CHAPTER 3: The Reopening
To say Emma was frustrated was an understatement. In just two weeks, three elderly victims had been found—each tortured before death, each marked with a unique musical note and notation. Three deaths, and still no clue who the killer might be.
Everyone had been investigated: every neighbor, every friend. They had traced the victims' movements leading up to their deaths, but the only common thread was music.
Each victim had a fondness for it. And judging by the musical notes, the symbols carved into their skin, and the fountains shaped like instruments at Eleanor's home, the connection between killer and victim seemed to be… musical.
Emma scoffed. It all felt absurd.
Why music?
What was the fascination—for both the killer and the victims?
She was still chewing on that thought when Markus barged into her office, his usual energy dialed up to eleven.
"You're not gonna believe this," he said, dropping into the chair across from her.
Emma raised an eyebrow. "If it's another purse-snatching case, I swear I'll scream."
"Nope. Something better. Or worse. Depends on how you look at it."
She leaned forward. "Spill."
Markus grinned. "The old opera house? The one that's been closed for years? It just reopened."
Emma blinked. "Seriously? I thought it was condemned."
"It was. But apparently, someone bought it, renovated it, and tonight's the grand reopening. First performance in over a decade."
Emma sat back, processing. "That's… random."
"Not really," Markus said. "Guess who the new owner is?"
She shrugged. "No clue."
"Adrian Hale."
Emma frowned. "That name sounds familiar."
"He's a pianist. Young, talented, kind of mysterious. Used to perform in Europe. Moved back here a few months ago. And get this—he's the first presenter tonight."
Emma narrowed her eyes. "You think this is connected?"
Markus shrugged. "Three victims. All music lovers. All marked with musical symbols. And now, out of nowhere, the opera house reopens? I don't believe in coincidences."
Emma stood, grabbing her coat. "Let's go."
The opera house looked like something out of a dream. Or a memory. Its grand archways had been restored, the marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Velvet curtains hung heavy and rich, and the scent of old wood and fresh paint lingered in the air.
Emma walked in slowly, her eyes scanning everything. The chandeliers. The stage. The crowd—dressed in their finest, sipping champagne, chatting like they hadn't just lived through three murders.
Markus nudged her. "There he is."
Emma followed his gaze.
Adrian Hale stood near the piano on stage, speaking with one of the technicians. He was tall, lean, and dressed in a black suit that fit like it had been tailored just for him. His hair was jet black, tousled in a way that looked effortless. And his eyes—hazel, warm, but sharp—caught hers from across the room.
He smiled.
Emma blinked, surprised by the sudden flutter in her chest.
Markus chuckled. "You're blushing.
Emma rolled her eyes. "Shut up."
But Markus didn't laugh this time. His smile faded just a little, and he glanced at Adrian again, jaw tightening for a second before he looked away.
Emma didn't notice. She was already walking toward the stage
They approached the stage, and Adrian turned to greet them.
"Detective Emma," he said, extending a hand. "I've heard about you."
She shook his hand, noting the strength in his grip. "All good things, I hope."
He smiled again. "Mostly."
Markus snorted.
Emma ignored him. "This place looks incredible. You've done a great job."
Adrian glanced around. "It was a passion project. I grew up here. My mother used to perform on this stage." Emma tilted her head. "Is she still around?" Adrian's smile faded, just slightly. "She passed away a few years ago."
Emma's voice softened. "I'm sorry. She must've been incredible." Adrian nodded. "She was. This place was her second home."
There was a pause. Not awkward, just… quiet.
Emma broke it. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Do you know Eleanor Whitmore?"
Adrian's brow furrowed. "I met her once. At a fundraiser. She was lovely."
"Did you know she was murdered?"
He nodded slowly. "I heard. Tragic."
Emma studied him. "She had a musical note carved into her chest. D minor."
Adrian's eyes darkened. "The saddest key."
Emma tilted her head. "You believe that?"
"It's subjective," he said. "But yes, D minor weighs it. A kind of sorrow that lingers."
Emma glanced at the piano. "Would you play something for me?"
Adrian hesitated, then nodded. "Sure."
He sat at the piano, fingers hovering over the keys. Then, without warning, he began to play.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't flashy. It was soft, deliberate, like each note had been chosen with care. Emma felt it in her chest—the ache, the beauty, the sadness.
Markus leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching silently.
When Adrian finished, the room felt different. Quieter. He looked up at Emma.
"That was beautiful," she said.
Adrian stood. "Music speaks when words fail."
Emma looked at him. "Do you think someone could use music to… communicate something darker?"
Adrian's gaze didn't waver. "Absolutely."
She stepped closer. "Do you know anyone who might?"
He paused. "There was a group. Years ago. They believed music could purify the soul. They were… intense."
Emma's heart skipped. "Do you remember what they were called?"
Adrian shook his head. "No. Just whispers. Rumors. My mother warned me to stay away."
Emma glanced at Markus, who was already scribbling notes.
Adrian looked at her. "Be careful, Detective. Music is powerful. But some people twist it."
Emma nodded. "Thanks for the warning."
As they turned to leave, Adrian called out, "If you ever want to hear more, come back. I'll play for you."
Emma smiled. "I might take you up on that."
Outside, the night was cool. Emma pulled her coat tighter around her.
Markus looked at her. "So?"
She exhaled. "He's hiding something. Or he knows more than he's saying."
Markus nodded. "You think he's involved?"
Emma shook her head. "Not yet. But he's connected. Somehow."
They walked in silence for a moment.
Then Emma said, "Let's dig into his past. See where the music leads."
Markus grinned. "Now you're talking."
And with that, they disappeared into the night, the sound of piano notes still echoing in Emma's mind.