Page 9

Finn steered the red Corvette off the main road, peering through the windshield at the first blush of springtime sun. The morning air carried a crisp edge that hinted at winter’s lingering hold, but the fields on either side shimmered with new buds. Amelia Winters sat beside him, fiddling with the radio in silence until a faint clunking noise punctuated the hum of the engine.

She frowned. “Finn, that sound doesn’t exactly say ‘roadworthy.’”

He shot her a mock-hurt look, tapping the steering wheel. “That’s pure American engineering you’re hearing. Nothing wrong with it—it’s practically a lullaby.”

The Corvette rattled over a shallow pothole, emitting another metallic clank, and Amelia raised an eyebrow as if to say, Sure it is. Finn ignored her skepticism. In truth, he was aware the car could use another trip to the mechanic, but he refused to show doubt in his beloved project.

They continued down a twisting lane that cut through low rolling hills. Sparse copses of trees dotted the horizon. The early spring blossoms couldn’t quite disguise bare branches, and the land looked caught between seasons—patches of bright green mingling with the dull browns of winter. Finally, the lane widened before a row of well-kept hedges, behind which stood a handsome townhouse that looked oddly out of place in this more rural setting.

“They said this was Wardlow’s place,” Finn muttered, scanning the instructions on his phone. “Hard to believe a big shot from The Monarch Club would live so far from the city.”

Amelia glanced up at the sizable structure: a classic stone facade, tall windows, and an imposing front door. Police tape fluttered in the breeze, cordoning off part of the driveway, and several official vehicles crowded the small yard. Uniformed constables moved about in purposeful arcs, their reflective vests catching the morning light.

Finn parked on a patch of gravel near the side, switching off the engine. The Corvette gave a final, stubborn cough before settling into silence. He popped his door open and stretched as he got out. A slice of sunlight revealed dust swirling off the car’s roof, but Finn felt the chill in his lungs, the lingering sting of winter.

"Could pass for a small mansion," he remarked, taking in the townhouse's sturdy architecture. It was at least three stories high, with chimneys peeking above a slate-tiled roof. Ivy climbed one corner while a row of daffodils lined the path leading to the entrance. Clearly, someone had taken pains to keep it aesthetically pleasing.

Amelia shut her door and surveyed the scene. “Police presence is thick. I wonder if the press have already caught on.”

Rob emerged from the open doorway, a phone in hand. He spotted Finn and Amelia, waved them over, and stepped aside to let another officer pass.

“Morning,” Rob greeted, his expression grave. “Glad you got here fast.”

Finn joined him on the path, the gravel crunching underfoot. “We left the second we got your message. What’ve we got?”

Rob exhaled, shifting his weight. “Victim’s name is Geoffrey Wardlow. Middle-aged, well-off, powerful businessman—also a Monarch Club member.”

Amelia’s gaze snapped to Rob. “So it’s definitely connected?”

“Likely,” Rob admitted. “I wouldn’t jump to conclusions, but the parallels are too striking to ignore.”

Finn adjusted the collar of his jacket against the breeze. “Same M.O.?”

Rob gestured for them to follow him inside. “Not identical, but close. A single strike to the head with a large knife. Different approach from Sir Richard, but still a brutal stabbing. We’re trying to verify if anything else lines up.”

As they climbed a short flight of steps to the front door, Finn asked, “Did the killer leave a poker chip in the victim’s mouth too?” He thought of Sir Richard’s body, the chipped token lodged between his lips like a twisted calling card.

Rob shook his head. “We’re not sure yet. Doctor Wednesday Knott is in there,” he said, pointing down the hallway. “She’s examining the body as we speak.”

They stepped into a spacious entry hall with high ceilings and polished floorboards. Light streamed from tall windows on their right, illuminating a staircase that curled to the next level. The decor suggested wealth without ostentation: framed paintings of landscapes, a glossy sideboard bearing a small antique clock. However, the sense of tragedy overshadowed the home’s charm. Police tape cut off part of the corridor, and a constable stood guard, nodding solemnly at their approach.

“This way,” Rob instructed, leading them left into a room that opened onto a hallway near the rear of the house. At the threshold, Finn spotted Wednesday Knott kneeling beside a slumped figure on the floor, her blond hair tied in a bun and her face largely obscured by a mask. A pair of blue-gloved hands moved meticulously over the victim’s clothing.

“Right,” Rob said quietly, stepping aside so Finn and Amelia could see. “Geoffrey Wardlow was found early this morning when local police responded to a welfare call from a neighbor who heard barking. The front door was open.”

The hallway was wide, with a runner rug that ended right where the body lay. A pool of dark, congealed blood stained the floor. The victim’s black beard looked incongruously neat for someone who’d just faced a savage attack. Finn felt a surge of pity. Another life cut short.

Wednesday, Knott glanced up. "Give me a minute, please." Her voice, though muffled by her mask, carried authority. She was rummaging near the wound, her brow furrowed. Finn noticed she had a small evidence bag at the ready.

Amelia, Rob, and Finn stood back. For a moment, the hush was broken only by the subdued chatter of other forensic staff in nearby rooms and the occasional camera flash from the official photographer. Finn saw the victim’s olive skin had paled, lips parted as though he’d been about to speak.

Wednesday suddenly paused, frowning. She extracted something from the corpse’s neck region with a pair of forceps. Finn leaned forward, curiosity piqued. This might be the key to linking the murders.

Wednesday turned, spotting Finn’s movement. Her gaze narrowed behind her glasses. “Mr. Wright,” she said tightly, “I need a bit of space to do my job.”

Rob smirked. “Finally, someone said it.”

Amelia shot Finn a half-smile, as if to say You deserved that.

Undeterred, Finn kept a respectful distance, but he peered carefully when Wednesday rose to her feet. She held a bloodied poker chip in one gloved hand, the pattern partially smeared but recognizable. Amelia’s expression darkened, and Rob let out a low whistle.

"Was it in his mouth again?" Finn asked. But from the angle, Wednesday extracted it, maybe not.

Wednesday shook her head. “No. The killer made an incision in the throat and placed it deeper inside, near the larynx—essentially near his voice box It’s quite a strange placement. Possibly done postmortem or at the moment of death. We’ll need further analysis.”

Finn’s pulse kicked up a notch. “Sir Richard had one lodged in his mouth,” he muttered, thinking aloud. “Now Wardlow has one near his voice box… Could be symbolic. Something about silencing them, or referencing their words.”

Amelia glanced at him, brow furrowed. “That’s plausible. The killer may be punishing them for something they said, or for secrets they might have revealed.”

Rob folded his arms. “And it’s the same style chip?”

Wednesday turned the chip in her forceps. “I’ve studied the original chip from Sir Richard’s autopsy. That one was an older make, from the 1970s—but I haven't been able to identify the exact make yet. This one… appears much the same. I can confirm once I’ve cleaned it and checked for markings.”

Finn exhaled. “So it’s definitely not a coincidence. The killer is sending a message with these chips, and the fact that they’re vintage might tie back to older gambling circles or some past event these men were all a part of.”

Nodding, Amelia stepped closer to the body, careful not to obstruct Wednesday’s work. She surveyed the victim’s face, the angle of his limbs. “Was Wardlow also on The Monarch’s board, by any chance?”

Rob consulted a small notepad. “According to the membership records, he’s a longtime member. Not on the board currently. But I recall overhearing he temporarily filled in last year for someone who was unwell.” He glanced at Finn and Amelia. “Might be relevant if this is about board decisions at the club, perhaps.”

Finn frowned. “If the killer’s targeting individuals tied to the club’s leadership or discipline, that puts other board members on the list. Or even temporary ones.”

Wednesday carefully placed the poker chip into a labeled evidence bag. “If that’s all from me, Inspector Winters, I need to transport Mr. Wardlow for a formal autopsy. I’ll let you know if I discover further anomalies.”

Amelia gave a quick nod. “Understood, Doctor Knott. Thank you.”

“Have a good day, Inspector.” Wednesday acknowledged Amelia alone, then turned away, passing the bag to a forensics tech. Finn got the distinct impression he’d been deliberately ignored again, which, in another context, might have amused him.

Once Wednesday left, Rob sighed. “Alright, so we have a second murder, presumably linked. The question is, who’s next?”

Finn pinched the bridge of his nose, sorting through the possibilities. “We need to find out if these men shared some other connection. Of all the members of the club, why these two?”

Amelia’s phone buzzed. She dug it from her pocket, squinted at the screen, and answered curtly. “Winters.” Rob and Finn exchanged a look, waiting for her reaction. She listened silently, and as the caller spoke, her face drained of color, leaving her complexion pale. Her eyes went slightly wide.

“Amelia?” Finn asked, stepping forward. “Is everything alright?”

She lowered the phone, expression drawn. “No,” she managed, but her voice was tight. Fear radiated off her in a way Finn rarely saw.

Rob’s forehead creased. “What’s happened?”

For a moment, Amelia looked torn, words forming then dissolving. Her breathing hitched. She didn’t offer an explanation, just stared off into the hallway, lips parted but silent. Finn felt a chill, the atmosphere in the corridor intensifying. Something grave had rattled Amelia deeply— beyond just another murder. He placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to anchor her.

She swallowed hard, still looking stricken. “I—” She swallowed again and pressed her lips together, eyes glistening with a sudden vulnerability. Then, with a stilted movement, she raised her phone again, stepping away from both men.

Finn and Rob exchanged anxious glances. He wanted to demand answers, to know who had called and what left Amelia so pale, but he also knew it wasn’t his place to push her in that moment. She needed a second to gather herself. The hush in the hallway felt suffocating, the presence of a second murder overshadowed by whatever news had just arrived on the phone.

He thought about the nightmarish vision he'd had earlier that morning—Amelia in danger, an unknown threat lurking behind curtains. Now, reality cast a similarly ominous shadow. All he could do was wait, heart pounding, for Amelia to reveal what had rocked her composure.