The letter felt heavier in Arthur's hand than it should have. Each word, each curve of the Queen's painted eyes, dug into him like hooks laced with memory.
He glanced at Evelyn again—composed but trembling at the edges.
"You said someone killed someone you loved," Arthur murmured.
She hesitated. Then, voice low:"My brother. Two years ago. In a clinic fire."Her eyes flicked to the side. "Arson, they said. But it was too clean. Too… buried."
"Fenwick?" Arthur asked.
"He was the health board's chief inspector at the time," she said bitterly. "The investigation disappeared within a week. My brother's name was never cleared. Just another file stamped and sealed."
Arthur's gaze sharpened. "And you never thought to come forward?"
"To who, Mr. Virelith?" she snapped. "To the same people who buried the report? The same system he controlled?"
She turned away, fists clenched."I'm not the killer," she whispered. "But I wanted him to pay."
Arthur believed her.
But belief wasn't proof.
And proof was the only thing that could stop the chains from tightening around him.
Back in the lounge, the mood had shifted. The laughter had dulled to murmurs. People were beginning to sense something was wrong—an instinct shared among strangers when the air changes.
Luke was leaning against the bar, nursing a black coffee and watching the room like a hawk in a storm. When Arthur entered, Luke caught his eye and walked over.
"Find anything?" he asked under his breath.
"Evelyn received a note," Arthur said, sliding into a shadowed booth with him. "Same card. Same tone. Promising justice."
Luke whistled low. "So someone's setting people up. Using their pain to build alibis."
"Or motives," Arthur said. "Make everyone a suspect. Let paranoia do the work."
Luke tapped a knuckle on the table. "So who's left on our list?"
Arthur thought.
Elric Monroe—former defense lawyer. Known for defending clients others wouldn't touch.
Dr. Evelyn Cross—surgeon with a buried grudge.
Captain Reinhart—the decorated soldier, quiet but always watching.
And a few passengers whose faces were too calm for the chaos brewing.
Arthur's eyes drifted to the far side of the lounge.
There, sipping brandy alone, was Seraphine Dale—a mystery novelist. Elegant. Observant. And eerily amused by all of it.
"She hasn't moved since the lights flickered," Luke noted. "Like she's waiting for act two."
Arthur stood. "Let's not disappoint her."
Seraphine Dale welcomed them with a smile that never quite touched her eyes.
"I wondered when you'd come around," she said, swirling the brandy. "Murder has a scent, and I assume you've been tracking it."
Arthur didn't sit. "How much do you know?"
"I know that Mr. Fenwick is missing. That a doctor is quietly rattled. And that you," she glanced at Arthur, "are beginning to look haunted."
He met her gaze without flinching. "You've seen a Queen of Spades before."
She blinked. That—that—was her tell. Half a second of genuine surprise.
But then, she smiled again. "So it's you. The survivor from the Argent Line."
Arthur's blood chilled.
Few knew about the Argent Line Massacre. Fewer still knew someone had survived it.
"How?" he asked, voice low.
"I write stories," she said, brushing a stray hair back. "And I listen. Your name came up in a whisper at a dinner party in Paris. A man spoke of a boy with eyes like broken glass. Said you looked at death and flinched too late."
Arthur said nothing.
She leaned in. "They're recreating it, aren't they? The killer. The cards. The setting. But this time, you're awake. Watching."
Luke frowned. "Wait. The Argent Line… That was your case?"
Arthur nodded once. "Seventeen dead. Only me left. They called it a terrorist act."
Seraphine's smile vanished. "But it wasn't, was it?"
"No," Arthur said. "It was a message. To me."
And now…
It was happening again.
The train gave a lurch. Outside, the fog thickened, curling like claws around the windows. The lights above flickered once, twice.
Then a scream cut through the corridor.
Arthur was already moving before the others stood up.
Back through the lounge. Down the corridor. Toward Cabin 7.
The door was wide open.
And inside—
Elric Monroe sat hunched over at the edge of the bed.
A Queen of Spades was pinned to the wall behind him, slick with red.