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Amelia's gaze drifted past him, focusing on some indistinct point in the room. "It's surreal," she finally said, her voice carrying a hollow timbre. "To have everything tangible that made up your life just... vanish. I don't know how long it'll take to process."
"Insurance?" Finn prodded gently, not wanting to pry yet feeling the need to understand the scope of her loss.
"Sure," she sighed, "but it's the sentimental things, isn't it? The ones insurance can't bring back."
In that instant, a connection sparked in Finn's mind like a neuron firing after a long silence. "The things from your apartment..." he began hesitantly, "were there any that belonged to your deceased fiancé?"
Amelia's nod was small, almost imperceptible, but it carried the weight of unshed tears and memories best left untouched. "Yes."
"I'm so sorry," he murmured, the words feeling inadequate for the depth of her loss.
A sharp exhale escaped her, and Amelia's eyes met his squarely, a spark of something indefinable flickering within them. "Thank you, Finn. But you didn't come here to talk about the fire, did you?"
He hesitated, caught off-guard by her perceptiveness. It was this intuition that made her an outstanding detective, the same intuition that had woven their paths together in this tangle of suspicion and urgency.
"No," he admitted, his resolve refocusing like a lens sharpening an image. "No, I didn't."
Finn paced the length of Amelia's hotel room, a space adorned with the sterile charm typical of such establishments. The beige walls bore generic prints of pastoral England, and the only personal touch was Amelia’s laptop open on a desk, its screen an island of blue light in the dimness.
"Amelia," he began, pausing mid-stride, "I've been ruminating on something." He turned to face her, noting the way she wrapped the plush robe tighter around herself, as if bracing for an unwelcome chill. "The man who was seen taking photographs outside the Richmond estate days before the murders... What if he's not an angry local or a local activist? Someone like a tourist."
"A tourist?" Her brows furrowed, skepticism etched into her features.
"Likea tourist," Finn affirmed, his hands animated as he spoke. "It might not be someone within our immediate circle of suspects – not a local or anyone from the activist group. It could be someone who has come to the area temporarily. "
Amelia leaned back against the headboard, the fluffy texture of the robe contrasting with the sharp alertness in her eyes. "That could potentially rule out Max Vilne," she mused aloud, her voice steady but tinged with doubt.
"Potentially," Finn conceded, "but we both know Vilne's reach isn't limited to locals. He could easily manipulate a tourist, use them as a pawn."
"True," she acknowledged, her gaze locked onto his. "Vilne has the means and the cunning to orchestrate that kind of deception."
"Right," Finn replied, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline that came with the chase. His mind whirred with possibilities, each more menacing than the last. Max Vilne was a shadow they had yet to catch, always looming just beyond their grasp.
"Then again..." Amelia's voice trailed off, her eyes narrowing in thought. "A tourist wouldn't have the same vested interest in the outcome. Why would they risk it?"
"Money," Finn suggested bluntly, "or maybe they were promised something more. We can't underestimate Vilne's capability to exploit weaknesses."
"Or perhaps," Amelia said, rising to her feet, her movements fluid and determined, "we're dealing with someone who simply enjoys the game. Someone who craves the thrill of being involved, even tangentially."
"Could be," Finn admitted, the idea unsettling yet plausible. "And if that's the case, we need to act fast before they disappear back into obscurity."
Amelia nodded, her expression hardening with resolve. "We'll need to widen our net, consider every fleeting presence around the time of the murder. That's one hell of a task."
"Agreed." Finn's pulse quickened, his thoughts racing ahead. They were stepping into uncharted territory, leaving the safety of tested theories behind. But it was a necessary gambit and one he was willing to take with Amelia by his side. "But I also wonder if there was a reason for the photographs beyond the murder.
“What do you mean?” Amelia asked.
“I'm not sure yet,” he said. “But in the back of my mind, I feel like there's something else here. That the murders may have been almost a secondary goal. Whoever took the photos, whoever killed the Richmonds—if they are indeed the same person—maybe there was something that they wanted at the castle. I'm trying to think why Vilne would potentially scout out the place. What was he looking for? It's probably likely that he killed them after getting what he wanted. That's how twisted he is.”
"Let's revisit the evidence," Amelia proposed, "see if there are any traces, anything overlooked that might connect back to this hypothetical tourist."
"Let's do it," Finn agreed, a sense of unity between them as palpable as the tension in the air. Together, they'd peel back the layers of deceit, inching ever closer to the truth lurking beneath.
In the suffused glow of the hotel room's bedside lamp, Amelia's eyes were a sharp contrast to the softness around them. Finn caught a glint of something indefinable within their depths as she leaned forward, her fingers swiping deftly across her phone screen.
"Let's take another look at those emails the estate agent showed us," Amelia suggested, her voice cutting through the hum of the air conditioning unit. "There might be something we missed. We ended up being so caught up with the Tanner list of activists and Frank Butter, that there could be something in the threatening emails sent to the real estate agent."
"Good idea," Finn replied, his mind snapping back into focus. “Gregory Harding was convinced that we'd find something there.”
