Page 11

Finn slid behind the wheel of his Corvette, casting a quick glance in the rearview mirror. Rob had squeezed into the back seat, his brow already furrowing as though he anticipated trouble. Amelia settled in the passenger seat, trying not to appear as shaken as she felt. The sun was still climbing in the late morning sky, painting the world in a pale, unsettled light.

No one spoke for a beat. Outside, uniformed officers continued to move around Geoffrey Wardlow’s stately home—photographing the front garden, taking statements from the neighbors. Finn’s gaze lingered on the black-and-yellow police tape fluttering near the door. Another life lost, connected to The Monarch Club. Another victim with a poker chip forcibly placed in his body. But the only thing on his mind now was why the Amelia's phone call had upset her so much.

Finally, Rob cleared his throat from the back seat. “Any chance this car got a thorough cleaning recently, Finn?”

Finn shifted the ignition key, but didn’t start the engine yet. “I had it detailed after I bought it,” he said, tapping the dashboard affectionately. “Why? You not a fan of the unique perfume of vintage upholstery?”

Rob snorted. “It smells like something died back here. Not saying it’s your fault, but—” He waved a hand in front of his nose. “Could stand an air freshener or two. Forensics would have a field day.”

Finn exchanged an amused look with Amelia. “I told you, the previous owner left it in a garage for ages. Some moisture damage, maybe a little bit of mold. Got rid of it all. A whiff of leftover mustiness is no big deal.”

“Uh-huh,” Rob muttered. “Sounds more like a coffin on wheels. Who was the previous owner—Dracula?”

Finn couldn’t help but grin. “Wow, real funny. You two are just not connoisseurs. Classic cars are lost on the likes of you. And you especially, Winters,” he teased, gently nudging her with his elbow. “All you see is a big red clunker that needs its windows replaced.”

Amelia didn’t respond with her usual quip, though. She stared out the windshield at the line of hedges that separated the property from the country lane. Her shoulders looked tense, jaw tight. Finn clocked this right away—her mind was a million miles from the banter. He glanced at her profile. Still shaken about Wendell Reed’s escape, no doubt.

With a turn of the ignition, he carefully eased the Corvette onto the gravel, reversing out onto the rural road. The tires crunched over loose stones. Rob wrestled with his seat belt, grumbling under his breath, but the tension in the air was too thick for jokes to truly land.

Once they were on a smoother stretch, Finn cleared his throat. "So, let's not dodge the obvious anymore. Amelia—tell us what happened with that phone call. What's going on?"

She exhaled, gaze pinned on the horizon. “It was about a criminal who has escaped while being transported.” Another pause, as if she were summoning the will to revisit old scars. “I guess I should start at the beginning. It was near the start of my career. Eight years ago, maybe a bit more. The press called him the Butcher of Lothian. He terrorized parts of Scotland for months—random attacks, brutal murders. I wasn’t assigned to the case. I was just… in the Met, doing regular constable work at the time. But I took a holiday up north to see some family near Glasgow.”

Rob shifted in the back seat, leaning forward. "I remember reading a footnote about it in your file that you assisted in capturing Wendell Reed, the butcher."

Amelia grimaced. “That’s the sanitized version. I was at a bar late one night, supposed to meet an old friend. I stepped outside for some air and saw a young woman walking alone on the pavement. A car pulled up, and a man got out, following her. Right away, I noticed he was moving in this predatory way—like he was sizing her up. Then it clicked: he matched some of the artist impressions of the Butcher that had been doing the rounds. I’d seen them on every newsstand. Something in his posture, his face… I just knew.”

Finn kept his focus on the road, though every part of him wanted to twist around and give her his undivided attention. “So you followed him?”

She nodded, swallowing. “The woman took a shortcut down a lane. He followed. I trailed him. I yelled—told him to stop. That I was police. He turned around, looked at me like I was something on the sole of his shoe. Then…” She trailed off, throat bobbing.

Rob made a low sound. “You got into a fight?”

Amelia’s voice dipped. “He slammed me to the ground before I could do anything. Pinned me by the throat. I couldn’t breathe. My vision was fading. Then the woman intervened—she must’ve grabbed something, a bottle or a heavy object, and struck him on the head. He turned on her.” A tremor flickered across Amelia’s voice. “By the time I managed to get to my feet, he’d… broken her neck. Just like that. Snapped it. I'll never forget her glassy eyes.”

Finn felt a chill roll down his spine. “Christ,” he murmured softly. He risked a glance at Amelia’s profile. She seemed determined not to let tears show, but her eyes looked distant, haunted by that memory.

She continued in a tight voice, “I saw a piece of brick on the ground. He had his back turned to me, so I swung. Knocked him out cold. After that, local police arrived. When they came to take him away, I remember him coming around and staring at me. Just staring. It felt like I was being watched by something evil. I know that sounds strange.”

“It isn’t at all,” Finn said, gently.

Silence reigned for a few heavy seconds. Even Rob, who could be brusque at times, wore an expression of subdued respect. “If he's escaped.. Did he hold a grudge?” Rob guessed.

Amelia nodded. “He never forgave me that I recognized him, purely by chance, on holiday. He told the press at his trial that he was ‘robbed of freedom by a random nobody who wasn’t even on duty.’ In his twisted view, I guess if it had been an official policeman from the manhunt, he’d accept it. But a constable on holiday, interfering in his spree—humiliated him. He wrote letters from prison, sometimes referencing me. The official stance was that he was harmless as long as he was behind bars.”

There was another silence that felt as empty as the grave.

“I was hardly involved in the court case,” Amelia said. “I was at court one day to take the stand and give my account of what had happened. When… When I was giving my account, he grinned widely and mouthed ‘you’re next’. It’s not often that I’ve been afraid in this job, but I was then.”

Finn felt almost sick. He couldn't believe the parallels between this and Max Vilne. They had spent months under the fear of him lurking out there, and now that was over and as they had settled into their romance together, Finn knew in his bones that he and Amelia were facing something worse. He could handle a killer coming for him, but one hell-bent on getting at Amelia… That was something he couldn't stomach.

Finn’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “But now he’s escaped.” It wasn’t a question. The reality hung between them, thick and ominous.

She nodded, pulling in a shaky breath. “Yes. I learned about it from that phone call earlier. Some official was trying to warn me that he’s out, in case he tries to contact or harm me. They said it happened in Scotland, and that I shouldn't worry, but to stay vigilant.”

Rob cleared his throat, forcing a note of reassurance. “Let’s not overreact, Amelia. Escapes happen, but the authorities track them down. I can have a couple of constables keep an eye on you whenever you're off duty.”

Amelia let out a hollow chuckle. “You remember how you all thought it was unlikely Max Vilne would break out to come after Finn? Well, that happened. Looks like I get to be the next cautionary tale. It feels like we’re cursed. Like if fate doesn’t get you once, it will have another bite at the apple.”

Finn grimaced at the mention of Vilne, the psycho who had chased him halfway across the Atlantic. He reached over to gently pat Amelia’s knee. “Hey. If Wendell Reed tries anything, he’ll find out the hard way you’re not that ‘random nobody’ he claims. And we'll be here to look out for you.”

She mustered a small nod, though worry still clouded her eyes. “I appreciate that. But we’ve never faced anything like this.”

“We took down Vilne,” Finn reassured her. But there was something in her gaze, something that said this was different.

“Vilne was a serial killer who wanted to be famous,” Amelia said. “He had bigger plans. Wendell Reed is different. He prefers to toy with people like prey caught in his teeth. He’s evil in a way I can’t comprehend. Even Vilne pales in comparison. He’s evil. Evil and twisted.”

Rob nodded as well. “Amelia, I’ll say this outright: if you want to hand over The Monarch Club case to someone else while you deal with Reed’s threat, just say the word. You have full leave to protect yourself and—”

“No,” Amelia cut in, her tone firm despite the lingering tremor. “If I step away from the case, I’ll only obsess over Reed anyway. I can’t live like that—waiting for something to happen. I’d rather work, keep my mind on the job. If he shows up, we’ll deal with it. But until then…” She shrugged, forcing an air of bravado. “I can handle it.”

Rob’s shoulders relaxed marginally. “Alright. But the second you feel unsafe—”

“I’ll let you know,” Amelia finished for him. She folded her arms, staring out at the countryside drifting by, where clusters of trees dotted rolling fields. The morning’s cold sunlight lit the horizon, but the weight of Wendell’s reappearance cast a long shadow in her mind.

Finn wanted to hold her. Wanted to tell her everything would be okay. “Amelia…” He said softly. “I think we should consider Rob’s point. Maybe you and I should go somewhere together, somewhere Wendell Reed won’t know until they catch him. If anything happened to you, I’d…”

“No, Finn,” she said in a low voice. “Please don’t ask me again. I need this. I need to keep working.”

Finn didn’t like that. He just wanted to take her somewhere safe. But he knew better than to argue with her now that could wait for another time.

Finn eased around a tight bend in the road. Gravel crunched under the tires as they neared an intersection. “So, what’s our next step for the actual case here? We’ve got two murdered Monarch Club members, both with vintage poker chips left as a message.”

Amelia drew a slow breath, letting her posture shift into that of a seasoned investigator, compartmentalizing her personal fears. “We find out where those chips came from, see if there’s a link to a specific collector, since they are vintage. And we speak with Geoffrey Wardlow’s widow. Rob, you did say she’s back in London, right?”

Rob nodded in the back seat. “Word is she’s at their second home, a flat near the city center. We’ve got constables posted there, but she’s agreed to talk.”

Finn glanced at Amelia. “Then that’s where we head next?”

She gave a definitive nod. “Yes, let’s go see Mrs. Wardlow.”

“You can drop me off in London while you're at it,” Rob said.

Just then, Finn navigated a final turn, and the rural road merged onto a wider thoroughfare leading toward the motorway. He accelerated, the Corvette's engine growling in protest but obeying his command. The morning haze gave way to a clearer patch of sky, allowing sunlight to beam onto the windshield. Despite the golden light, Finn's mind replayed Amelia's story of Wendell Reed, imagining her pinned down in that alley, the murderer's grip at her throat. A chill coursed through him.

Over the next half hour, conversation ebbed and flowed—discussions about potential club suspects, speculation about any grudges Sir Richard Doyle or Geoffrey Wardlow might have stirred. Rob made occasional calls on his phone, coordinating with the local station for statements and evidence. Amelia tapped notes into her phone. Finn concentrated on driving, but his thoughts wandered to the caution in Amelia’s voice whenever she spoke of Wendell. She wasn’t one to show fear lightly, which only underscored the seriousness of the threat.

At one point, Rob groaned from the back seat. “This smell, man. It’s getting worse by the minute.”

“It’s not the car,” Finn shot back, half-joking. “It’s your natural musk.”

Rob merely sighed, glancing at Amelia. “He’s hopeless, Winters. Absolutely hopeless.”

She gave a half-hearted chuckle. “If Wendell Reed doesn't kill me, both of your jokes will.”

When they eventually approached the motorway, the lane expanded, lined with more cars heading toward London. Finn merged with traffic, gearing up for the drive that would return them from the countryside to the city’s sprawl. The hum of the engine steadied into a near-constant roar, overshadowing the day’s quiet start.

As the miles sped by, Amelia made another phone call, presumably setting up a time to meet Mrs. Wardlow at her city flat.

Finn's dream from earlier flashed unbidden in his mind: the surreal corridors of The Monarch Club, the fluttering curtains, and the horrifying sight of Amelia’s lifeless form. He snuck a look at her, reassuring himself she was right there, breathing and alive.

He pressed down on the accelerator, wanting to hasten their arrival in London.