️ Zane Faulkner and The Blood Manuscript
London — 6:35 PM
The rain poured like secrets from the sky, tapping against the old windows of the Marlborough Library. Inside, under the warm glow of a chandelier, Zane Faulkner leaned back on a leather chair, fingers clasped, eyes closed — not asleep, but deep in thought.
Across from him, Eli stared out the foggy glass, sipping tea.
“I swear, Zane,” he muttered, “We haven’t had a case in days. I’m starting to miss getting shot at.”
Zane smirked without opening his eyes. “Careful what you wish for.”
Just then, a knock at the door. It creaked open, and Dr. Lyra Vance stepped in, trench coat wet, cheeks flushed, eyes hiding storms.
“I need ten minutes,” she said firmly.
Eli blinked. “You again?”
Lyra ignored him, her gaze locked on Zane. “I’m not here for you. I’m here because a very old manuscript just reappeared… and it’s soaked in blood.”
Zane opened one eye. “Now that’s how you say hello.”
Marlborough Archives — 8:15 PM
The library’s restricted section smelled of dust and forgotten truths. On a heavy oak table lay a book — The Manuscript of Dunwell, thought lost for over 70 years. Its leather binding was cracked, and the last page stained with dried, rust-colored blood.
Lyra folded her arms. “This manuscript was part of a collection that vanished after a fire in 1951. No one’s seen it since.”
Zane leaned closer. “So where did it suddenly appear?”
“In a box… anonymously returned. And here’s the kicker — the blood is fresh.”
Eli stepped back. “Fresh? As in… recent?”
Lyra nodded. “Less than a week old.”
Zane smiled faintly. “Books are rarely this dramatic.”
He flipped through the pages, stopping at the stained one. A faint inscription was etched into the margin:
“Truth buries itself deeper than bones.”
Next Morning — 10:00 AM
They interviewed the head librarian, an elderly man named Walter Green, who claimed no knowledge of how the book had been returned. But something about his tremble — and the way his eyes darted toward the east wing — made Zane pause.
Later, in a hallway lined with portraits of ancient authors, Zane said quietly to Eli, “He’s lying. Not just hiding something — afraid of it.”
Eli frowned. “But why would anyone fear a manuscript?”
Zane looked at the ceiling. “Because this one whispers.”
Mid Investigation — That Night
While examining the east wing archives, a shelf shifted slightly under Zane’s weight, revealing a hidden passage.
“What is it with old libraries and secret tunnels?” Eli whispered.
At the end of the narrow corridor lay a room — circular, stone walls, and in its center: a desk, an oil lamp… and a typewriter still holding a page.
Lyra had rejoined them briefly for translation — but left moments before, her presence still lingering like perfume.
Zane pulled the page from the typewriter.
Typed in red ink:
“He returns to write again, but this time, the words will kill.”
Eli paled. “Tell me that’s not blood-red ink.”
Zane held the page closer. “It’s not ink.”
The Twist
As they searched deeper into the hidden chamber, Zane found a file cabinet filled with old notes and manuscripts — all signed by someone named “M. Kingsley.”
Eli whispered, “Wait… that’s Walter Green’s real name, isn’t it?”
Zane nodded slowly. “He changed his name after the fire.”
One document read:
“The truth must remain buried. I’ve silenced three already. If the manuscript speaks again, I’ll silence more.”
Eli stepped back. “So… he’s the killer?”
Zane shook his head. “No. He’s dead. Died two days ago.”
A silence fell between them.
Eli whispered, “Then who…?”
Just then, footsteps echoed.
From the shadowed entrance stepped a man they’d met earlier — Harold Quinn, the soft-spoken janitor, always sweeping near the archives, always polite… invisible.
He clapped slowly.
“Brilliant, Mr. Faulkner. But not brilliant enough.”
Zane narrowed his eyes. “You…?”
Harold smiled. “My father was Kingsley. He died protecting the truth. But now, the truth dies with you.”
He pulled a blade.
The Final Reveal
Before Harold could strike, Zane ducked low and flipped a metal stool into his knees, disarming him.
Police were called. Harold was arrested, still muttering about manuscripts and sacrifices.
Outside the library, as sirens faded, Eli let out a breath. “He was there the whole time. Always quiet. Always present.”
Zane nodded. “Genius move. Be invisible — so no one suspects you.”
Eli looked toward the door. “And Lyra?”
Zane smirked. “She left before it got messy. But she’ll be back.”
Three Days Later
A small envelope arrived at Zane’s apartment.
Inside, a single line handwritten by Lyra:
“Next time, I’ll stay longer. Maybe even listen instead of fight.”
Zane smiled, folding the note gently.
Eli peeked. “You two have issues.”
Zane chuckled. “We have chapters.”
THE END
A missing manuscript soaked in blood, a hidden room in an old library, and a janitor with deadly secrets. This Zane Faulkner mystery grips you from the first line — you won’t stop until the final twist.
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