Page 42 of When You're Lost
A bead of sweat slipped down the killer’s temple.Each piece was laid out systematically, the killer double-checking labels.No part could be misused.A deep breath, then the killer began.
First, the killer assembled the circuit: a basic trigger mechanism combined with an improvised timer.The wires were spliced with care, each connection twisted in place, then soldered swiftly under a battery-powered iron.The metal smell mingled with the building’s moldy odor.Meanwhile, the chemicals in their canisters waited to be poured into the bomb’s main housing.
A jolt of fear gripped the killer’s stomach.The risk of a premature detonation loomed large.But the memory of the corpses the killer had left behind—and the next plan for an even more “spectacular piece of art”—drove the killer onward.
The killer carefully opened one of the canisters, the acrid chemical stinging the killer’s nose.Teeth gritted, the killer poured a measured quantity into a small sealed compartment lined with foil.Another few steps followed, each requiring intense focus.One slip, and the killer would be the final victim of this twisted operation.
Finally, the killer paused.The device was almost complete: a squat, square contraption, no bigger than a shoe box Wires snaked around the interior, fuses in place.The killer reached for the last piece—a small switch rigged to the battery and the timer.This moment was the most dangerous.Inching the switch into position, the killer flicked it with a trembling finger.The circuit engaged with a faint hum, and a tiny LED glowed a steady green.
Relief surged.It works.The killer’s heart hammered, knees nearly weak.For a second, the killer imagined a flash of self-immolation if anything had shorted or sparked.But no—this bomb was stable, for now.The killer exhaled sharply, a twisted grin forming.If it all went off as planned, the next inspired death in the killer’s series of art-inspired murders would be truly explosive.
With careful, almost reverent motions, the killer slid the bomb into a small cardboard box.Tape sealed it shut, and plain brown paper wrapped around the outside.The killer drew out a marker and wrote a name on the top—just a single word, the identity of the next target.The name remained known only to the killer, a secret weapon in this grand scheme of bloody artistry.
Rising from the makeshift desk, the killer surveyed the workshop.Tools lay scattered amid circuit diagrams and chemical residue.The killer quickly gathered anything incriminating—notes, leftover wire, empty chemical canisters—and shoved them into a plastic bin.Couldn’t leave evidence behind.Then the killer paused at the threshold of the small room, scanning the darkness again.Still no sign of intrusion.Perfect.
The killer gently lifted the wrapped box from the table, cradling it like a precious object.Another wave of caution swept through them.If the device jostled or triggered incorrectly… But the design was sound.The killer had tested smaller versions.This was the final testament.
Stepping outside into the chill dusk, the killer paused once more, glancing around the twisted trees enveloping the old building.Shadows stretched across the weeds.Everything seemed still, quiet.No footprints but the killer’s.Satisfied, the killer walked swiftly to the waiting car.The trunk opened with a creak, and the killer set the bomb inside, wedged between some blankets to keep it secure.
The wind rustled overhead, a few droplets of cold March rain beginning to fall.The killer looked back at the abandoned building—an apt lair for the preparation of a monstrous plan.Then the killer climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and reversed down the narrow track.The headlights carved a path through the encroaching darkness.
As the killer sped away, my mind buzzed with the thrill of what came next.Another painting in a macabre series, this time set to be more spectacular than any staged corpse.The killer pictured the big day, the flash of fire, the echoes of screams.Yes, the killer thought, inhaling a shuddery breath—the next artwork would be the most explosive piece yet.
And no one would see it coming in time.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Finn trudged down the corridor of Constabulary HQ, an ache still pulsing at the back of his skull.It was mid-afternoon, and daylight filtered through the high windows, casting a dull glow on the polished linoleum floors.He kept one hand tucked into his pocket while the other adjusted the collar of his jacket.Every step jarred the faint bruise on his head, but he tried to ignore it—he had no time to be laid up.
Beside him, Amelia walked with a brisk pace that matched his.She was the picture of steady resolve, though her gaze flickered to him with concern.“Are you sure you’re okay?”she asked softly, voice tinged with worry.“That was a nasty knock you took in the warehouse.You could have a concussion.”
Finn managed a crooked grin.“I’m fine.Had worse.Got to focus on stopping the next murder.”
Amelia pressed her lips together.“You should at least see a doctor.Just to be safe.”
He shook his head.“No time for that.The killer’s still out there planning something.And from what we’ve seen, it’s going to be big.If I lie in a hospital bed, we lose precious hours.”
She exhaled a breath.“All right, but at least promise me if you feel dizzy or nauseous, you’ll stop.You’re no good to anyone if you pass out mid-investigation.”
Finn dipped his chin in a small nod.“I can manage.Thanks, though.”He glanced at the thick file Amelia carried.“You planning to sit in on Gerard’s interview?”
“Yeah, if you don’t mind,” Amelia replied, hugging the file to her chest.“Thought I might be of some use here.”
Finn grinned.“I’d appreciate the help.We’re hoping Gerard cracks about the forgeries.Maybe he’ll slip up, mention the killer’s identity, or at least reveal who’s forging these paintings.”
Amelia gave a determined nod.“Then let’s do it.”
They reached a set of double doors leading to the interview rooms.A brief hush enveloped them—the hallmark of the deeper recesses of a police station where tense interrogations and confessions happened daily.There, in the hallway outside Room 3, Eleanor stood waiting, arms folded, her face unreadable.
Amelia approached her first.“Hey, Eleanor.How are you… after everything?”
Eleanor looked up, brushing a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear.“Mostly relieved.I wanted to thank you,” she said quietly, her eyes flicking to Amelia with a sincerity that softened her usually guarded expression.“You saved us back there.”
Amelia offered a faint smile.“All in a day’s work.But I’m glad I arrived in time.”She handed the file to Finn for a moment, then faced Eleanor fully.“I hear you’re about to interview Gerard with Finn?”
Finn nodded.“Yes, we’re going to see if he’ll talk about the forging ring.”He glanced between the two women.“Actually, Amelia was offering to sit in with us.The more, the merrier.”He tried to keep his tone light, though the stakes weighed heavily on all of them.
Eleanor’s face fell briefly, her lips tightening.“Oh… I thought it might just be me and Finn.”Then she caught herself, forcing a slight smile.“But if you want in, that’s fine too.”
