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 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.