I was happy to be brought back on track by my daughter Emily so happy that when I was resting on my bed I taught about my Actions a day ago ...
The carriage I was in moved steadily through the rain-slicked streets of Cardiff as I finished telling her everything.
The lantern inside the carriage swayed gently with every turn of the wheels, throwing soft golden light across the polished wood panels and the velvet seats. The flame flickered, making shadows dance along the curved ceiling like slow, living things. Outside, the rain had settled into a steady, almost hypnotic 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 slightly, reminding me we were still moving through a world that felt increasingly unreal.
Lila sat opposite me, her opera cloak still draped around her shoulders. The golden light caught the side of her face, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheekbone and the way her dark hair, still pinned up from the performance, had a few loose strands curling against her neck. Her expression was calm but attentive — the slight tightening at the corners of her eyes when I described the children's bodies, the way her lips 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. She didn't interrupt. She simply listened, her hands resting motionless in her lap, fingers occasionally flexing as if she were physically holding back a question.
I kept talking until my voice grew hoarse, every detail pouring out as if saying it aloud could make the nightmare make sense. The family of five. The open windows letting the rain in. The two ordinary men in dark coats. The way the scene had felt both familiar and completely wrong. The precision mixed with brutality. The timing so close to where I had been walking.
When I finally fell silent, the carriage was quiet except for the rain on the roof and the steady clop of the horses. Lila looked at me for a long moment, her expression thoughtful. 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. "Whatever this is — whether one man or something else — it's clearly not finished with you."
The carriage continued through the night. I felt the weight of her words settle over me, not as comfort, but as something solid. A handrail in the dark.
Six hours earlier, I had stood in the middle of that blood-soaked sitting room, the smell of copper and wet wool still clinging to my coat.
The modest two-storey house had been quiet except for the rain blowing in through the open windows. Water mixed with blood on the floorboards, turning some of the pools into thin red rivulets that ran toward the doorway. The father was slumped in his armchair, throat cut in one clean, deliberate line. The mother lay on the floor near the fireplace, stabbed multiple times, her dress soaked dark. The two young children — a boy and a girl no older than ten — were curled together in the corner where they must have tried to hide. The grandmother was near the doorway, one hand still outstretched toward the hall as if she had tried to run for help.
I moved through the scene slowly, notebook in hand, forcing myself to note every detail before the rain could wash more of it away.
The cuts on the father were deep and precise — professional. No hesitation marks. The mother's wounds showed the same efficiency. The children had been killed quickly, almost mercifully compared to the adults. The grandmother had been the last, her position suggesting she had seen what was happening and tried to escape.
I crouched beside the father's armchair. A single drop of blood had fallen onto the armrest and was already mixing with rainwater from the open window. The angle of the cut suggested the killer had come from behind and slightly to the left. The second killer had probably held the man in place.
Two men.
I stood and walked to the open window. Rain blew in, cold and steady. The neighbor had described two ordinary-looking men in dark coats. No red hair. No gentle smile. Just two men who had moved quickly and silently.
I stepped outside into the garden. The back gate was unlatched. Footprints in the mud were already filling with water, but I could still make out the size — large boots, heavy tread. Two sets.
I followed the trail for twenty yards until it disappeared on the paved alley behind the house. The rain had done its work again.
Back inside, I examined the small side table near the father's chair. A half-drunk glass of whiskey sat there. The liquid inside was slightly cloudy. I dipped my finger in and tasted it carefully. Bitter. A faint metallic aftertaste.
Poison? Or something to knock them out first?
I noted the exact position of every object in the room. The way the furniture had been barely disturbed. The way the killings had been carried out with speed and precision, yet left enough chaos to look like rage. The open windows that had let the rain in at exactly the right moment.
This wasn't random.
This was hired work.
Two popular criminals operated in this exact geographical area — the brothers Harlan and Rhys Maddox. Local muscle for hire. Known for clean, brutal jobs. They had been seen in the area two days earlier. I had crossed paths with their names in old files months ago. Heavy boots. Dark coats. The kind of men who didn't leave red hair or angelic smiles behind.
I stood in the middle of the bloodstained room and felt the first real spark of clarity in weeks.
Hired killers.
Someone powerful enough to pay them had wanted this family silenced. The timing — right after I had been walking these same streets asking questions — was no coincidence.
I left the scene and went straight to the police station.
Inspector Davies was still there, his desk littered with papers. He looked up when I entered, rain dripping from my coat onto the floorboards.
"Crowe," he said, voice flat. "Back again?"
I laid out my notebook on his desk. Page after page of sketches, measurements, notes on the angle of the cuts, the position of the bodies, the cloudy whiskey glass, the footprints in the mud.
"Two men," I said. "Harlan and Rhys Maddox. Local. They match the neighbor's description perfectly. Heavy boots. Dark coats. They were seen in the area two days ago. This wasn't random. This was hired. Someone wanted this family quiet, and they paid the right people to do it fast and clean."
Davies stared at the notebook for a long moment. His expression shifted — surprise, then reluctant respect.
"You got all that from one walk-through?" he asked.
I nodded. "The rain was already coming in when I arrived. I mapped everything before it could wash more away. The whiskey glass was the key. They drugged them first to make it easier. The cuts were too precise for amateurs. The Maddox brothers are the only ones in this area who work that cleanly for money."
Davies leaned back in his chair. For the first time in weeks, he didn't look at me like I was chasing ghosts.
"I'll put out warrants," he said quietly. "You might actually be onto something."
I left the station with a strange, quiet hope flickering in my chest. For the first time in weeks, the pieces felt like they might fit together — not into the red-haired man, but into something I could actually chase with evidence and logic.
Six hours later, sitting in the carriage with Lila, I felt that same spark still burning.
The lantern light swayed gently. The rain drummed on the roof. Lila's hand rested lightly on my arm.
"You've been carrying this alone for too long, Elias," she said again.
I nodded slowly, the renewed determination settling deep in my bones.
Tomorrow I would pursue the hired-killer angle with everything I had.
The Maddox brothers.
The money behind them.
The person who had paid them to silence that family.
The carriage continued through the rain, carrying me forward into the unknown.
But for the first time in weeks, I wasn't chasing smoke.
I was chasing something real.