Frank stepped into the room cautiously; his sharp eyes darting here and there, nervously at first but a few seconds later, a hard look immediately replaced the initial dread in his eyes.

The room was a mess. And just as he expected, there was nobody in the room Overturned tables and chairs crowded one corner of the small single room; the bed was unmade with shredded pieces of paper scattered all over the place, and what truly sent a chill down Frank’s spine was the large gramophone sitting on top of the dresser, the record whirring round and round in a dizzying spin. Each word of the haunting song seemed to tug on the strings of his heart.

"Sir?"

Fenton turned around and grabbed the bright-green envelope an officer was handing him. "Found this in the bathroom, sir."

Frank’s eyes grew wide. Before Fenton had the chance to open it, Frank forgot all about his injury and snatched it out of his father’s. He hissed in pain and dropped the envelope like a hot lump of coal. It was exactly the same as the mysterious note she had left after the attempt to wrench all his fingers out of their sockets nearly met its goal.

"What is it?" Fenton asked, concerned. Picking up the envelope from the floor, he studied it for a while before opening it carefully. In the same, crude handwriting was written,

Fenton’s eyes narrowed. He had tried to keep his cool from the very beginning, knowing that a clear head was needed more than anything if he ever wanted to solve this case, but this was getting personal. Too personal. First, Joe got hurt a couple of times. Frank was the latest victim. What next? What initially seemed to be just another string of murders looked more and more like a personal vendetta against his family, especially his sons. And who the hell is A.B.? Or what could A.B. stand for?

"I’d better call Joe," Frank said slowly.

"You do that," his father agreed. But when Frank hung up the phone a few moments later with a perplexed look on his face, he frowned. "What’s the matter."

"A machine answered. ‘The number you have dialled is not in service’," Frank mimicked a robotic female voice but there was nothing amusing in the tome of his voice. "How is that possible?"

"Try again."

"I did. Thrice. The same thing."

Fenton shrugged. "Something wrong with the line, I guess." He watched as the police officers walked around the whole room, dusting here and there for fingerprints that might be connected to the murders, knowing that they were not going to find any, as the case had always been in the previous murders.

Frank was unconvinced. He couldn’t help but feel that something had gone wrong. A bad feeling that something terrible was coming their way, all the more pronounced with the presence of the disturbing note which was obviously meant for the Hardys, staring back at him in stark, bold letters in all its threatening and menacing glory.

"Sir?" A young cop stepped forward and held out his walkie-talkie, his face ashen.

Puzzled, Fenton accepted it. "What is it, Danny?" Frank looked at his father sharply. Fenton shrugged and pressed on a button, speaking into the speaker.

"This is Ginger."

"Sir…" A voice drawled hesitantly after a loud burst of static. "Sir, there’s been an accident just outside of town, involving, uh, a black van-" Frank’s sharp intake of breath sent tremors down Fenton’s body, "and a towing truck. I-umm, the registration number of the van, sir, it’s yours."

Fenton gripped the walkie-talkie in his hand and closed his eyes. The hesitation in the cop’s voice said it all. "And?" He whispered, his voice trembling.

"I’m sorry, sir, but they-Your son and his girlfriend-" Frank had long ago since stopped breathing, his ashen face frozen in a mask of dread.

"They didn’t survive."