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"Wouldn't use that analogy, Mr. Butter," Amelia interjected with deceptive lightness, her eyes twinkling as she glanced at Finn. "Turns out, you could throw Finn quite far."
Finn offered her a rueful look, acknowledging the jibe. Amelia winked at him.
His thoughts briefly flitted to Demi, safe but shaken—Rob's words echoing in his mind. Guilt knotted in his stomach, but this was the job; focus now, personal calls later. Finn reeled his attention back to Frank, who was watching them with an unreadable expression.
"Is that so?" Frank's tone was mocking.
"Your distrust is noted," Finn said, leaning forward, elbows resting on the cold metal of the table. "But we're not here to toss each other about—we need answers, Frank."
"Answers you'll twist to charge me?" Frank challenged, his posture stiffening against the chair.
"Only interested in the truth," Finn countered, feeling the familiar tug of the investigative dance—the push and pull between what was said and unsaid.
"Truth," Frank scoffed, "is a slippery thing in the hands of the law."
"Then let's try to grasp it together," Amelia suggested, her voice steady as she steered the conversation. "Starting with where you were last night."
“None of your business,” Frank scoffed.
"Lily and Thomas Richmond," she began, her voice echoing slightly in the sparse room, "they were found dead yesterday morning. Murdered."
Frank's face remained impassive, but there was a tightening around his eyes, a subtle shift that suggested he was more invested than he let on. The fluorescent light above flickered momentarily, casting an otherworldly glow over his features.
“Don't act like you're unaware of who they are,” Finn added. “You're part of an activist group that was working to stop the Richmond's from renovating the castle. What I wonder is, was there any line you weren't willing to cross in that pursuit?”
“You're currently being held for assault,” Amelia explained. “But if you don't open up, you could be spending the night with a murder charge hanging over you.”
"Murder's a dirty business," he finally said, his voice low and gruff.
"Indeed," Finn chimed in, leaning back in his chair, the metal legs scraping against the linoleum floor with a high-pitched squeal. "But we're not here to wax philosophical about the nature of crime. We're here because there's a connection between you and the castle protests. Or at least, someone who shared your... fervent opinions about the renovations."
"Renovations?" Frank snorted, the sound echoing off the barren walls. "Is that what we're calling it now? They're tearing the soul out of our country, brick by historical brick. And for what? Some modern monstrosity? No respect for what matters." He pulled up his shirt arm and revealed a Union Jack tattoo on his forearm.
"Your love for history is well documented," Amelia remarked, her pen poised above the notepad, ready to capture his every word. "Tell us, Frank, what is it exactly that the Richmonds represent to you?"
"They're wiping away English history," he spat, his hands clenching into fists on the table. The cuffs around his wrists glinted under the harsh lighting. "It's not just stone and mortar—it's our identity. If we lose that, what are we left with?"
Finn watched Frank intently, noting the passion that ignited behind the man's eyes—a flame that seemed to consume all reason. "History is important," Finn conceded, his voice measured. "But murder isn't a reasonable protest. It can't bring back the past."
"Nor should it," Frank retorted, his voice rising. "People don't care anymore. They don't understand that history is who we are as a people! You erase that, and you erase us. We're making sure our people don't forget themselves."
Amelia tapped her pen against the pad, seemingly considering the weight of his words. She was silent for a moment, allowing the tension to build before speaking again. "Do you think that's worth killing for, Mr. Butter? Is that why you were at the castle last night?"
His nostrils flared, a bull catching the scent of red. "No," he ground out. "I respect the past, but I'm no murderer. And I wasn't there at the castle."
"Then help us understand," Finn urged, leaning forward. "Help us preserveyourfuture by finding those responsible."
"Preservemyfuture..." Frank echoed, almost to himself, his gaze dropping to the table as if seeing it for the first time.
Amelia and Finn exchanged a glance, and Finn was aware they were on the cusp of something—whether it was a breakthrough or another wall to break down, only time would tell.
Finn's gaze never wavered from the man across the table. The steel-gray of Frank Butter's eyes seemed to reflect back the sterile light of the interview room, casting a pallor over his weathered face.
"It must hurt you that it was a couple of Americans doing this," Finn said, his words deliberate, probing for a crack in Frank's armor.
A slow smile crept across Frank's features, more a baring of teeth than any sign of mirth. "I hear your accent," he retorted, leaning back in his chair which creaked under the shift of his weight. "You're trying to make me angry, like your joke about my size back at the cottage. I won't fall for that again."
Finn shrugged his shoulders with a hint of a grin, less than innocently.
