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Finn woke to the gentle sensation of Amelia’s fingers combing through his hair. The morning light filtered through the bedroom curtains of his cottage in Great Amwell, illuminating floating dust that danced in the golden Spring sunbeam. He groaned softly, enjoying the soothing motion of Amelia’s hand—until he remembered they had important business. Her presence made it tempting to stay in bed, though.

He blinked the sleep from his eyes, noticing how cold the air felt outside the covers. Still, Amelia’s body radiated warmth next to him, and he considered burrowing back under the duvet. She caught the reluctance in his expression and gave him a small, knowing smile.

“We need to get ready,” she said, a note of regret in her tone. “Rob called. Wednesday Knott has something new for us.” Her fingertips paused, then withdrew.

Finn let out a theatrical sigh, hugging the duvet. “It’s cold outside of the bed—there’s a reason I’m not jumping to my feet. It's tough for a Florida boy to adapt to your climate, you know.”

Amelia chuckled, then scooted closer. Her breath warmed his ear. “I’d love to stay here, too, but we can’t ignore a fresh lead.” Even as she spoke, her body pressed nearer, as if reluctant to move. After a moment, she forced herself to sit up.

He pushed himself upright, the duvet sliding off his chest. A shiver ran through him. “Wednesday Knott,” he muttered groggily. “You mean Wednesday Adams?”

Amelia swatted his chest playfully. “Don’t start. And here I thought you were warming up to her.”

Finn cracked a grin. “She’s all right—just has that slightly macabre vibe in how she works. You have to admit, the name doesn’t help.”

Rolling her eyes, Amelia stood, the floor creaking under her feet. “No time for your jokes,” she said. “We need to hurry or Rob will send the entire constabulary after us.”

Finn stretched his arms overhead. “You could always go without me,” he teased, “let me relax, you know… I am a very important member of The Monarch Club now. Next thing you know, they’ll be knighting me, Sir Finn Wright.” He added an overly pompous tone at the end.

Amelia’s expression turned wry. “If you don’t get your backside into the shower, I’ll deny you all girlfriend privileges from here on out. And that’s not a threat, it’s a promise.”

With a mock-horrified gasp, Finn placed a hand over his heart. “You wouldn’t dare.”

She smiled sweetly, arching an eyebrow. “Try me.”

He threw off the duvet, the cool air biting his skin. “All right, Winters. I know when I’m beaten.”

Standing, he gave her a soft kiss on the forehead. “Fine, I’ll shower. You close deals like nobody’s business. The old boys at The Monarch could learn something from you.”

She laughed, her voice echoing through the small cottage bedroom. “I’ll let you handle the shady business practices, thanks. Now move.”

***

Finn looked at the building for a moment in the cold, stark light. The morgue itself, squat and functional, looked older than many of the sleek city structures surrounding it. A sign near the entrance read Forensic Pathology Services—Authorized Personnel Only.

Finn held the door for Amelia. “After you,” he said, half in courtesy, half in an attempt to lighten the mood. She offered him a quick half-smile in return, her nerves clearly on edge.

They navigated a maze of dim corridors, following signs labeled Pathology Unit. The buzz of fluorescent lights overhead set the sterile tone. A passing technician nodded at them, expression neutral, used to the presence of police and investigators. At last, they found the right door. Beyond it lay a stark area with stainless-steel counters, freezers, and a faint smell of antiseptic that failed to fully mask the reality of death and dissection.

There stood Wednesday Knott , wearing a white lab coat, her blond hair pinned back in a neat bun, and those intense blue eyes behind thin-framed glasses. As if by comedic design, the overhead lights flickered once, giving an eerie effect—Finn couldn’t help but think she belonged in a horror story. He stifled a grin, stepping forward.

She noticed them and waved, her expression as neutral as ever. “You’re late,” she said mildly, though not unkindly.

Finn glanced around the rather grim environment. “A place like this suits you, Doctor Knott. Very atmospheric.”

Wednesday rolled her eyes in a show of well-practiced exasperation. “Ignore him,” Amelia said. “We appreciate you calling us in so quickly.”

Nodding, Wednesday motioned for them to follow into a colder, smaller room beyond. The overhead lamp shone harshly on two gurneys, each holding a body zipped in a gray bag. A single steel table sat to the side, stacked with trays of surgical tools.

“I’ve been examining the injuries on both Sir Richard Doyle and Geoffrey Wardlow,” Wednesday explained. “I found something that might help identify our killer.”

Finn immediately stepped closer, but then remembered the first time he nearly got in the pathologist’s way. He hung back a foot, letting Amelia stand beside Wednesday.

With gloved hands, Wednesday carefully unzipped a portion of Geoffrey Wardlow’s body bag. She indicated the top of the victim’s skull, where a clear incision had been made. “Right here is the entry wound—knife driven downward. But look at this detail: a slight spiral effect on the tissue. It suggests the knife twisted mid-thrust.”

Amelia leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Like the killer’s wrist turned it? On purpose?”

“Potentially. Except it would be unusual to do so intentionally and consistently,” Wednesday replied. She zipped the bag again and turned to the second gurney. “Now, with Sir Richard’s injuries—liver, heart, jugular—the incisions also have that slight spiral pattern.”

Finn’s mind raced. “So the murderer has a particular quirk to their stabbing motion?”

"Exactly," Wednesday said, stepping to the side to let them see a portion of Sir Richard's autopsy incisions. She pointed with a pen. "It might be from a chronic injury that forces their wrist to rotate at the moment of impact. Like a bone not set right after a fracture or a ligament tear that never healed. In any case, it’s consistent between both bodies.”

A quiet awe settled over Finn. This meant they had a direct link between the two murders—further evidence that the same individual was behind both. “So we’re certain it’s the same killer,” he murmured.

“Yes,” Wednesday affirmed. “I can’t see it being coincidence for two separate killers to have that exact same twisting motion. It’s precise, easily overlooked, but consistent.”

Amelia put a hand to her chin thoughtfully. “Good work. This could be a big lead. If we find someone with a wrist issue, that might narrow down suspects.”

Finn considered the vast membership of The Monarch. “Plenty of people out there are right-handed. But an old fracture or tendon problem that sets a pattern of twisting… That’s not as common. We can investigate members with sports injuries, past accidents, that kind of thing.”

Wednesday nodded. “If you gather medical records—though I know privacy laws apply—this detail might lead you to the killer. Or at least bring them under suspicion.”

He offered her a nod of thanks. “We’ll do what we can. Great job, Doctor.”

With that, she moved to a small side table where she'd laid out two sealed evidence bags, each holding a single poker chip. "Also, these. The chips removed from both victims. I asked a numismatic expert to examine them. They're definitely from the 1970s, custom-made. Not mass-produced by a known casino. So no straightforward tracing."

“Numismatic?” Finn repeated. “Now that's a hell of a fancy word for a coin expert.”

Amelia sighed. “So it’s a dead end, for now.”

Wednesday gave a small shrug. “I wouldn’t call it a dead end, just inconclusive. He said they might be from a private set someone commissioned decades ago. Possibly a group of gamblers or collectors.”

Finn exhaled slowly, absorbing the news. “Another piece pointing to some long-running gambling circle. Still, at least we know. Thank you.”

She placed the chips back in their storage container with meticulous care. “I’m sure you’d prefer a nicer location to hear all this. But you’ll have to settle for the morgue, I’m afraid.”

“You look at home here,” Finn joked softly, ignoring the mental image of these bodies lying open on the steel tables. “But truly, we appreciate your help.”

Amelia nodded, stepping away from the gurneys with a respectful glance. “We won’t keep you. Thank you. Let’s hope next time we see each other, it’s with someone in custody.”

As they turned to go, Wednesday called after them, arching an eyebrow. “Mr. Wright,” she said, “you don’t suit black hair.”

Finn paused in the doorway, half-smirking. “I am wounded, Dr. Knott. Wounded.” Then he tipped an imaginary hat before following Amelia out.

In the corridor, the overhead lights buzzed a little too loudly. A faint antiseptic odor lingered. Finn brushed off a stray chill, leaning toward Amelia to keep his voice low. “We have a solid link now. Same killer, some kind of wrist injury.”

Amelia nodded, a determined light in her eyes. “Exactly. And it matches the poker-chip MO, so we have no doubt it’s one person. But how do we pinpoint someone with a ‘wrist twist’ with access to medical records or having a medical expert evaluate each member?”

Finn gave a wry shrug. “Between your law enforcement channels and Rob’s connections, maybe we’ll glean a few old injuries. People do talk or brag about sport mishaps, fencing accidents, or old war wounds. We’ll have to be creative.”

“I’m going to look through the members list,” Amelia said. “If I can find someone who has a wrist problem or recently had surgery, it might lead us to the killer.”

“Good idea.”

They exited the morgue building into the midday gloom—clouds rolling overhead, promising more rain soon. The hush of traffic moved around them, tires splashing on wet roads. Finn led Amelia back toward their car, a neutral sedan they’d borrowed from the local station for discreet travel.

He settled behind the wheel, mind drifting to what the evening might hold. “I’ll head back to The Monarch for a bit,” he murmured, adjusting the seat belt, “carry on the infiltration.”

Amelia slumped into the passenger seat, letting out a resigned sigh. “Yes, I figured you would. What’s the plan?”

He revved the engine lightly, squinting as a drizzle began hitting the windshield. “I want to see what’s behind that ornate door in the library. James Rutherford all but blocked me from it. Maybe that’s where the high-stakes poker ring is set up. He said someone would need to invite me in, but without anyone knowing me, it's going to be tough. My cover story of being vouched for by another member won’t take me beyond the threshold. I guess I'll have to be extra charismatic.”

She shuddered at the mention of James. “He’s suspicious. Don’t poke too hard, or he’ll see through your ‘Devlin Foster’ persona.”

Finn pursed his lips. "I'll be subtle. But if there's anywhere where board members like Sir Richard and long-standing members like Geoffrey Wardlow might meet away from the others, it's behind that ornate door." He paused, meeting her eyes. "We're running short on time—who knows when this killer will strike again?"

“Be careful,” Amelia stressed, placing a hand on his forearm. “Your hunch might lead somewhere, but just remember, any of them could be involved in this. Maybe even more than one of them.”

Her concern warmed him, a reminder of the closeness they’d forged. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, giving her hand a quick squeeze. “I’ve got a knack for stepping out of nooses…most of the time.”