Scarlet Whispers

The evening was drowning in thick, violet clouds by the time Isabelle made it to Estelle's apartment.

Her mind was a storm—a tempest of doubt, betrayal, and fear—and she couldn't stay in her flat a second longer. Every wall seemed to whisper lies, every shadow secrets. Jean-Baptiste's parting words had etched themselves into her skin: You need to decide whether you want the truth… or whether you want to survive.

She hadn't decided yet.

But she knew she couldn't decide alone.

Estelle's place was dim and cluttered, just as Isabelle remembered it. Books stacked against every available surface, old case files piled high, the faint aroma of jasmine tea lingering in the air like an old ghost.

Estelle, in her threadbare cardigan and reading glasses perched at the tip of her nose, looked up sharply when Isabelle burst in.

"You're trembling," Estelle said simply, closing the file she was studying. "Sit. Tell me everything."

And so Isabelle did.

Everything spilled out in broken, frantic words—the buried letter, Jean-Baptiste's comfort, the salt crystals falling from his coat. She described the way his face had changed, the coldness that had bled through his voice, the sense that a door she never knew existed had slammed shut between them.

When she finished, Estelle remained silent for a long time, her fingers steepled under her chin, her expression grave.

"You think he's involved," Isabelle said finally, her voice small.

"I think he's compromised," Estelle said carefully. "Or... being used."

"Used how?"

Estelle sat back, her eyes distant. "Sometimes people are manipulated without even knowing it. Groomed, shaped like clay, made to believe they are doing good—or protecting someone they love—when in reality, they're deepening the wounds they seek to heal."

Isabelle gritted her teeth. "Jean-Baptiste isn't weak."

"No," Estelle agreed. "But he might be desperate."

The words hit harder than Isabelle expected.

She remembered the sadness in Jean-Baptiste's eyes, the weight he always seemed to carry. She remembered his protectiveness, how fiercely he had vowed to find Vivienne with her.

Had that been real? Or another lie wrapped in kindness?

Estelle leaned forward. "You said salt was found near the victims, near Vivienne's last known locations?"

"Yes."

"And now you find it on Jean-Baptiste. After weeks of trusting him implicitly."

The unspoken suggestion hung in the air: Coincidence? Or design?

"There's more," Isabelle whispered, almost afraid to voice it. "When he left... I felt it. Like the air changed. Like... like something terrible was about to happen."

Estelle's gaze sharpened. "Intuition is the mind's way of warning us before the facts catch up."

Outside the window, a low wind rattled the shutters, a slow wail that threaded through the cracks in the old building. The dying light bled into the room, turning everything a dull, bloody hue.

Scarlet.

The color of betrayal.

The color of warnings too late.

Estelle stood and crossed to a battered file cabinet, rummaging through folders until she produced an old, faded photo.

It showed a much younger Estelle standing beside a group of smiling men in front of a cathedral. One of the men, tall with unruly dark hair and a crooked smile, caught Isabelle's eye.

"Who's that?"

"A financier. Auguste Belmont," Estelle said grimly. "The same man we found dead. He funded charities, orphanages, the opera house... all of it tainted."

Estelle tapped the photograph with her fingernail. "And you know what Belmont was rumored to do?"

Isabelle shook her head.

"Recruit. Condition. Twist. Young minds, lost souls. He promised them salvation—and made them into monsters."

A shiver crawled up Isabelle's spine.

"Jean-Baptiste..." she breathed.

"If Belmont had his claws in him once," Estelle said gently, "he may never have truly escaped."

The room seemed to close in around her.

The letter. The salt. The lies.

Had Jean-Baptiste been protecting her—or steering her exactly where they wanted her to go?

A knock at the door broke the terrible stillness.

Both women froze.

Another knock, harder this time.

Isabelle moved toward the window, careful not to be seen. She edged the curtain aside just enough to glimpse the street below.

Jean-Baptiste stood at the foot of the stairs, one hand in his coat pocket, the other loosely at his side. His head was tilted back, looking up toward the window—as if he already knew she was watching.

"He's here," Isabelle whispered, her mouth dry.

Estelle didn't hesitate. She handed Isabelle a small, battered revolver from the drawer beside her.

"You may have to choose," she said quietly. "Trust your instincts."

The knock came again. Louder.

Then—

A whisper. Faint. Barely there. It slithered through the open crack of the window like smoke on the breeze.

"Run."

Isabelle stiffened. Her blood turned to ice.

It was Vivienne's voice. She would have recognized it anywhere—fragile, desperate, haunting.

She turned back toward the window, but Jean-Baptiste was gone.

The street was empty. Silent.

To be continued...