When they walked back, the station's lights were a lone constellation in the damp sky. Brendon stamped on a cigarette butt and didn't light it. He had promised Donna he'd be better at small things.
Back inside, the case board looked like a bruise: strings and photos and sticky notes, the system's attempt to make meaning out of shards. Sofie had already updated the board with her latest scrape on 'Lucy Barns' — corporate identifiers that kept returning to a handful of shell companies and a pattern of micro-transfers. The ledger wasn't just hollow; it was bureaucratic white noise turned into something deliberate.
"Kelvin's counsel is still playing for time," Judith said when they passed her at the whiteboard. She had the look of someone juggling three different narratives and choosing one to believe. "If Mark's fake, though — someone's pushing a narrative. Someone set up a victim for the world. But tge real question is why?"
Brendon's jaw tightened. "Someone picked a performer and made her a corpse."
"Someone with taste and a reach," Scott muttered from the corner, rubbing his forehead. "This isn't just a local perv. Whoever did this knew social media. They knew the virality curve. This was meant to be found."
It made his chest beat faster. That thought lodged like a stone: not just opportunism, but design. Whoever had stitched Whitney's life to the stage knew how to direct grief and spectacle into an engine of attention. It left them with more than a possible person without records. It left like a method.
Brendon moved to the board, fingers tracing the string from Elena's portrait to the list of shell companies. He thought of the Ninja Fox's voice in his ear two nights earlier — "Don't trust Mark." He thought of Camelia, of midnight nodes patrolling procurement accounts. He thought of Kelvin Richardson's Lamborghini and the lawyer's ice-smooth voice. He thought, too, of the town's appetite for a narrative that fit their fears.
"Pull whatever Sofie can get on those transfers," he said quietly. "But make sure it stays out of the forensic chain. We don't need an excuse to have the rest of the country shout about illegal tactics."
Judith nodded, thumbs already moving. "I'll message Sofie through a burner. She can test the ledger flows and flag donors that match Kelvin's shell companies. If someone's laundering money through fan platforms, we'll see the needle."
Brendon let out a breath he hadn't meant to hold. It was a plan with dangerous edges. It would require him making the same kind of compact with illicit shadows Ninja Fox had suggested — Camellia dipping into administrative back channels, no forensics touched, a parallel set of eyes. He'd given a guarded green light in his head. If she can then Sofie can do that too. The price was a curve but the potential payoff was a list of names.
Robert cleared his throat. "If you want me to run people again tonight — door-knock, ask about the package, check the bus depot, I'll do it."
"Start with his rent payments," Brendon said. "Check who received similar shipping addresses from small sellers. Check the hostel lists and local hairdresser salons. People like the one we want have a habit of leaving crumbs."
Robert nodded like a soldier. The remorse that had eaten at him earlier now rebuilt into action.
"Also," Brendon added, softer, "don't forget to eat. Not as a gesture, but because I don't want a heart attack notification in the middle of this case."
Robert looked genuinely startled — and then smiled, the smile of a man offered something basic and allowed to take it. "You gotta stop being that nice, Wolf. It throws me off."
"Take it in stride," Brendon said. "It suits you."
They split up then: Robert to the streets with a list in his pocket and a plan in his head, Brendon to the board and Elena's face in the center of it like a candle. He felt the old fear gnawing, but also a thread of clarity. The case was a knot he could work on. It would take the slow, methodical tugging that made criminals look foolish — small, steady pulls until a seam gave.
At midnight he still read Sofie's messages, the digital thread of evidence tightening. Shell company names blipped, payment flows wavered. Elena's portrait lay near his elbow. He looked at it and felt something that bordered on promise.
Tomorrow he'd push on Kelvin's counsel again. He'd prod with subpoenas, with patient letters designed to make them stumble. He'd let Camelia lift a blindspot here and there, careful not to touch the things that would get a case tossed. He would keep Robert close and keep his own hands clean where they needed to be.
And he'd keep the portrait somewhere he could see it when the world seemed to be all edge and rumor. It was a face that might be real. It deserved the slow, ugly work of being found.
He thumbed his phone and sent a single message into the group chat.
Brendon: "Keep digging. Don't trust the easy stories. If Mark's gone, he's not the only shadow we need to follow. Kelvin's counsel is buying time; we also need to pressure them. Robert — start the rent trace tonight. Sofie — on financial work. Scott — knife results when ready."
The replies were methodical, machine like precision: Alright, Looking into it, on it.
He shut the light and listened to the town breathe — muted, restless, waiting. The river outside kept moving in patient loops, as if the world itself were conducting a slow, inevitable investigation. He lay back on the couch and let that patience creep into him. Tomorrow, he would do the hard work.
For now, he let the portrait of the woman look over him like a question. He promised, silently, he would find the answer. He would definitely find the culprit.