The carriage had long since disappeared into the rain when I finally stepped inside my temporary lodgings. The warmth of Lila's words still lingered like the last traces of the lantern light — steady, quiet, and more comforting than I deserved. For the first time in weeks I slept without the red-orange hair burning behind my eyelids.
Morning arrived pale and washed-out. The rain had eased into a fine mist that turned the streets of Cardiff into soft grey watercolors. I met Lila at the corner near the theatre just after dawn. She wore a simple dark coat and scarf, her opera glamour replaced by the practical attire of someone ready to walk through blood and mud. She looked at me with the same clear, unflinching eyes from the night before.
"Show me," she said simply.
We walked together to the modest two-storey house where the family of five had been slaughtered. The street was quieter now, the initial horror replaced by drawn curtains and whispered conversations behind closed doors. A single constable stood at the front gate, looking bored and cold. He recognized me and let us through with a reluctant nod.
Daylight changed everything.
In the grey morning light the house looked smaller, sadder. The blood that had looked black and terrifying at night now appeared as dull brown stains on the floorboards and walls. The open windows no longer seemed sinister — just ordinary rectangles letting in the damp mist. But the details I had noted in the dark were still there, sharper now in the flat light.
I walked Lila through the scene step by step.
"Here," I said, pointing to the father's armchair. "Throat cut from behind. One clean motion. No hesitation. The angle suggests the killer was slightly taller than average and left-handed or ambidextrous. The mother was taken down quickly — three stab wounds to the chest, one to the neck. The children…" My voice caught for a moment. "They were killed last. Almost gently compared to the adults. As if the killers didn't enjoy that part."
Lila moved slowly through the room, her boots careful not to disturb the dried blood. She crouched where the children had been found, her fingers hovering just above the floor without touching it. The mist drifting in through the open windows left tiny droplets on her coat.
"They drugged them first," I continued, showing her the whiskey glass still sitting on the side table. "Cloudy residue. Bitter aftertaste. Enough to make them drowsy or unconscious so the killing would be quiet and fast. The open windows weren't an accident. The killers wanted the rain to come in and wash away as much as possible."
Lila straightened. "And the neighbor saw two ordinary men in dark coats?"
"Yes. Heavy boots. No red hair. No gentle smile. Just two men who knew exactly what they were doing."
We moved to the back door and into the small garden. The mist had softened the ground, but one partial boot print remained near the gate — deep tread, large size, the edge of a distinctive pattern still visible before the rain had blurred it further. I knelt and traced it with my finger.
"This matches the Maddox brothers' known footwear," I said. "I checked old arrest records yesterday. Same pattern. Same weight distribution. They were here."
Lila studied the print for a long moment. "So you were right about the hired killers."
I stood up, wiping my hands on my coat. "It looks that way. But the timing… it happened while I was walking these same streets asking questions about the red-haired man. It feels too neat. Too convenient."
We were still examining the garden when Inspector Davies arrived with two other officers. His face tightened the moment he saw me.
"Crowe," he said, voice flat. "You brought a civilian to an active crime scene?"
Lila stepped forward before I could answer. "I'm Lila Voss. I was asked to consult. Fresh eyes."
Davies looked unimpressed. He glanced at the boot print I had pointed out, then back at me. "The Maddox brothers. You're still pushing that theory?"
"It fits," I said. "The whiskey, the precision, the timing, the description from the neighbor. Someone paid them to silence this family. Probably because they knew something they shouldn't."
One of the younger officers snorted. "Or maybe you're seeing what you want to see, Detective. Still chasing your red-haired ghost while real killers walk around in plain dark coats."
Davies didn't silence him. He just looked at me with that same mix of pity and suspicion that was becoming too familiar.
"Write up your report," he said. "We'll look into the Maddox brothers. But if this turns out to be another dead end…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Lila and I left the scene as the mist thickened into light rain again. We walked in silence for several blocks. The streets felt heavier now, the buildings leaning in like they were listening.
"You're being isolated," Lila said finally. "They want you to look unstable. Every time you find something solid, they push the narrative that you're obsessed with an imaginary man with red hair."
I nodded. The doubt I had felt the night before was still there, quieter now but persistent. The Maddox brothers felt real. The hired killing felt real. But the red-haired man… the more I chased ordinary evidence, the more he seemed to fade into rumor and washed-away rain.
We stopped at a small café near the cathedral. Steam rose from our tea cups, the only warm color in the grey morning. Lila wrapped her hands around her cup and looked at me across the table.
"Keep following the money," she said quietly. "That's what your daughter would tell you, isn't it? Find who paid the Maddox brothers. The rest might fall into place."
I stared into my tea. The surface reflected my tired face back at me — older, darker, ordinary.
For the first time in weeks I didn't feel completely alone.
But the questions remained louder than ever.
Was the red-haired man real?
Or was I the only one still seeing him because I needed something — anything — to make sense of the blood and the rain and the growing silence?
The mist outside turned back into proper rain. It fell steadily, washing the streets clean once more.