My name is Victor Hudson. They once called me "the real-life Sherlock Holmes."
Ninety-nine cases, ninety-nine victories. I thought justice was my solo performance.
Until the hundredth case, when that young man stood smiling before me and tore apart the truth I'd painstakingly pieced together, page by page, tossing it into the fireplace.
He said, "The most beautiful pieces have never been solos." Firelight played across his face as he bowed, like a conductor at the end of a grand finale.
I burned my name and fled to the ends of the earth, burying my past with a violin.
Every night, the sea wind tore my music to pieces, just as he had torn the evidence apart.
Then a tavern owner died before my eyes, clutching half a scrap of paper.
A naval lieutenant colonel leaning on a cane stood beside me and said, "I'll go with you."
Only then did I understand: some pasts can't be escaped, and some people must be faced.
On that invitation from hell, his handwriting was still elegant: "Mr. Andrei, welcome back."
This time, I'll be the one to place the final rest in this piece.
