . It must be the same killer. Can I get a full report of the forensics once it's done?"

Rob glanced at the door. “Yes, I'll have it sent to you ASAP. We’ll see if we can find a reason behind all of this. In the meantime, want to question the staff? The butler’s name is Bremner—he says he was the last one to speak to Garner. He also let the old man into this study.”

Finn nodded. “Lead on.”

They left the study, heading to a smaller parlor where a single older man in a crisp black suit sat trembling on the edge of a seat. Bremner, presumably. He looked up at their approach, eyes red and puffy.

Finn offered a sympathetic nod. “I’m Finn, and this is Eleanor. We're sorry for your loss. Can you tell us what happened last night?”

Bremner coughed nervously. “A man arrived close to midnight—an elderly gentleman, stooped with a walking stick. He said he was recommended by Lord Maguire to sell a rare Stanley Spencer painting. Mr. Garner told me to leave them be and insisted I retire to bed. This morning… I found him on the floor and cut... Dear God...”

Eleanor folded her arms. “So you never saw this man leave?”

“No,” Bremner admitted, shoulders sagging. “I was told not to disturb Mr. Garner, so I went to my quarters. I… I can’t imagine an old man doing something so violent. He could barely stand.”

Finn exchanged a knowing look with Rob. “Or he was in disguise,” he murmured.

Bremner’s eyes widened. “Disguise?”

Finn pursed his lips. “It's possible. The killer could have used a disguise and pretended to be someone harmless. That’s why you thought he wasn’t physically capable of harming your employer.”

Bremner let out a shaky breath. “God forgive me. If only I had stayed…”

Rob gently placed a hand on the butler’s shoulder. “Then there would have been two dead people in the study. You couldn’t have known. Let’s gather your official statement soon, but for now, we appreciate your cooperation. I'll have someone bring you some water.”

They left him with a constable, returning to the study. Finn hovered near the forensic team as they scooped more of the white powder from the floor. The tang of chemicals hung in the air. Kneeling again, Finn watched the matter being bagged. He stood, thoughtful. “I think I know what this is without the lab report. I’m pretty sure it’s latex. If you look at how it’s wrinkling—classic sign of dried latex after it’s peeled off or torn away. Probably from a mask or facial prosthetic.”

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “You sound sure.”

He gave a quick shrug. “Undercover work, plus… a bit of stage experience,” he said, half-smiling. Rob coughed into his fist, about to mention something, but Finn cut him off before he could inform Eleanor about their amateur dramatics days during college. “Let’s not go into details, yeah? The point is, I can recognize latex residue.”

Rob smirked faintly. “As you wish.” Then he turned to Eleanor. “So we have another murder, referencing another painting again. The killer might have many more works in mind.”

“That’s the fear,” Eleanor said. “And we still don’t know the motive beyond the staging. Are the victims random collectors? Art experts? Could they be chosen for personal reasons?”

Finn folded his arms. “Both victims had ties to art—Victoria was an artist herself and an expert on spotting forgeries, Garner a collector. If we keep searching, we might find a link or a clue that leads us to the next target.”

Eleanor’s phone chimed. She glanced at it, lips pursed. “Well, I do know one connection: The Cornfield and The Blue Boy were both part of that exhibit at Blackthorn Gallery. The gallery used them as highlights in a recent display about iconic British, Dutch, and Flemish masterpieces. I'm certain The Blue Boy was featured in a curated selection of Gainsborough prints.”

Finn’s eyes narrowed. “Blackthorn again? I had a feeling we'd end up back there. Then that’s it. There’s our lead. If the killer is referencing that exhibit, we’d better go see what else was shown there. Because if they’re systematically re-creating each piece, there may already be a next painting lined up.”

Rob exhaled, nodding grimly. “All right. Talk to the Blackthorn Gallery owner again. Let’s hope he can give us a list of everything in that show. Or any suspicious visitors with an obsession.”

Eleanor moved to leave, her gaze shifting from the body to the door. “We’ll need to move quickly. This is an escalating pattern. The killer might be halfway done or just beginning.”

Finn cast one more look at Edmund Garner’s lifeless form, the hat propped in his limp hand, left arm contorted to mimic Gainsborough’s famed subject. A chill laced his spine. “Time’s not on our side,” he said quietly. “Someone carrying out kills this brutal is only going to get worse.”

“I dread to think what we might find soon if we don't catch him,” Eleanor added.

Rob and Finn looked at each other, and Finn knew that Eleanor was right.