Blood marked the bannister post's corner, a gruesome testament to Elena's desperate attempt to call for help, her unsuspecting encounter with the deadly toxin, and the catastrophic fall that followed. It was a scene of nightmarish proportions.
A stack of papers on the phone table drew my attention. Among them was a cryptic message: "Does Melanie exist? Who is the third blotch in the photo?" Melanie Blake remained a mystery, her significance tantalisingly out of reach.
I shifted the top paper to reveal a haunting photo, one we had discovered at Walter's house. It was attached to a list of addresses from the Museum, alongside a note that read, "Does not exist." Our curiosity deepened, and Melanie Blake held the key to unravelling the mystery.
A notepad sheet presented a checklist of information – driver's license, voters, and land registry – but the absence of any trace of Melanie Blake left us stumped. Our investigation had reached an impasse, a dead end that frustrated us.
The most intriguing discovery was a book or diary bearing Elena's handwriting on the cover, titled "My Theory." I opened it with a sense of urgency, expecting disorganised notes and observations. However, what I found was far more ominous – a dossier on our SOCO, Wainwright.
The file contained personal information about Wainwright, including her date of birth on the 2nd of December 1960. It mirrored Elena's notes, stating a height of five feet one and a transfer from Essex police. But a glaring discrepancy emerged. The Wainwright we had dealt with was at least five feet six, casting doubt on the identity we had been presented.
As I continued to read Elena's notes, it became apparent that something was awry. Her suspicions regarding Wainwright's background, place of birth, and education contradicted what had been presented to us. The last comment in Elena's notes – "Are we being played?" – sent me chills.
I beckoned to Michael in a hushed tone. "Michael, come see this." We sifted through the papers together, searching for additional clues. Melanie Blake might be the missing link, and Elena's notes could provide the breakthrough we needed.
Michael joined me, his eyes widening as he examined the notes. "Ellena seems to think there could be a problem with Miss Wainwright."
The implications of our discoveries were unsettling, and the situation's urgency could not be overstated. "Does this description look like her?" I asked, hopeful that Michael would grasp the gravity of the situation.
"Not unless she's grown a few inches," Right on cue, in walks Wainwright. I didn't expect her to come so soon. I shuffled the papers away quickly.
To look at her, you'd see nothing wrong. She was definitely at least the height Ellena wrote. Now I'm on guard. While fighting the urge to sink my claws into her throat and pin her to the wall. Until she squealed the location of Ellena. I listened to her heartbeat, watching her eyes gaze at the blood. I'm reading her micro-expressions. The beat was slightly elevated; the corner of her mouth twitched with a nervous smile.
It's the smell that got me. That old dust stench, but not reading the Kanaima or the 'death demons.' I had to grab Michael and face him; I could feel a change coming, with my body heating. Ducking my head, pretending to be viewing something Michael was showing.
"Breath, Georgie, breath," he said, noticing my eyes change. His heart thumped loudly with adrenaline coursing through his veins.
"I'm trying, but it's Natasha. If she's involved, I want to tear her throat out,"
"I can relate. But what do we have so far? Scribbles on a document that could have typos and old information. You know how H.R. like to fuck things up," he said, trying his best to sound calm.
"She has that old dust on her somewhere; I can smell it,"
"What as if she's been around some? Could you pick up on it at the crime scene?"
"No,"
"Right. If what Ellena says is true and she's doing-" I stopped Michael short. Realising she was the master and had the hearing like the Kanaima from the bond. Natasha, or whoever she was, could hear us. I grabbed my notebook. Yep, I took a leaf out of Michael's playbook.
I wrote: 'She might hear.'
Michael followed: 'doing this shit with that thing. We need to have her followed.'
'Surveillance aware?' I wrote, wondering what her true skills could be.
'We need someone she won't recognise.'
'She might not expect Locke?' I wrote, resisting the temptation of someone else who could be handy now.
'Andy?' Michael read my mind, anyway. The trouble was, getting him involved on a night like this could be too risky. As for Locke, I didn't think he would believe it, let alone go for it.
I felt Natasha creeping up on us with annoying stealth. We quickly slipped the notepads away, and I clutched the papers.
"Any news?" her voice cut between us. I listened carefully to the accent and tone for any slip-ups. 'London' for sure.
"How come you've come here so soon?" said Michael, not beating around the bush. The reverb I heard in his throat told me he was pissed now.
"The body was taken. The heart is missing. Nothing else." Not much of a debrief; I was expecting more. She came here for a reason.
"Anything else?" I snapped, getting Michael's attention while quickly hiding my hands behind his back in time for the claws to come.
"The usual, more toxins. Oh, and a unique message. It looked like the killer got up close and personal, wanting the victim to know who controlled their life." Michael and I exchanged frowned glances. 
"What makes you say that, the control of life bit?" I said, finding that outlook odd.
"The bruising to thighs and arms, controlling limbs so the victim couldn't escape. Then the 'heart wants what it couldn't have.' It makes me think of love and something else. The killer probably thrived on what they've got away with."
My sixth sense slapped me relentlessly to the back of my head. Telling me to 'wake the fuck up.' Wainwright almost seemed to boast about the last comment.
"Something else, like what? Was there any more bruising?" I said, wondering if Natasha had clocked the ring mark.
"Not really, a slight pattern of bruising that was different. Most likely, knuckles," my ears pinged. Did she just lie on purpose? I remembered the glint. Natasha had black gloves on so that I couldn't see anything.
"So, has Emily been taken?" Michael said gruffly.
"Yeah, it's gone. That's why I'm here. Ellena was a friend, so I want to help." Again. My bullshit radar was going nuts. Natasha spoke of Ellena in the past tense. I was curious to know if I was hearing what I wanted to hear, so I could justify making her a target of our intentions.
Miss Wainwright shared her findings, but her words held an unsettling undertone. Her apparent enthusiasm for the sadistic control the killer had exerted over the victims raised further questions. It was becoming increasingly clear that our unit was compromised, and we had to tread carefully.
The hunt for Elena, the Kanaima, and the relics had intensified, and we were determined, no matter the cost. The tension in the air was palpable as we pondered our next move. We needed to uncover the truth, bring Elena back, and unravel the mysteries that had entangled our lives in this web of darkness.