Page 18 of When You’re Broken (Finn Wright #11)

Wendell Reed sat in the middle of Rob Collins’ living room, the soft buzz of a distant boiler and the occasional drip of a faucet underscoring the quiet tension he relished.

The house itself was a detached property nestled on a gentle rise at the edge of a Hertfordshire town.

A wide driveway curved up to its front door, flanked by neatly trimmed hedges that, under different circumstances, might have evoked a sense of comfort and domestic calm.

Tall windows on the ground floor let in the waning light of day, revealing well-kept furniture and tasteful decor—evidence of a tidy life carefully arranged, a life Wendell intended to disrupt.

He glanced down at his watch. The second hand ticked steadily, each movement an affirmation of time slipping away for everyone who thought they were safe. He lifted his gaze to check the figure tied to a chair in front of him—Eleanor, Rob’s girlfriend, or so the rumor went.

Eleanor looked up at him with large, fearful blue eyes, her blond hair clinging to her face in sweaty strands.

A strip of duct tape over her mouth muffled her sobs.

Her wrists were bound behind her back, her ankles to the chair’s legs.

Wendell found the entire scene almost too predictable—another hostage, another example of how easily he could unravel people’s illusions of safety.

Still, it served his purpose. He let out a measured sigh.

“You did well on that phone call, you know,” he remarked quietly, tapping the gun’s barrel against his knee. “His reaction was exactly what I hoped it would be. No suspicion, only concern.”

Her eyes pleaded, but she couldn’t voice a coherent reply through the gag. The tear tracks on her cheeks glistened. Wendell set the gun gently on the side table, reached forward, and tugged the tape from her mouth, ignoring her small yelp of pain.

She swallowed, fresh tears threatening to spill. “Please,” she managed, her voice shaky. “Please, just—just let me go. You don’t have to do this.”

Wendell tilted his head, considering her words. From behind the sofa, a clock chimed the quarter hour, a gentle melodic note echoing through the otherwise silent house. “It’ll all be over soon,” he said. “But not yet.”

She sobbed, shoulders quivering. Her voice broke as she asked, “Why are you doing this?”

He felt the corner of his mouth twitch in a near-smile.

"Chief Constable Rob Collins chose to live here, so far from other houses.

Peaceful, isn't it? The advantage for me is that no neighbor will hear you screaming.

Or his, for that matter." He leaned forward, removing a fresh piece of tape from the roll, setting it on the table for later use.

"I understand you're an art expert. You helped Finn Wright on a case, correct? "

Eleanor’s breathing quickened. “Yes,” she replied softly, the clarity of her voice muffled by fear. “A few months back, I helped authenticate some paintings. Finn was investigating forgeries and a killer who mimicked them… That’s how I met him.”

“Interesting.” Wendell let the word hang, picking up the gun again and admiring its polished metal.

“I’ve never cared for art galleries, to be honest. All those people gazing at a canvas, feeling something they couldn’t even describe, while I…

well, it never stirred anything in me. Pigments on stretched fabric, hung on a wall, and yet they act like it’s the second coming of Christ.”

She swallowed hard, sensing he wanted some response. “Art can be emotional,” she offered. “It can hold deep meaning. It can help us discover who we are. Those who can’t experience emotions...”

He laughed, a low, hollow sound. “Deep meaning? Perhaps for those who possess certain… emotional wiring. Let me guess: you want to put me in a neat category—‘psychopath lacks empathy’—something like that?” He waved the gun dismissively.

“In fairness, maybe it’s correct. I can’t claim to care about strangers or silly moral lines.

Yet I do feel emotions, of a kind. The pleasure in my work, for instance—my real work, not the menial jobs I once pretended to hold.

I used to fight that feeling, until I realized there’s no point.

Leaning into it became so much simpler.”

Her voice trembled, but she dared to ask, “So you—like hurting people?”

He shrugged. “It’s not always the hurting. It’s the control. Watching them realize how fragile their illusions of safety are. That’s the real thrill.”

Eleanor shuddered, letting out a whimper.

Before she could speak again, a faint rumble outside signaled a car pulling up the gravel drive.

Wendell’s eyes narrowed. Right on schedule.

He rose from his chair, ignoring the subtle ache in his knees from crouching for so long.

Her expression lit up with desperate hope. “Rob!” she screamed, voice cracking.

He shoved the gag back against her mouth, pressing the tape into place. “None of that,” he said tersely, pressing the barrel of the gun under her chin. “Next time you try that, you’ll feel a bullet in your face.”

She froze, tears spilling anew. The car outside stopped. Wendell heard a door slam, then Rob’s anxious voice: “Eleanor! Eleanor, are you in here?”

At the corner of the room, a bright rectangle of light framed the entrance to the kitchen, the direct path from the front door.

Wendell stepped behind Eleanor’s chair, pressing the gun lightly to her temple.

He listened as Rob’s footsteps clattered in the hallway.

The tension in the air was palpable—he could practically taste the fear.

A moment later, Rob stood in the threshold, scanning the living room. He saw Eleanor, saw the gun, and froze. His voice cracked with alarm. “Eleanor—my God, what have you done to her? Let her go.”

Wendell eased the gun’s muzzle a fraction higher, close to Eleanor’s hairline. “Move another step, and I’ll blow her brains out. Is that clear?”

Rob lifted both hands in the universal sign of surrender, eyes darting between Wendell and Eleanor. “All right, all right. I’m not armed. Just… talk to me.”

Wendell’s lips curved in a half-smile. “I’ve heard that you and Amelia Winters are close friends, Rob? I read about your joint operations in the newspapers—someone said you two were unstoppable. She’s also overly close with Finn, from what I gather. Interesting circle.”

Rob’s eyes flicked to Eleanor again and then back to Wendell. “This is pointless—please, let Eleanor go. She’s done nothing to you.”

Wendell let out a thoughtful hum. “You have all brought this on yourselves, one way or another.”

Rob stepped sideways, trying to place a piece of furniture between him and Wendell. “Look, I can get you anything you want—money, resources, you name it. Just let her go.”

Wendell’s grin widened, though it lacked warmth. “Can you get me Amelia’s head on a plate? That’s the only ‘resource’ I’m interested in.”

Rob’s face twisted with revulsion. His breathing quickened. “That’s— You know I can’t do that. If that’s what you really want, I can’t help.”

“Thought so.” In one fluid motion, Wendell lifted the gun from Eleanor’s head and fired at Rob’s stomach, pulling the trigger without further warning.

The crack echoed, deafening in the modest living room.

Rob’s eyes went wide, shock overshadowing pain for a split second.

Then he collapsed behind the kitchen counter with a ragged groan.

Eleanor made a guttural, muffled scream behind her gag, jerking against the ropes.

Wendell kept the gun raised, the scent of gunpowder biting the air.

Rob sprawled on the floor, hands pressed to his abdomen.

A bloom of crimson stained his shirt. He let out a gasp, trying to speak, but only half-coherent words emerged.

Wendell exhaled, calm. One bullet. One kill. Perfect for sending a message. He circled around Eleanor, crouching so she could see the gun in his hand, pressed dangerously close to her forehead.

She cried out again, eyes brimming with terror, and he said nothing—just smirked and leaned in.

“Bang!” he shouted, voice echoing through the house.

She flinched violently, tears streaming.

Wendell laughed, a sharp bark of mirth, pulling the gun away.

“Relax, I’m not going to kill you. Not this time.

But you’ll still be part of my little demonstration. ”

She whimpered, trembling from head to toe. Wendell rose, stepping across the living room. He suppressed a sneer at the coziness of it all. “This really is a lovely house,” he mused, drifting towards where Rob lay.

Rob had managed to drag himself partially upright against a cabinet, though his face had gone pale, sweat shining on his brow.

His breathing came in shallow rasps, his lungs filling with blood.

It wouldn’t be long. Wendell pulled a brown envelope from inside his jacket, the top unsealed.

He knelt, ignoring Rob’s half-lidded stare.

“Here,” he said, tossing the envelope onto Rob’s bloodied chest. “A small present for your colleagues to find with your dead body.”

He rose, adjusting his coat. Rob tried to form words—maybe “stop” or “help”—but only a guttural moan escaped.

Wendell left him slumped there, turning back to the living room.

Eleanor had her eyes screwed shut in terror.

He paused near her, leaning close enough that she could feel his breath. She let out a muffled sob.

Wendell patted her shoulder, almost gently, then walked past her toward the front door. “Lovely place,” he repeated with a sardonic twist of his lips. “Hope you both enjoyed my visit.”

He unlatched the door and stepped outside, the hush of dusk greeting him.

No immediate neighbors peered from across the lane—this secluded property ensured minimal witnesses.

Wendell felt a grim satisfaction. The plan was unfolding neatly.

Amelia’s dear friend, dead. The girlfriend left traumatized.

He might have killed them both, but that would remove too many chess pieces from the board at once.

He liked to keep certain pieces in play and allow Eleanor to convey the horror of Wendell to the others. A witness was often preferable.

Wendell climbed into the car Renfield had provided.

The engine started up as the skies began to head towards twilight.

He steered onto a quiet country road, ignoring the faint pang of hunger in his stomach.

Brendan Wilson’s life is the final noose around Amelia’s neck.

Soon enough, she’d be in his sights, and there would be no escaping the revenge he’d planned for her.

He intended to savor every second of it.