Detective William Murdoch stood rigidly, his hat in his hands, as Julia pulled back the white sheet. The face beneath was pale, frozen in a silent gasp—a telegraph operator named Samuel Finch.

Murdoch lowered the needle. A hiss of static filled the room. Then, a voice—Finch’s—thin and trembling.

“This better not be another one of your invisible ink follies, Murdoch,” Brackenreid grumbled.

He looked up at Brackenreid. “We need to find the man who owns the quietest room in Toronto. And arrest him before he silences us all.”

Murdoch turned back to the phonograph. “Crabtree, what is the opposite of a recording?”