The carriage continued its steady pace through the rain as I kept talking.
I told Lila about the days I had spent walking the same streets over and over, showing the maid's description to shopkeepers, cab drivers, anyone who might have noticed a tall man with striking red-orange hair. Most of them shook their heads. A few gave me pitying looks. One old woman selling flowers had narrowed her eyes and asked if I was sure the man was real or if I was simply seeing what I needed to see.
I described how the silence around the case had become louder than any new murder could have been. No fresh bodies. No new witnesses. Only the same fading descriptions and the same washed-away scenes. The way servants who had spoken freely the first time now gave shorter answers, as if their memories were blurring.
I told her about the growing skepticism from the police. Inspector Davies' veiled accusations. The way he had looked at me when I showed him the red-orange hair again — half pity, half suspicion. The way some of the other officers had started whispering that I was obsessed, that I was inventing a glamorous killer because the real answer was too ordinary.
The carriage wheels splashed through a deep puddle, sending a jolt through the frame. The lantern swayed, throwing shifting shadows across Lila's face. She remained perfectly still, only her eyes moving as she watched me.
I kept talking.
I described the newspapers. The headlines that had shrunk day by day. Victor's articles cut to almost nothing. Eleanor's pieces reduced to bland paragraphs that said almost nothing at all. The way the press seemed to be quietly backing away from the story, as if someone higher up had decided it was no longer convenient.
My voice grew rough as I spoke about the doubt that had taken root in me. The way I had started avoiding mirrors because my own reflection looked too ordinary, too tired, too real. The way I had begun to wonder if the man with the burning red-orange hair was nothing more than frightened witnesses and my own desperate need for an answer that made sense.
The carriage turned onto a quieter road. The horses' hooves made a steady, wet rhythm that blended with the rain on the roof. Lila's expression never changed, but I could see her listening with every part of her — the slight tilt of her head, the way her fingers rested motionless on the edge of the seat.
I told her about the family of five again, describing every detail I could remember. The father in his armchair. The mother on the floor. The two children in the corner. The grandmother near the doorway. The blood mixed with rainwater on the floorboards. The open windows that had let the rain in at exactly the right moment. The neighbor's description of two ordinary men in dark coats — no red hair, no gentle smile, just two men who had moved quickly and silently.
I described how the scene had felt both familiar and completely wrong. The precision mixed with brutality. The timing so close to where I had been walking. The way it both fit and didn't fit the pattern I thought I was seeing.
My hands were trembling again. I clasped them tighter in my lap and kept talking, because stopping felt impossible now.
The carriage rocked gently as we passed over uneven cobblestones. The lantern light stayed warm and golden inside while the world outside remained cold and monochrome.
I was still talking.