The rain had stopped by morning.
But the streets of North Yorkshire remained wet, reflecting the grey sky above them.
Adeline stood outside the hotel with her notebook pressed against her chest, waiting for Malcolm.
She had barely slept.
The conversation with Detective Inspector Hawthorne from the previous evening kept returning to her mind.
Everyone is keeping something back.
She didn't know why those words bothered her so much.
Perhaps because she had begun to suspect that Dwayne was one of those people.
She hated the thought.
Dwayne had never given her a reason not to trust him.
But lately, something had changed.
His calls were shorter.
His answers were carefully chosen.
And whenever she mentioned Blackthorn, there was always a silence.
A silence that said more than his words ever could.
"You're early."
Adeline turned.
Malcolm Carrington stood behind her, holding two takeaway coffees.
"You're late," she replied.
He checked his watch.
"I'm three minutes early."
"Exactly."
He laughed and handed her a coffee.
"I remembered your order."
She looked at the cup.
"You've been paying attention."
"I'm a journalist. Observation is part of the job."
"That's convenient."
"Very."
They began walking toward the police station.
For the first few minutes, neither spoke.
Then Malcolm glanced at her.
"You didn't sleep."
Adeline looked at him.
"Is it that obvious?"
"Only to someone who didn't either."
She smiled faintly.
"Too much on my mind."
"Father Benedict?"
Her smile disappeared.
"Partly."
Malcolm nodded.
"I read the preliminary report."
"And?"
"Something doesn't sit right."
Adeline stopped walking.
"What do you mean?"
Malcolm turned toward her.
"The timing."
"Explain."
"The death happened while the entire county is focused on the earlier investigation."
"So?"
"So whoever did it knew there would be attention."
Adeline frowned.
"That doesn't necessarily mean it's connected."
"No."
Malcolm took a sip of his coffee.
"It doesn't."
"Then why mention it?"
"Because sometimes the most important question isn't who committed a crime."
He looked toward the police station.
"It's why someone chose that particular moment."
Adeline stared at him.
For the first time, she understood why Richard Sinclair had sent Malcolm.
He wasn't simply another reporter.
He noticed things.
Things other people overlooked.
"You're going to be trouble," she said.
Malcolm smiled.
"I've been told that before."
Inside the station, Detective Inspector Blackwood Hawthorne was already working.
A large folder sat open on his desk.
He had barely touched his coffee.
An officer entered.
"Sir."
Hawthorne looked up.
"The forensic report from the church has arrived."
"Leave it."
The officer placed it on the desk.
"There's something else."
"What?"
"We've had another statement from a witness."
Hawthorne opened the folder.
"About Father Benedict?"
"Yes."
"What did they see?"
The officer hesitated.
"Nothing directly."
Hawthorne raised an eyebrow.
"Then why is the statement important?"
"The witness says Father Benedict had been arguing with someone several days before his death."
Hawthorne leaned back.
"Who?"
"They don't know."
"Male or female?"
"Male."
"Description?"
"Not enough to identify him."
Hawthorne closed the folder.
"Find the witness again."
"Sir?"
"Ask them to remember."
"Anything specific?"
"Everything."
The officer nodded and left.
Hawthorne turned toward the evidence board.
He stared at it for several seconds.
There were still too many unanswered questions.
But one thing had become clear.
The death of Father Benedict did not fit the pattern they had been investigating.
That did not make it irrelevant.
Sometimes a separate crime became important because of the people it touched.
And Father Benedict had touched the life of one person who was now standing inside his investigation.
Adeline Davies.
The press briefing began shortly after noon.
Journalists crowded into the conference room.
Malcolm sat beside Adeline, notebook open.
Hawthorne stood at the front.
"We're continuing to investigate the circumstances surrounding Father Benedict's death."
A reporter raised a hand.
"Inspector, do you believe this is connected to the other deaths?"
Hawthorne paused.
"At this stage, there is no evidence to establish that."
Another reporter spoke.
"But the timing is suspicious."
"Suspicious does not mean connected."
The room became quiet.
Hawthorne continued.
"We have reason to believe this incident may have resulted from a personal dispute."
Adeline exchanged a glance with Malcolm.
Personal dispute.
That was exactly what they had been expecting.
Another journalist asked:
"Are you saying the Yorkshire killer is not responsible?"
Hawthorne's expression remained composed.
"I'm saying we will not assign responsibility without evidence."
Malcolm leaned toward Adeline.
"He's being careful."
"Very."
"But he's certain."
Adeline looked at him.
"Certain about what?"
"That these are two different stories."
Before she could answer, Hawthorne looked directly at them.
"Mrs. Davies."
Adeline straightened.
"Yes?"
"You wanted to ask something."
She hadn't raised her hand.
Yet Hawthorne seemed to know.
She stood.
"Father Benedict officiated my wedding."
A murmur passed through the room.
"Does that fact have any relevance to your investigation?"
Hawthorne studied her for a moment.
"At present, no."
The answer was professional.
But Adeline noticed something in his eyes.
He was thinking.
So was Malcolm.
Later that afternoon, Adeline returned to the hotel.
She found Jarvis sitting in the lounge.
He immediately stood.
"Long day?"
"Very."
She dropped into the chair opposite him.
"I think I'm beginning to understand why everyone here looks exhausted."
Jarvis smiled.
"Coffee?"
"I've had enough coffee to keep a train running."
"Tea?"
"Better."
He went to order one.
Adeline watched him.
There was something comforting about Jarvis's presence.
He never demanded explanations.
He never pushed.
He simply stayed.
When he returned, he placed the tea in front of her.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She took a sip.
"How long is your work trip?"
Jarvis paused.
"A few more days."
"That's convenient."
He smiled.
"I've been told that."
She laughed.
"You sound like Malcolm."
"Who's Malcolm?"
"The new journalist."
"Ah."
Jarvis sat down.
"Is he good?"
"Very."
Something about the question made her curious.
"Why?"
"No reason."
She smiled.
"You're protective."
"I told you."
"Of everyone?"
"Especially family."
The word made her smile.
"You're a good brother."
Jarvis looked away for a moment.
"Sometimes I try."
Across the street, Dwayne stood inside the hotel room.
He could see the lounge from the window.
He watched Jarvis and Adeline talking.
His brother was doing exactly what he had promised.
Keeping her company.
Making sure she wasn't alone.
And yet Dwayne felt increasingly guilty.
He had brought Jarvis into a situation that should have been his responsibility.
His phone vibrated.
A message from Jarvis.
She's okay. Don't come down.
Dwayne typed a reply.
Thank you.
He hesitated.
Then added:
How long can we keep doing this?
The response came moments later.
Not forever.
Dwayne locked his phone.
He knew Jarvis was right.
Sooner or later, Adeline would ask the questions he could no longer avoid.
That evening, Malcolm found Adeline in the hotel restaurant.
She was staring at her notebook without writing anything.
"Writer's block?"
She looked up.
"More like information overload."
He sat opposite her.
"I found something."
Her attention immediately sharpened.
"What?"
"An old newspaper archive."
"About Blackthorn?"
Malcolm nodded.
Adeline's heart skipped.
"Where?"
"Local records."
"How far back?"
"Ten years."
She closed her notebook.
"What did you find?"
"Not much."
Malcolm leaned closer.
"But there's a name that appears more than once."
"Whose?"
He hesitated.
"I think you should see it yourself."
He placed a printed page on the table.
Adeline looked down.
Her eyes moved across the page.
Then stopped.
Her face changed.
Malcolm noticed.
"You know the name."
Adeline didn't answer immediately.
She read it again.
Then she whispered:
"Yes."
"Who is it?"
She folded the paper.
"My husband."
Across town, Dwayne stood alone in the darkness of his hotel room.
His phone was in his hand.
He had received no message from Adeline.
That should have reassured him.
Instead, it frightened him.
Because silence had never meant safety.
Sometimes…
It meant someone was getting closer.
Dwayne walked toward the window.
The lights of North Yorkshire stretched into the distance.
For ten years, he had believed the past could remain buried.
Now Adeline was standing at the edge of it.
And he knew that eventually…
She would start digging.
The only question was whether she would discover the truth from him—
or from someone else.