Chapter 7: Smoke and Mirrors

Adam’s suspension meant he was locked out of the Victoria Police database. But David wasn't.

Late that night, in the suffocating silence of their Brunswick home, Adam slid a piece of paper across the kitchen island. David looked at it, his eyes bloodshot and sunken. It was a list of schools in the greater Melbourne area, cross-referenced with archived newspaper clippings from twenty years ago about a traveling magician named Annabelle George.

"She used to give them a porcelain doll, Dave," Adam whispered, the intensity in his voice vibrating like a plucked string. "Valerie confirmed it. The killer is recreating a two-decade-old magic act. He's not just hunting; he's touring. He hits a school, performs his little ritual, marks a girl, and then takes her a few days later."

David stared at the paper. The grief that had paralysed him since Amy’s death was slowly hardening into something dangerous. He pulled his police laptop toward him and logged in. "What do you need me to look for?"

"Visitor logs. Guest speakers. Performers booked at high schools in the eastern suburbs for the past month. He has to get inside to pick his target."

For hours, the only sound in the kitchen was the frantic clicking of David’s keyboard. Around 3:00 AM, David stopped. He turned the screen toward Adam.

"An independent educational theatre troupe," David said, his voice dropping an octave. "They do workshops on stagecraft and illusion. They visited Sarah’s school three weeks ago. They were at Amanda's school two weeks ago. And they were at Megan's school last Thursday."

Adam’s eyes darted to the bottom of the screen. "Where are they tomorrow?"

"St. Jude’s Girls College. Kew."

The next morning, the sky over Melbourne was a bruised, heavy purple, threatening a downpour. Adam parked his battered sedan two blocks away from St. Jude’s. He had no badge, no gun, and no authority. If Laura caught him, he would be arrested for interfering with a closed case. He didn't care.

He slipped through a side gate near the loading dock, the collar of his dark jacket pulled up. Using his director's instinct for finding the blind spots in any setting, he navigated the labyrinthine corridors until he reached the rear doors of the school’s grand auditorium.

The assembly was already underway. Hundreds of students in maroon blazers sat in the velvet chairs. Adam slipped into the sound booth at the back, crouching low behind the mixing deck.

Down on the brightly lit stage, a figure was speaking about the history of stage magic. The person wore a dark, oversized theatrical cloak and a silver half-mask, playing the role of a mysterious illusionist. To the teachers and students, it was just a quirky educational performance.

To Adam, it was a monster hiding in plain sight.

Then, the auditorium lights dimmed. A hush fell over the crowd.

From the stage speakers, a delicate, haunting piano melody began to play. The tune. Adam felt the blood freeze in his veins. It was the exact same audio track from the hearing aid. He stood up, his eyes locked on the figure in the cloak.

The illusionist stepped off the stage and walked slowly up the center aisle. The heavy cloak dragged along the carpet. The figure stopped at the fourth row, extending a gloved hand toward a blonde girl sitting near the aisle. Her name tag read Samantha.

The illusionist handed her a small, beautifully wrapped wooden box. The mark.

Adam didn't hesitate. He burst out of the sound booth, sprinting down the raked aisle. "Hey! Stop right there!" he roared, his voice booming over the delicate piano music.

The auditorium erupted into gasps and murmurs. The cloaked figure whipped around, the silver mask flashing under the emergency lights. For a split second, Adam felt a pair of cold, dead eyes lock onto him.

Then, the figure moved. Not with the frantic panic of Ian, but with a terrifying, unnatural fluidity. The illusionist threw a small metallic sphere onto the ground.

Bang. A thick cloud of white, acrid smoke exploded into the aisle. Teenagers screamed, scrambling out of their seats. The fire alarm triggered, a deafening siren adding to the chaos.

Adam charged straight through the smoke, coughing violently. He burst through the auditorium's side exit just in time to see the heavy black cloak disappearing around the corner of the brick science block.

"Stop!" Adam yelled, his boots pounding on the wet concrete.

The chase spilled out of the school grounds and onto the bustling streets of Kew. The sky finally broke, unleashing a torrential Victorian downpour. The rain slicked the pavement and blurred Adam’s vision. He dodged terrified pedestrians and leapt over wet newspaper stands, keeping his eyes on the swirling black fabric ahead.

The killer was incredibly fast. He darted into a narrow, graffiti-covered laneway behind a row of cafes. Adam skidded around the corner, his chest heaving.

The laneway was a dead end, blocked by a towering brick wall. Dumpsters lined the sides.

Adam slowed his pace, his fists clenched, adrenaline singing in his ears. "It's over," he gasped out, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. "There's nowhere to go."

Silence. Only the sound of rain drumming against corrugated iron roofs.

Adam stepped cautiously toward the largest dumpster. He imagined the camera angles—the claustrophobic framing, the creeping dread. He grabbed the edge of the heavy black cloak protruding from behind the bin and yanked it hard.

It was just the cloak.

Adam spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. A rusted fire escape ladder rattled thirty feet above him. He looked up, squinting through the rain, just in time to see a dark, agile figure vault over the edge of the roof and disappear.

He had vanished. Like a magic trick.

Adam punched the brick wall in frustration, his knuckles splitting. He had the killer in his grasp, and he let him slip away.

But as he leaned against the wet brick, gasping for air, a sudden realisation hit him. He pushed himself off the wall and sprinted all the way back to the school.

The auditorium was being evacuated by panicked teachers. Adam pushed his way through the crowd of maroon blazers until he found the girl from the fourth row. Samantha. She was standing near the front gates, trembling, still clutching the small wooden box.

"Don't open that," Adam said gently, approaching her. He took off his wet jacket and draped it over her shoulders. "I'm the police. I need you to hand that to me."

Samantha, wide-eyed and terrified, surrendered the box.

Adam carried it to a nearby bench. He carefully untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside, resting on a bed of black velvet, was a pristine porcelain doll.

Adam closed the lid tight. The killer had escaped, but for the first time, Adam had beaten him to the punch. The cycle was broken. Samantha was safe. Now, all Adam had to do was figure out who the hell was hiding behind the silver mask.