The road was narrow, lined with low trees bending under the wind as if trying to hide what they had witnessed.
The GPS marked 14 Pine Street, but Adrian didn't need to look, the cold twist in his gut told him they were there.
Ahead stood a small single-family house, shutters drawn, garden wild and overgrown, surrounded by yellow police tape fluttering weakly in the breeze.
The air was still, heavy. The silence had a weight to it, the silence that follows tragedy.
Clara pressed a hand to her mouth.
"Oh God…" she whispered. "It really happened."
Adrian turned off the engine.
"Yes," he said quietly. "And not long ago."
He pointed to the tire marks still visible on the driveway, the faint footprints pressed into damp gravel.
Clara stepped out of the car. The scent of iron and rain hit her, metallic, raw, wrong.
She approached the gate, touched the yellow tape that trembled against her fingers.
"She was only seventeen…" Her voice cracked.
Tears burned her eyes before she could stop them.
Adrian moved to her side. He didn't say anything. He just took her hand, warm and steady, anchoring her. Then, slowly, he leaned forward until his forehead rested against hers.
"Clara," he murmured, his voice low, hypnotic.
"Close your eyes. Breathe. Let me take this pain from you, just for a moment."
She hesitated, but obeyed. And when she did, she felt his mind brush against hers, a gentle, invisible touch, like calm spreading through her veins.
The ache dulled. Her heartbeat slowed. For a few seconds, there was only silence and the sound of their shared breathing.
"How do you do that?" she whispered.
"I don't know," Adrian replied softly. "Maybe because my heart's tied to yours."
Her eyes met his, a mixture of gratitude, love, and sorrow.
Then she nodded, voice steady again. "We need to go inside."
Adrian nodded once.
They climbed over the gate carefully, moving like ghosts. He led the way, quiet, controlled, every motion deliberate. Years of fieldwork had made him invisible when he needed to be.
Around the back, they found a half-open window. Adrian pushed it gently, testing for noise, then helped Clara climb through.
Inside, the air was cold and stale.
There was the faint scent of dust, candle wax, and something metallic beneath it, the smell of absence. On the kitchen table, a dried bouquet and an overturned cup.
Every room felt like a photograph taken seconds before the light went out.
On the living room wall, rows of photos, Elisa smiling on her birthday, at school, at the park, hugging a golden retriever.
Clara's hand trembled as she traced a frame. Her throat tightened.
"She was just a child…" she whispered. "Just a child…"
Adrian's chest constricted. He looked at the pictures and felt an echo of every life he couldn't save. His hands balled into fists. The guilt, the fury, the helplessness, they were all still there, clawing inside him.
"And her parents?" Clara asked softly, brushing away a tear.
"They probably moved away," Adrian said. "Not everyone can live in a house that remembers the sound of someone who's gone."
Clara looked up at him, eyes dark and tender.
"If something ever happened to you…"
"It won't," he cut in gently. "Not while I'm breathing."
The silence between them said everything else.
They began to search. Every drawer, every shelf, every forgotten corner.
School notebooks, concert tickets, a diary with a flowery cover, traces of a life stopped too soon.
Then Adrian froze. There, under a half-open psychology book on the table, was a small business card.
He picked it up carefully.
White, clean, too deliberate to have been forgotten.
He turned it over, black print on ivory paper:
LUCA FERRETTI – Behavioral Analysis Unit – Chief Investigator. And a phone number.
"Bingo," Adrian muttered, voice tight.
Clara came closer, reading over his shoulder.
"Luca Ferretti… again."
"Yes." Adrian's jaw tightened. "No more coincidences. If his card is here, he knew about Elisa. Maybe he tried to warn her. Maybe he didn't make it in time."
Clara's hands clenched.
"Then we have to get to Giulia Valenti before he does. Before it's too late."
Adrian slipped the card into his coat pocket.
"Let's move."
They left the way they'd entered, silent, invisible, carrying with them the echoes of the girl's laughter that still seemed to haunt the walls. By the time they reached the car, dusk had fallen, turning everything a deep shade of blue.
Clara's fingers trembled in her lap. Her eyes were red but fierce.
Adrian placed a hand gently on her knee, grounding her once more.
"Clara," he said quietly.
She turned to him.
"We're walking straight into the wolf's den," he continued. "Whatever happens next… know that I've loved you, and I will keep loving you — in a way that not even time…"
He paused, eyes on her. The headlights caught the tears glistening in her lashes.
"…not even time will ever be able to erase."
Clara held his gaze, her lips trembling into a faint, defiant smile.
"Then we'll face time together," she whispered.
The engine started.
The car disappeared into the darkness, toward another house, another truth, and a danger that neither of them could yet imagine.