Page 13 of When You’re Broken (Finn Wright #11)

Wendell paused at the center of the damp basement, leaning on his mop with an air of impatience.

A single naked light bulb glared down, turning the bare concrete floors into dull gray.

The faint stench of bleach and something metallic hung in the enclosed space—a reminder of James Peterson’s final breaths.

Wendell’s gaze wandered over to the battered metal chair where James had been bound earlier in the day, blood streaks still glistening on the floor where Wendell had already scrubbed away the worst of it.

He noticed an errant smear, sighed with mild annoyance, and pushed the mop head over it.

Better to leave no lingering pools. Not because he was trying to avoid leaving evidence, his plan was that he would be long gone from that location by the time the police figured out where he had kept his prisoners.

No, he just liked to run a clean and organized ship.

Turning to the other chair, he noticed Brendan slumped forward, the ropes still digging into his arms and chest. Brendan had passed out, perhaps from shock or exhaustion. Not quite as entertaining as I’d hoped, Wendell thought, stepping closer, letting the mop handle clatter to the floor.

He stared at Brendan for a moment—head lolling, hair plastered to a sweaty forehead.

He’s in no state to amuse me now. The thrill of torment came from seeing fear and desperation in real-time, not from unconscious lumps.

With a casual motion, Wendell raised his hand and delivered a sharp slap across Brendan’s cheek.

“Wake up,” he drawled, voice echoing off the clammy walls.

Brendan jerked upright with a startled gasp, eyes huge and delirious. For a second, confusion flashed across his face, then terror flared when he seemingly realized where he was. The blood spatters on the ground. The empty seat where James had been.

Wendell offered a lazy grin. “Don’t get too scared. I’m not killing you yet. Timing is everything, and your moment hasn’t arrived.”

Brendan swallowed hard, eyes darting to the mop and bucket as though searching for James’s remains. He flinched, voice trembling: “W-what do you want with me now?”

Wendell shrugged, pulling a stained rag from a small table and wiping the last smudges from his gloved hands.

He rarely bothered removing the gloves while working down here.

“I’d tell you, but I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.

” He gave Brendan a mocking half-bow. “Suffice to say, you’re alive until I decide otherwise.

Don’t give me a reason to push that timeline forward. ”

Brendan’s face paled, breath coming too fast. Wendell felt a flicker of satisfaction—fear always had a distinct flavor in the eyes of the captive.

With a flourish, he stepped toward a corner shelf, retrieving an old burlap sack.

The coarse material reeked of mildew, but Wendell only wrinkled his nose at the stench briefly.

“Since I’m heading out,” he said, strolling back to Brendan, “I’d prefer you remain nice and docile. No attempts to free yourself, no yelling for nonexistent help.”

With that, he yanked the sack over Brendan’s head, ignoring the man’s muffled outcry. Rope against rope squeaked as Brendan struggled, but Wendell patted him almost soothingly on the shoulder. “Don’t bother. I’ve double-checked those knots.”

A hoarse cry from beneath the sack signaled Brendan’s panic, but Wendell simply let out a low laugh. He stepped away, retrieving his coat from a hook near the basement’s exit. “Be a good boy and behave,” he said. “Wouldn’t want any nasty accidents while I’m gone.”

Brendan’s screams emerged in muffled whimpers, but Wendell paid them no mind, ascending a short flight of concrete steps. At the top, a battered metal door groaned on its hinges. He stepped through, twisting the lock behind him.

A hallway stretched in dim half-light, dust swirling in the beams of an emergency lamp.

The place had once been a maintenance corridor for a mall that people thronged, but now it was a ghostly labyrinth of closed storefronts, broken skylights, and shattered escalators.

Wendell set a brisk pace along a deserted service hallway that smelled of stale air and old grease from fast-food stands that no longer existed.

Emerging into the main concourse, he surveyed the gloom with a kind of private amusement.

All those years this shopping center thrived, no one guessed it’d be abandoned and claimed by someone like me.

Tiled floors were strewn with trash: crumpled fast-food wrappers, battered mannequins missing limbs, signage that once advertised blowout sales.

The overhead lights had long since died, leaving only dim reflections from a few broken overhead windows.

The entire place felt like an urban graveyard. Perfect for a hideout.

He navigated around an overturned bench.

The hush amplified each footstep. From a distant corridor, a gust of wind rustled plastic sheeting that covered old displays, creating a scraping hush.

Wendell recalled how, in better times, teenage employees would hustle around, cleaning up spilled soda.

Now, no one roamed these corridors except for him—and occasionally, the poor souls he lured down into the basement.

At a cracked glass door near the east entrance, he slipped out into the night.

The parking lot was equally deserted, weeds sprouting through fissures in the asphalt.

A few broken streetlights stood like silent sentinels.

He cut across the lot, footsteps echoing in the hush, until he spotted a figure standing near a blue sedan, the headlights off.

The man looked around nervously, coat collar turned up against the chilly breeze.

Harry Renfield, Wendell thought, letting a faint smile curl his lips. He approached, noticing how Harry stiffened, recognizing Wendell’s silhouette in the gloom.

“You’re late,” Wendell said, though his tone carried a teasing lilt.

Harry coughed, glancing at the watch on his wrist. “Sorry. Traffic out of the city center. Took longer than I expected.” His voice carried the tautness of a man who’d rather be anywhere else.

Wendell eyed the man’s anxious posture. Harry was in his early forties, short hair receding, eyes darting around. Wendell guessed he’d prefer not to be seen with a killer, but he had no choice. He owes me a favor.

“It’s all right,” Wendell said lightly. “Any trouble securing the items?”

Harry inhaled, fiddling with the car keys in his hand. “No… no trouble. Just— Took a few calls. The passports are in that bag.” He nodded at a small holdall on the sedan’s hood. “And the gun, plus the extra magazine, is inside. The car’s got fresh plates. Shouldn’t be traceable.”

Wendell’s grin widened. “I do appreciate your resourcefulness, old friend.” He stepped closer, letting the faint glow from a distant streetlamp reveal the tension in Harry’s eyes. “You should be happy that I won’t call on you again to collect.”

Harry managed a weak nod. “I am. This squares us. I just… I just want to get out of here.”

Wendell set a hand on the holdall, unzipped it partially to confirm the contents: a black-market pistol, a small stack of new license plates, and a sealed envelope presumably containing the passport.

He nodded, satisfied. “Your compliance does wonders, Harry. You always were a man who understands the stakes.”

Harry looked around the deserted parking lot, exhaling nervously. “If you say so. I— You’re sure no one followed you? I can’t afford to be implicated.”

Wendell chuckled. "Calm down, you're safe. The only people who know I'm here are you and the poor souls in the basement. They're not about to chat with the police."

Harry gave a haunted half-smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Wendell watched him closely, reading the flickers of fear. This man’s loyalty is purely terror, he mused. “So you won’t mention me to anyone, correct?” Wendell asked softly, though he knew the answer.

“Of—of course not,” Harry stammered, stepping back as if wanting to keep distance. “I value my life too much.”

Wendell nodded, feigning acceptance. “Excellent. By the way, your surname—Renfield—it always struck me. Reminds me of the Dracula character.”

Harry blinked, confusion mingling with apprehension. “Oh? I… never read it.”

“A classic.” Wendell tapped a finger against his chin. “In the novel, Renfield does Dracula’s bidding, enthralled by the Count’s power. A devoted subordinate.” He paused, letting the weight of that allusion settle. “Now, do you know what happened to that Renfield once Dracula no longer needed him?”

The slight tremor in Harry’s voice betrayed deeper panic. “I… I don’t know, I told you, I haven’t read it.”

Wendell’s lips twisted into a near-smile. He stuck out his hand. “Well, let’s not spoil it for you, then.”

Harry, swallowing, extended his own hand for a quick shake, obviously wanting to end the conversation. But Wendell gripped it firmly, refusing to let go. Harry’s eyes darted up in alarm. A flicker of confusion gave way to realization.

“Wait—what—?”

Wendell moved smoothly, his free hand whipping out a small, gleaming knife from beneath his jacket.

Before Harry could jerk away, Wendell drew the blade across his throat in a single, swift motion.

Warm blood spurted, splattering Wendell’s glove.

Harry’s eyes bulged, an unintelligible gurgle escaping his lips.

Wendell’s expression remained almost placid as he held Harry upright by the handshake, feeling the life drain from him. He spoke in a low tone, half to himself. “If you do deals with the devil,” he said, “eventually the devil will do a great deal to you.”

Harry let out a strangled gasp, knees buckling. Wendell released his grip only once he was certain the man was beyond saving. Harry collapsed against him, a dead weight that threatened to topple them both. Wendell grimaced at the blood soaking his coat.

“Messy,” he muttered, scanning the area. The deserted parking lot remained silent. No watchers peered from the broken windows. The gloom provided perfect cover. The basement was hardly the only place to hide bodies.

Spotting a manhole cover a dozen yards away near a broken-down loading dock, Wendell dragged the limp body, boots scraping the cracked asphalt.

Harry’s lifeless arms flopped with each pull.

Reaching the manhole, Wendell pried the cover open—a mild strain, but it slid aside with a grunt. The stench of rancid water wafted up.

“No need for a funeral,” Wendell whispered, shoving the corpse into the darkness below.

The hollow splash that followed echoed faintly.

With a practiced motion, Wendell nudged the cover back in place.

He crouched for a moment, wiping the knife on a stray rag from Harry’s pocket, discarding the bloodstained cloth next to the manhole.

He straightened, surveying the perimeter. The hush remained unbroken. The wind carried a faint rustle from the surrounding weeds. No sign of passersby. But there rarely were in such an abandoned place. Another loose end is gone.

Stepping to the new car Harry had provided; an unremarkable black sedan, overshadowed by the battered mall’s silhouette.

He popped the trunk to confirm the bag of plates and the holdall.

Satisfied, he slid into the driver’s seat, letting the ignition purr.

The interior smelled like stale cigarettes, but it’d do for his purposes.

He rested the new phone on his lap, flipping open a small notepad of scrawled names.

Each corresponded to someone close to Amelia, or at least tangentially connected.

Wendell relished the possibilities. Terror is best served methodically, he told himself.

He scanned the list: some were relatives of Amelia’s, some were old classmates.

Then his gaze settled on a name that made him smirk: Rob Collins. He tapped the name with his finger.

“Ah, yes,” Wendell murmured, voice low. “They’ll never see this coming.”