They began to sift through the pages, reports first. Each line was a potential thread, each statement a possible lead. Then came the crime scene photographs—stark, gruesome testimony of Rebecca Hanover’s final moments. Finn’s eyes traced over each image, cataloging the details, the positioning of the body, the absence of personal effects.

  “Positioned the same way as Dominique Plantagenet. It’s almost certainly deliberate,” he said, pointing to the knees brought up slightly to the side. “And look at the wrist, the palm outstretched. It’s so familiar again.”

  Amelia passed him a witness statement, her finger tapping a particularly intriguing passage. He read it, his brows knitting together. There was a pattern emerging, something that tugged at the edges of his understanding, a whisper of connection that teased at the periphery of his consciousness. He filed it away mentally, another piece in the ever-growing jigsaw puzzle that was Rebecca Hanover’s murder.

  “Take a look at this,” Amelia murmured, sliding another photograph across the desk. It showed an item found at the scene, something so ordinary yet so out of place that it sent a shiver down Finn’s spine. An antique fountain pen, the tip dipped in Rebecca Hanover’s blood.

  “Another piece of dramatic flair. Was there a stab mark from the pen?” Finn asked Amelia.

  “No,” she said. “But it was definitely Rebecca’s blood, not the killer’s.”

  “So, we have an actress dead, and this pen...” Finn said. “Could the killer have something to do with writing, maybe?”

  “Like a playwright?” Amelia asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You know, I used to write short stories and had a couple published in a small magazine back home.”

  "Really?" Amelia asked. "You are full of surprises... Wait, it wasn't erotica, was it?"

  “Hardly,” Finn said. He held in the desire to tell her that it was about his childhood in Florida, how hard he had lived there, growing up in a town that only saw him as a troublemaker. “But I do remember feeling a little bitter every time I got a rejection from a magazine. Some writers can be pretty bitter.”

  “Enough to kill...” Amelia echoed.

  They then continued and worked in near silence, the only sounds the rustle of paper and the occasional muted clink of Amelia’s ring against her mug. Together, they delved into the life and death of Rebecca Hanover, seeking the invisible strands that connected her fate to Dominique Plantagenet’s. And somewhere in the depths of those files, Finn sensed the truth lurking, waiting for the keen edge of his intellect to cut it free.

  Amidst the sea of documents and photographs that lay scattered across the desk like leaves in autumn, his eyes were drawn to a faded playbill, corners worn and ink smudged by time. The bold type announced a school production of “Mary Stuart” with a flourish that belied the tragedy it foretold.

  "Amelia, look at this," Finn said, voice low but urgent, pointing to a newspaper article under the mess. The air in the cramped office felt heavier as Amelia leaned over, her presence a calming force in the maelstrom of their investigation. It was a school theater program of some sort that brought in professionals to help train the students in case they later wanted to apply for a career in the dramatic arts. Looks like it was taken very seriously by all involved. A bit of PR for the school and the area."

  “Rebecca Hanover... she directed a play,” she observed, pointing to the fine print where Rebecca’s name was listed as the director. “Mary Stuart is about Mary, Queen of Scots, isn’t it?”

  “Exactly,” he replied. “And Dominique played in Richard III just before her death. Historical figures, both dethroned, both betrayed.” Finn’s mind raced, drawing lines between points of data that seemed disparate but now shimmered with potential relevance. This couldn’t be coincidence. It was too specific, too strange. The thematic echo reverberated through the musty air of the office, mingling with the scent of old paper and the faint hint of stale coffee.

  “Two women linked by more than just their untimely deaths,” Amelia added, her tone suggesting she, too, could sense the undercurrents pulling them towards something deeper.

  “Roles that speak of power struggles, of being cast down...” Finn murmured, half to himself. His mind was a whirlpool, thoughts and theories swirling with dizzying speed. The pieces of the puzzle were aligning in his head, forming a picture that was still incomplete, but every bit as unsettling as he feared.

  “Is it the plays, the roles, or the history they represent?” Amelia pondered aloud, tapping a pen against the edge of the desk. Her analytical gaze met Finn’s, a silent exchange of ideas and questions passing between them.

  “Or all of it?” Finn suggested. “A murderer with a penchant for drama—or history. Or both.” He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were on the cusp of a breakthrough, that the shadows were parting ever so slightly to reveal the outline of their quarry.

  “Let’s see what else we can find,” Amelia said, determination lining her features as she turned back to the files.

  Finn nodded, his focus narrowing as he sifted through the avalanche of information. Each document, each statement was another step down a path that seemed to spiral into darkness. He knew the danger of tunnel vision, the risk of seeing patterns where none existed. But his gut—a visceral, almost primal instinct honed by years on the field—whispered that they were on to something.

  His hands paused on an interview transcript, words leaping out at him: “According to cast members, Rebecca was obsessed with getting the history right, insisted on authenticity.” It was a small detail, innocuous to an untrained eye, but to Finn, it was a beacon. Authenticity—the thread that wove through both cases, binding them together with a sinew of purpose.

  “History might not repeat itself, but it certainly rhymes,” Finn muttered, feeling the chill of revelation crawl up his spine. They were delving into a narrative penned by a killer, one who drew from the past to script the present, and it was up to them to write the final act, hopefully not with a fountain pen dipped in blood.

  Finn’s mind returned to the note as something else jumped out at him.

  “Amelia,” he called softly. “I think the killer left those fragments deliberately, like a grim calling card. He wants us to know that he is a stickler for detail and authenticity.”

  Amelia nodded.

  “And look what I found,” Finn grinned.

  She was at his side in an instant, her curiosity piqued by the tone of his voice—a timbre reserved for moments when a piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

  “The note and the fragments,” he said, “Wouldn’t a historian have access to that sort of thing? I mean old materials.”

  “It’s possible,” Amelia ventured, brows knitting together as she leaned in closer. “Certainly someone with interest in that area would be more likely to have access to ancient parchment and ink.”

  “Yeah,” Finn confirmed, his mind already racing ahead. “So look at this...”

  Finn held up a piece of paper with known associates of Rebecca Hanover. This man here, he seems like someone with a penchant for antiquities, particularly those with a literary slant."

  “Professor Harold Hemingway,” Amelia replied, looking at the paper. “This report says that in the days leading up to Rebecca Hanover’s death, she consulted with him for research about a play.”

  “An expert on Tudor manuscripts, Old English, and antiques,” Finn added, the edges of the scene before him sharpening with acute clarity. Hemingway’s connection to royal emblems and ancient notes was more than just academic—it was personal, intimate. “Given that he works near here, it’s more than possible that Dominique Plantagenet could have also consulted him while preparing for a role. She could have asked him details about how people lived in antiquity to make her performance more authentic.”

  “If so, it could be a coincidence,” Amelia countered, though her voice carried a note of skepticism. She was playing devil’s advocate, as was her wont, challenging Finn to cement his theory with hard facts. “I mean, an actress and a director probably moved in similar circles when they lived out here on the coast.”

  “Coincidences are the alibis of the unimaginative,” Finn quipped, echoing a sentiment he’d read somewhere long ago. But he knew better than to rely solely on gut feelings and conjecture.

  “You really, really want to sound like a Victorian detective, don’t you?” Amelia smiled.

  “Maybe I’ve been reading too much Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “Though I think I’d look good with a pipe, don’t you?”

  Amelia seemed to ignore the joke. "We should speak with this professor and find out if he has a connection to both victims. It's the only thread we have between the cases, other than both working in theater and the staging of the bodies."

  “Then, let’s get to it,” he said before feigning an English accent and holding an imaginary pipe to his mouth. “The game is on!”

  “With care,” Amelia warned, her hand brushing against his for a moment—a fleeting touch that grounded him. “He’s well-respected by the looks of this, connected no doubt considering his place of work. Accusations could backfire on us if we’re not certain.”

  “You’re no fun,” Finn sighed, still using his terrible approximation of an English detective’s accent from the Victorian era. “I promise to behave myself.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Amelia agreed, laughing. “We won’t get Dr. Carter’s lab results for a while, so we should head out in the meantime.”

  The blade of suspicion pointed unwaveringly toward Professor Hemingway. All that was left now was to look him in the eye and question him.

  “And we should do it fast,” Amelia said. “I have a horrible feeling that if we waste any time, more bodies will hit the floor.”

  “Fast, I can do,” Finn said, standing up and rushing out of the door alongside his partner.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The engine of the unmarked police car roared like a caged beast straining against its confines as Finn Wright pressed his foot mercilessly onto the accelerator. Beside him, Amelia Winters gripped the dashboard with white-knuckled hands, her eyes fixed on the blur of scenery whipping past the window.

  “I know I said fast,” Amelia said with a jolt, “but I didn’t mean warp speed.”

  “I’m driving incredibly safely,” Finn replied.

  “Last time you said that,” she groaned, “you ended up in a ditch submerged in water and I had to save you.”

  “As I remember it,” Finn grinned, knowing he was near to their destination, “we saved each other.”

  “Finn...” Amelia said, her voice changing as the world whizzed by outside.

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re about to pry?” Finn smiled.

  “No... I... You haven’t mentioned your court case for a while, and I was wondering if...”

  “It had been resolved?” Finn sighed. “Sadly not.”

  “I still can’t believe they are trying to blame you for what happened to the hotel,” Amelia said, shaking her head.

  “It was over a year ago now,” Finn answered, somberly. “But there are some at the FBI who have it in for me. They never liked me taking the initiative, especially when I was chasing Max Vilne. They thought I was reckless going in alone and facing him, but the hostage would have died, otherwise.”

  Finn slowed the car as they moved off a main road and passed a green sign for the university. As the car slowed, he turned and smiled at Amelia before returning his eyes to the road ahead.

  “If they find me culpable for the fire damage during Vilne’s original arrest back home,” Finn said. “Then I’ll be out of a job and financially ruined. So you might have to put up with me permanently...”

  “That wouldn’t be so bad,” Amelia answered. “When will you know?”

  “Weeks now, I think,” he said. “But since Vilne escaped, I wanted to bring him in before that happened. Now, he’s still out there, and we’re on another case.”

  “Every case is important...”

  Finn didn’t say anything, but he knew she was right.

  Oldbridge University loomed ahead, an institution steeped in history and academic prowess, now tainted by the sinister shadow of murder. As Finn swerved into the university grounds, his mind raced with the possibilities that lay within these ivy-clad walls. The ancient parchment pieces and the suspect’s possible connection to both victims were their only leads, pointing them unerringly towards Prof. Harold Hemingway—a man whose knowledge of such artifacts would have been enough to explain the antique pen, signet ring, and parchment at the death scenes.

  “Left here,” Amelia instructed, her voice cutting through Finn’s concentration as he navigated the serpentine roads that snaked through the campus. “Did they make this place a maze so that people couldn’t run out on their classes so easily?”

  Every second mattered, and yet the university seemed to conspire against them, its layout a puzzle that added precious time onto their journey.

  The antiquated stone buildings of Oldbridge rose around them like silent sentinels of a bygone era, their facades etched with the wisdom and wear of centuries. Finn couldn’t help but feel the weight of all those years in the atmosphere of the place, a stark reminder of how small a piece they were in the grand tapestry of history. Yet, it was in this place of learning where evil had threaded its way, and it was here that they would hope to confront it.

  “Over there, Hemingway’s office is in the North Wing,” Amelia said, pointing towards a particularly imposing structure that seemed to watch over the others with an air of austere authority.

  Finn swung the car into a parking space with a precision born of years spent in high-pressure situations.

  “I think I brought up my lunch,” Amelia said. “Next time, I’ll drive.”

  “I got us here in one piece, didn’t I?” Finn replied.

  “Barely,” she quipped.

  “Did you almost lose your false teeth?”

  “Pretty sure you’re older than me, Cowboy,” retorted Amelia.

  “So this is the place?” Finn asked, gesturing to several large, Elizabethan looking buildings.

  “I believe so.”

  Finn took another look at the campus. “Looks classy. You better let me take the lead.”

  Amelia let out a snort as she involuntarily laughed hard.

  Finn found it adorable. “If you are going to snort, please don’t do it in front of the academics.”

  “Come on, you,” Amelia said.

  They exited quickly, their feet sounding on white gravel as they made their way to the entrance of one of the buildings. The hallowed halls of academia were quiet, the usual thrum of student life absent under the cloak of investigation.

  “I guess it’s pretty dead around here on a Saturday,” Finn observed.

  Finn and Amelia stepped through the heavy wooden doors of the Elizabethan building, their footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. The dim lighting cast long shadows on the walls, adding to the eerie atmosphere that seemed to permeate the entire campus.

  “The case file said his office is on the ground floor here,” Amelia said.

  “Feels like we’ve stepped back in time,” Finn muttered, his eyes scanning the rows of closed office doors lining both sides of the hallway.

  Each door bore a small brass plaque with a name and title, indicating the occupant within. Amelia nodded in agreement, her gaze focused on a particularly ornate door at the far end of the corridor.

  “That must be Hemingway’s office,” she said, pointing towards it.

  They approached the heavy oak door marked with a brass plaque engraved with Hemingway’s name.

  “Cordial or intrusive?” Finn whispered.

  “Let’s try intrusive for a change,” Amelia answered.

  Finn’s hand hovered over the handle.

  "Ready?" Amelia asked, her voice steady, but Finn could see the anticipation in her eyes.

  “Always,” he replied, his grip tightening. With a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped into the unknown.

  Finn stepped across the threshold, the scent of old leather and parchment letting him know that this was a sanctuary for the intellectually devout. More than that, it also let him know they were on the right track.

  The office of Prof. Harold Hemingway was less a room and more a monument to the past, with historical artifacts lining the walls like sentinels. Among them were ancient manuscripts encased in glass and relics Finn could only guess at their origins. The air was thick with the musk of time-worn books on linguistics, which filled towering shelves to the brim.

  Amelia brushed her fingers across a globe antiquated by centuries, its surface a tapestry of explorations long concluded. At the center of this academic treasure trove sat Hemingway himself, hunched over his desk littered with parchments so similar to those found at the crime scene that Finn’s pulse quickened.

  “Professor Hemingway?” Finn’s voice cut through the stillness, causing the elderly man to look up with a start. His hair was a wild mane of white, his clothes a disarray of academia—tweed jacket with elbow patches worn thin, bow tie askew. He peered at them through round spectacles, magnifying wary eyes.

  He glared at them for a moment and then almost grunted. "I know you two, I've seen your cases in the Times. Finn Wright, isn't it and Amelia Winters?"

  Finn usually liked when people recognized them, he had grown accustomed to that. But when a suspect knew more about them than they did of him, that provided a distinct disadvantage.

  “Detective Wright, Miss Winters,” he reiterated with a cautious nod, as if acknowledging players in a chess game he had been anticipating.

  “We’d like to discuss your research, particularly your work with antique documents,” Amelia said, unfurling photos of the fragments recovered from Dominique’s murder scene.

  Hemingway’s gaze flitted to the images before returning to his visitors, his composure seemingly unruffled. “Fascinating, isn’t it? The way history leaves its mark,” he mused, too casually for Finn’s taste.

  “Your expertise could help us understand how these came to be found where they were,” Finn pressed, watching the professor closely. “The fragments were found at a murder scene. The woman in question is Dominique Plantagenet. She was killed last night.”