Page 25

The aroma of freshly cooked pasta and garlic bread wafted through the cozy cottage in Great Amwell. A soft golden glow from a floor lamp lit the small dining table, where Finn, Amelia, and Rob sat in contented silence, savoring the remnants of a shared meal. On the far side of the room, a television murmured soundlessly, the evening news scrolling in subtitles across the bottom of the screen.

Rob leaned back in his chair, swirling the dregs of red wine in his glass. “So,” he said, eyes flicking between Finn and Amelia. “You figured out Theodore was behind it all because of his wrist?”

Finn offered a casual shrug and took a sip of his own wine. “I wasn’t one-hundred percent sure, but it lined up with the killer’s twisting motion. And given everything else, it made sense at the time.”

Amelia laughed, reaching over to nudge Finn’s arm lightly. “He may be modest, but trust me—his gut is usually right.”

Finn grinned, patting his stomach. "It's a six-pack, Winters. A highly trained gut.”

Rob snorted and glanced at the muted TV, where footage of flashing cameras and frantic reporters played across the screen. “Well, someone leaked Theodore’s motive to the press. They’re having a field day. Every station is talking about how the club orchestrated Terrance Mansfield’s downfall.”

Finn took a contemplative sip of wine, trying not to look too pleased. Rob’s gaze flicked pointedly to him. “Finn… you don’t happen to know who leaked it, do you?”

Finn threw up a hand in mock protest. “ Moi? All I know is the people responsible for ruining Terrance Mansfield deserve a little day in court—even if it’s just the court of public opinion.”

Rob massaged his temples, a half-annoyed, half-amused groan escaping him. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

Pushing his chair back, Finn stood to gather the dishes. “All right, I’ll clean up.”

But Amelia waved him away, scooting her chair back. “Nope. You cooked. I’ll handle the washing up.”

Finn opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. “I’m not going to fight you on that,” he said with a wry smile.

Amelia picked up the plates and made for the kitchen, passing in front of the television. Something on the screen distracted her, and her foot caught momentarily on the rug; a startled gasp escaped her as plates slipped from her grip. They shattered on the floor with a crash.

Finn was at her side in an instant. “Hey—are you okay?” he asked, voice laced with concern.

She didn’t respond, just stared transfixed at the television behind him. Rob stood, following her gaze. On the screen, a news anchor was wrapping up a segment—clearly the moment of the Monarch Club arrests. In the background, paparazzi flashes lit the scene of Finn, Amelia, and Rob emerging from the club.

Amelia opened her mouth and closed it again, eyes wide. “Is there a way to watch that again?” she asked, already reaching for the remote.

Finn nodded. “I’ve got a digital recorder.” He grabbed a second remote and rewound. “All mod cons.”

The footage flicked backward until they found the clip of themselves leaving the club, the feed showing them flanked by reporters and camera bulbs blazing.

“Play it from there,” Amelia said. She leaned closer as the segment resumed, the camera zeroing in on Amelia, Finn, and Rob in mid-step. Despite the chaos on-screen, Finn attempted humor. “Look at that—I think both my sides are my good side.”

Amelia didn’t laugh. She grabbed the remote from him, replaying the segment in slow motion. Pause. On the screen, a slice of the crowd leaped into focus—an onlooker not brandishing a camera or a microphone but staring at them with a twisted, almost gleeful grin.

“My God…” Amelia breathed, her face going pale.

Rob stepped up behind her. “What is it? Who’s that?”

She pointed at the paused image. “That’s Wendell Reed. The Butcher of Lothian. And... He was watching us!”