The carriage moved deeper into the night as I finished telling her everything.
The lantern flame had burned lower now, the golden light softer, more intimate, casting long shadows that stretched across the velvet seats and made the interior feel smaller, more enclosed. The rain on the roof had settled into a steady, almost soothing rhythm — not the violent drumming of earlier, but a persistent patter that blurred the windows into sheets of black glass streaked with silver. Every time the carriage hit a puddle, a soft splash echoed beneath us, and the whole frame rocked gently, reminding me we were still moving through a world that felt increasingly unreal.
I had been talking for what felt like hours. My throat was raw, my voice hoarse and cracked. The words had poured out of me in a continuous stream — every detail of the Hawthorne house, the Brussels carriage, the prison interviews, the family of five, the police skepticism, the shortened newspapers, the growing silence, the doubt that had taken root like a weed in my chest. I had described the exact smell of the blood mixed with rainwater in the family's sitting room, the way the children's small bodies had been curled together, the neighbor's trembling voice as she described two ordinary men in dark coats. I had recounted Inspector Davies' exact words, the way his moustache had been damp from the rain, the way his eyes had narrowed in that cold, calculating way. I had told her about the way the red-orange hair strand still glowed faintly on my hotel desk, how it sometimes seemed to catch the light even when there was none, how I had started carrying it with me everywhere like a talisman I no longer trusted.
Lila had listened without a single interruption. Her expression had changed subtly over the course of the long narration — the slight tightening at the corners of her eyes when I described the children's bodies, the way her lips had pressed together for a fraction of a second when I spoke of the police skepticism, the small, almost imperceptible softening around her mouth when I admitted the doubt that had begun to eat at me. Her hands had remained mostly still in her lap, but I had noticed the occasional flex of her fingers, the way she would shift her posture ever so slightly as if physically absorbing the weight of what I was saying. The lantern light caught the side of her face in warm gold, highlighting the intelligence in her eyes and the faint lines of concern that had appeared between her brows.
When I finally fell silent, the carriage was quiet except for the rain on the roof and the steady clop of the horses' hooves on the wet cobblestones. The silence stretched for a long moment, filled only by the sounds of the night and the gentle rocking of the carriage. I felt emptied, hollowed out, as if I had poured every last drop of the nightmare into the space between us.
Lila looked at me for a long moment, her expression thoughtful. The lantern light caught the side of her face, softening the lines of concern around her eyes. She didn't speak immediately. Instead, she reached out and placed her hand lightly on my arm — a brief, steady touch that grounded me in the warm interior of the carriage.
"You've been carrying this alone for too long, Elias," she said softly, her voice low and measured, carrying the same clarity it had when she sang on stage. "Whatever this is — whether one man or something else — it's clearly not finished with you."
She paused, her fingers still resting lightly on my sleeve. The carriage continued through the rain, the wheels splashing through puddles with soft, rhythmic sounds. The lantern flame flickered, sending a brief flare of light across her face. Her expression remained calm, but I could see the subtle shift — the way her eyes moved as she processed everything I had said, the way her head tilted slightly as if she were listening to an internal melody only she could hear.
She didn't tell me I was imagining things.
She didn't tell me I was right, either.
Instead, she said, "The details are too consistent to dismiss. The hair. The coat. The way people describe his voice and the way they relax when they see him. The rain that always seems to arrive exactly when it's needed. The way the press is being silenced. The way suspicion settles on convenient targets and then those targets… disappear or die. It's not random, Elias. But it's also not clear. Not yet."
Her hand remained on my arm for another moment, warm and steady. Then she withdrew it slowly, folding her hands back in her lap. The carriage rocked gently as we turned onto a quieter road. The horses slowed slightly, their hooves making a softer, wetter sound on the cobblestones. The lantern light steadied, bathing the interior in a warmer gold that made the velvet seats look richer, the wood panels gleam with a soft sheen.
Lila's expression shifted again — a small, thoughtful furrow between her brows, the kind of look she wore when she was working through a difficult passage in an aria. "You've been chasing evidence for weeks. You've been the only one willing to look when everyone else is being told to look away. That alone tells me something is very wrong. But the doubt you're feeling… that's important too. It means you're still thinking clearly. You're not letting yourself be swept away by the story. You're questioning everything, including yourself."
She paused, looking out the rain-streaked window for a moment. The black glass reflected her face back at her in fragments — pale, composed, thoughtful. When she turned back to me, her eyes were steady.
"The family of five changes things," she said quietly. "Different description. Different method. But the timing, the location, the open windows letting the rain in… those are too deliberate to be coincidence. It feels like someone is sending a message. Or testing something. Or trying to make you doubt what you've already seen."
The carriage continued through the night, the lantern light warm and golden inside while the world outside remained cold and monochrome. I felt the weight of her words settle over me, not as comfort, but as something solid — a handrail in the dark.
Lila leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping even lower. "You're not crazy, Elias. You're the only one still asking the questions everyone else has been told to stop asking. Whatever is happening, it's real enough to be afraid of. And it's real enough that someone doesn't want you looking too closely."
The horses' hooves splashed through another puddle. The carriage rocked gently. The rain on the roof continued its steady rhythm, a constant companion that had followed me for weeks.
Lila's expression softened again, the lines of concern around her eyes easing into something closer to quiet resolve. "We'll keep digging. Together. You don't have to carry this alone anymore."
The carriage moved forward into the unknown, the lantern light holding its small circle of gold against the black-and-white night outside.