The cold tip of the silk needle rested against Julian's neck, not with the pressure of a slaughter, but with a light touch like a painter caressing his canvas before defacing it. Behind the massive iron shutter, Julian could hear Claire's violent pounding and her muffled screams that felt as if they were coming from another continent. But here, within the narrow circle drawn by "The Weaver," there was only the sound of the gray man's breathing and the scent of the tea beginning to cool.
"My mother?" The word escaped Julian's mouth, broken and dry, as if pulled from a well abandoned for twenty years.
The Weaver smiled, and this time his smile carried a terrifying sort of paternal pity. "She was gifted with words, Julian. She was a brave journalist, thinking words could fix the world. She didn't realize that words are what poison the world. On her final night, she was begging... not for her life, but for yours. Her thoughts were screaming your name so loudly that I felt them without even possessing your gift."
Julian felt a boil in his veins. He tried to muster his mental strength, tried to drive his will into the man's mind, to shatter those facing mirrors protecting him. He exerted such immense effort that his vision began to blur, and another drop of blood fell from his nose to mix with the purple tea.
(.. Get out.. Get out of my head.. I want the truth! ..)
The Weaver laughed, shaking his head with regret. "You are trying to break the ocean with a small spoon. Your gift, my boy, is a 'reaction' to the trauma I created. I am the one who gave you this third eye to witness the ugliness of truth, not to use it against me."
Suddenly, the hall shook with the sound of a small explosion behind the iron shutter. It wasn't a destructive blast, but a sound familiar to Julian: the sound of electronic lock-breaking used by Claire in special operations.
The Weaver's gaze shifted instantly. He turned toward the shutter, and in that moment of distraction, Julian kicked the table with all his might. The teapot and cups flew, and Julian lunged toward the massive statue, using it as a shield.
"Claire! Don't come near!" Julian shouted, knowing The Weaver might kill her in a second.
But the voice that came from behind the shutter wasn't Claire's. It was a familiar, gravelly voice. "Get away from the detective, you bastard!"
It was Inspector Miller. He had arrived somehow, accompanied by the SWAT team. The iron shutter began to rise with an agonizingly slow, metallic screech that tore through the silence.
The Weaver looked at Julian, showing no sign of fear. Instead, he looked at him with disappointment. "They've ruined the moment. The noise always returns." He pulled the inverted hourglass from his pocket and threw it on the floor. "Remember, Julian... File Number 30 is not the end. It is the index. Look for 'The Tailor Who Refused to Sew.' There you will find why your mother had to be silenced."
Before the shutter rose high enough for the snipers to get a line of sight, The Weaver threw another small canister. This time, it didn't release purple smoke, but a blinding white flash that incapacitated everyone's vision for a few fleeting seconds.
When Julian regained his sight, the hall was empty. The table, the tea, the book... everything had vanished as if it had never existed. Only the broken hourglass on the floor remained as proof that what happened wasn't a mental hallucination.
Claire rushed toward Julian, her face pale, her eyes drowning in tears and rage. "Are you okay? Did he touch you?"
Julian didn't answer. He was staring at the void left by the man. He wiped the blood from his face with a strange coldness. "He killed her, Claire. He's the one who did it."
Miller approached, panting from the exertion, holstering his pistol. "He's gone. How does a man disappear from the middle of a surrounded hall? It's impossible!"
"Nothing is impossible for those who hold the keys to the place, Inspector," Julian said in a dry tone. "The question is: how did you know my location? I asked Claire not to tell anyone."
Miller faltered slightly, then regained his official mask. "The intern... Molly. She confessed that you asked her about Locker 30, and we deduced you'd follow the lead here. We saved your life, so stop interrogating me."
Julian felt the sting behind his ears as he looked at Miller. He tried to read his mind, but a headache was tearing through his skull, and the white smoke had left a trail of mental fog that prevented him from focusing. However, he caught a swift, fleeting thought from Miller's mind: (.. File 30 must be closed immediately ..).
"Let's get back to the station," Claire said, grabbing Julian's arm. "You need a doctor."
"I need the truth," Julian replied, pulling away from her and heading toward the exit. "Claire, look into everything regarding 'Edward Collins' again. But this time, don't look in the official records. Look in the diaries of retirees from the 'Finch and Campbell' shop. The killer said he was 'The Tailor Who Refused to Sew'."
As they left the museum, Julian turned one last time toward the statue. He felt as if the statue's eyes were watching him. In his mind, The Weaver's voice still echoed: "Time moves backward for me".
In the taxi back, Julian opened his phone to see a text message from an unknown number:
"Number 30 isn't a fine or a locker. It is the number of stitches in the first wound. Ask Inspector Miller about the night of November 14, 2006."
Julian closed his eyes. The game was no longer just a hunt for a serial killer. It had turned into an exhumation of the past, where everyone, including his superiors, might be part of th
e purple fabric beginning to tighten around his neck.