Page 16 of When You’re Broken (Finn Wright #11)
He rose, heart pounding, stepping around the bar top, trying to assess the situation.
He noticed a faint trail of something—blood, likely—leading beyond a cluster of knocked-over chairs to a single corner table.
The metallic tang in the air thickened. He followed the smears, stepping gingerly so as not to slip.
That was when he spotted it: a second figure perched behind a battered typewriter on one of the small bar tables.
The entire arrangement looked staged. Finn knew implicitly that the typewriter had been brought there by Wendell.
Only the most niche writers still kept the machines, and even then rarely used them.
This man was younger than the first victim, though also quite dead.
His posture was unnatural: slumped forward, tie knotted around his neck and looped to the table’s foot, as if forcibly strangled.
But the strangest detail: his fingers, splayed across the typewriter keys, seemed…
attached. In the dim light, Finn realized they were glued or epoxied in place, with a sheen across the knuckles.
The typewriter ribbon, stained red in patches, had hammered out a single sheet of text.
Finn’s throat tightened. This must be Kelvin Street , he guessed. He stepped closer, ignoring the revulsion that threatened. The typed lines read in a jarring, uneven arrangement:
I write this with regret,
I have lied about Wendell Reed's mother.
She was not a prostitute,
I fabricated the entire story.
I am so sorry, so very sorry.
The End is Nigh, Amelia.
The last phrase hammered at Finn’s brain. Wendell must have forced the man to type this.
Kelvin’s head lolled, the tie around his neck angled at a savage angle.
The bar’s gloom cast everything in stark silhouette.
Finn’s pulse hammered. Swallowing hard, Finn circled the table, confirming the man was indeed dead—no pulse, no movement.
The man’s eyes bulged, a sign of strangulation.
Kelvin Street, or whoever typed this, is gone.
Finn forced down a surge of sorrow, reminding himself of Wendell’s patterns: humiliating those who wronged him in brutal fashion.
From outside, faintly, he heard Amelia’s voice, worried. “Finn, do you see anything?” She must have grown impatient. He stepped back, clearing the bar top with a shaky breath.
“Yeah,” he called, voice resonating in the hush. “Two more victims… we better call this in.”
He heard Amelia’s shout of alarm, something like “Damn it,” from beyond the shutters.
He moved quickly to the bar’s side entrance, fumbling at the locks to let her in.
But his mind whirled. Wendell’s spree was escalating.
Another savage scene, a calling card. This poor man with his fingers glued to a typewriter—Kelvin Street, presumably—and the bar owner shot or stabbed.
He forced himself to take a deep breath, heart racing. Time to handle the immediate steps: secure the scene, call for backup, let Amelia in. And all the while, that typed phrase hammered in his brain, an ominous echo: The End is Nigh, Amelia.
He whipped out his phone, glancing around to ensure no one else lurked in the shadows.
Then, turning on the flashlight app, he decided to find the door’s internal bolt or chain to let Amelia inside.
After putting on the pair of blue forensics gloves he always carried in his pocket, he slid the bolt free, the door opened to reveal her anxious face.
She took one look at the tension in his eyes, at the blood spatters on the floor behind him, and her expression hardened.
“Two victims?” she repeated quietly, stepping in. She flicked her gaze around the gloom. “Tell me.”
Finn pressed his lips tight. “I found the bar owner, presumably, behind the counter—dead. And there’s a second man by a table with a typewriter. I’m 99% sure it’s Kelvin Street.” He forced the words out. “His fingers are… glued to the typewriter. It’s a message to you.”
Amelia’s eyes shone with horror, but she clenched her jaw. “Let’s call it in. Then we’ll see.”
He nodded, stepping aside so she could gather enough phone signal to contact HQ.
She pressed the device to her ear, speaking in a low urgent tone, giving the address: “Harlin’s Bar, Putney.
Two casualties. Possibly homicide. The building is locked down.
We need forensics, an ambulance.” She paused. “Yes. I’ll hold.”
Finn moved back toward the bar’s gloom, scanning the floor for footprints or signs of forced entry.
Wendell must’ve come here to kill Kelvin Street.
Possibly Kelvin had arranged a meeting with the bar’s owner for a private after-hours session, or Wendell forced them into this scenario.
The typed apology hammered out that Kelvin recanted his old claims about Wendell’s mother—an insult that had enraged Wendell enough to do this.
Amelia ended the call. “They’re on their way. We shouldn’t touch anything. Let’s step outside if we can, keep the scene intact.”
Finn blew out a breath, glancing at the gruesome table in the corner.
“Agreed. We’ll wait for the others, fill them in on everything.
” He gestured for Amelia to follow, flicking the door open again.
The midday drizzle turned heavier, pattering on the ground.
A handful of passersby had begun gathering around the corner, curious at the shuttered bar, but no one close enough to see inside.
Amelia turned to Finn with a haunted look. "Kelvin Street… He wrote that entire exposé on Wendell's mother. Now, he's an example. Another message."
Finn nodded grimly. "Wendell's crossing off everyone who offended him or threatened his sense of control. I just wonder how many people he wants to settle a score with."
She raked a hand through her hair, eyes flicking to the half-lowered shutters. “When will this end...”