Page 2 of When You’re Broken (Finn Wright #11)

Finn Wright gripped the leather steering wheel of his red Corvette and tried, with limited success, to keep his annoyance under control.

The morning sun had only just begun to climb over the tops of the trees lining the rural highway, and the crisp golden light cast an almost ethereal gleam across the hood of the car.

It should have been a perfect morning for a drive.

But Amelia, next to him, was busy scanning through radio stations in a relentless quest to find what she called “something upbeat.”

He risked a sidelong glance at her. Amelia Winters, Inspector and partner—on more levels than one—sat with her shoulders tensed, jaw set, tapping the “Seek” button in a steady rhythm.

Brief bursts of static, the shrill wail of pop, then a tinny commercial announcing a furniture sale all fizzled into existence before Amelia banished them again with a press of her fingertip.

He cleared his throat. “I’m telling you, you just passed a station playing The Rolling Stones. Couldn’t we let that run for a while?”

Amelia’s eyes remained on the small digital display. “I’m not in a Stones mood,” she replied, biting down on each word as if it pained her to say it. “I need something… lighter.”

“‘Lighter’ as in some harmless rock ballad, or—”

“As in 80s cheese,” she interrupted, lifting a brow in challenge. “I want something with a beat you can dance to, something that’s not gloom and doom.”

Finn forced himself to rein in a smirk. Arguing with Amelia over radio stations was a small, silly moment in a day he expected to be loaded with serious anxieties.

He wanted to keep the mood from sinking too quickly.

“You’re telling me that hair bands from the 80s are going to be your emotional comfort right now? ”

“Maybe,” she shot back, a half-smile lingering on her lips in contradiction of her tense posture.

He angled the steering wheel, negotiating a gentle curve in the road. “Fine. Go ahead. If I hear something that reminds me of questionable perms and neon spandex, I reserve the right to deliberately crash the car.”

She snorted softly. “As if your precious 70s and 80s rock is any less questionable. It’s the same era, just a different brand of nostalgia.”

“How dare you,” Finn said with a laugh, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

Amelia finally settled on a station broadcasting some synthesizer-laced tune that indeed sounded like a leftover from a pastel-colored music video. She turned the volume down to a background hum. The strange tension between them broke a fraction, and they exchanged fleeting smiles.

Silence claimed the car for a minute, except for the steady, almost comforting purr of the engine.

Finn noticed how Amelia’s shoulders slowly relaxed, though an undercurrent of worry never fully left her eyes.

In the hush, he mulled over the next difficult conversation.

We have to see Brendan Wilson’s adoptive parents, he reminded himself.

We need to ask them about when they last saw him, anything that might lead us to Wendell Reed.

He cleared his throat again. “Listen, about this morning… Are you okay with meeting Brendan’s folks? You only recently found out you’re his biological sister. It’s a pretty big emotional bombshell. You sure you want to handle it so soon?”

Amelia’s gaze dropped to the gear shift. She brushed a few strands of dark hair behind her ear, that gesture he recognized as a sign of her collecting her thoughts. “I think so,” she said quietly. “I have to. I can’t just… stand back and do nothing. And besides, I don’t want them to feel alone.”

“You might need to brace yourself,” Finn said gently. “Talking about it might bring up old wounds. You once told me how tough it was bouncing between foster families when you were a kid. This might take you back there.”

She set one hand over the other, gripping them tightly in her lap. “It wasn’t just foster families, it was the constant hope that my real parents would pull themselves together and get me back. People always told me, ‘Don’t worry, your mom and dad will fix it soon.’ But it never felt soon enough.”

Finn glanced at her, reading the strain in her knuckles. “Did they ever mention Brendan back then?”

Amelia shook her head. “No. I was too young to remember him by the time they took me back. It was always about how they’d had…

problems. Financial, personal. They struggled to keep the family afloat.

No one said, ‘Oh, by the way, you have an older brother living somewhere else.’ If I’d known—” Her voice trembled momentarily.

She drew a slow breath to regain composure.

“If I’d known, I’d have found him. I would’ve reached out, done something.

Instead, I’m finding out like this, and he’s in danger. ”

Finn pressed the accelerator slightly, the engine humming at a more urgent pitch. “We’ll get him back,” he said, voice firm. “Wendell took him for one reason: to lure you into his twisted revenge plan. It’s how that psycho operates.”

She nodded, biting her lip. “Killing him or using him as leverage… that’s exactly the sort of thing Wendell would do to punish me. Because I put him behind bars. Because I humiliated him during the trial. Because he’s a sadist who wants me to hurt the way he thinks I made him hurt.”

Finn’s grip on the wheel tightened. The memory of Wendell’s cruelty haunted them both. “He won’t succeed. We’ve already got a dedicated task force chasing him. We’ll be part of that, and we’ll make sure he doesn’t get away this time.”

“If McNeill doesn’t tie our hands,” she said, thinking of the taskforce lead, who wasn’t happy she was on it due to her personal involvement.

“It’ll be okay,” Finn said, softly.

Amelia’s eyes flickered with appreciation, though tears threatened at the corners. She turned her face, gazing out the window at fields rolling by.

“Do you have any tissues?” Amelia asked.

“Glove box,” Finn replied.

Amelia opened the glove box. It was stuffed with papers. Lifting some of them up to see if there was a packet of tissues inside, a book slid out and fell into Amelia’s hand.

She looked at it. “The Truth Behind Wendell Reed.”

“Ugh, yeah,” Finn said, sounding embarrassed. “I was checking around and found that book. It came out a couple of years ago, I think. I haven’t had time to dive into it yet. I wondered if there would be something in there that wasn’t in Wendell’s file.”

“I wouldn’t bother,” Amelia said. “It’s by Kelvin Street.”

“You know him?” Finn asked.

“Not directly,” Amelia answered. “But he’s an ex-cop who now peddles true crime books. Most of them are sensationalist and have strange theories without any basis in fact.”

“You never know, he might have some insight,” Finn said.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said, putting the book back into the glove box and finally grabbing a small packet of tissues.

She wiped the tears from the corner of her eyes.

“I do remember reading an expose he wrote for the Mail years ago, but I felt he made some details up about Wendell’s background. ”

“Like what?” Finn asked.

“It wasn’t so much the details,” Amelia answered. “It was more that he was trying to lay the blame at her door rather than Wendell’s. Anyway...”

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke; the 80s synth filled the car with a surreal pep that contrasted with their heavy conversation.

As they neared the village where Brendan’s parents lived, the road narrowed, lined with tidy hedgerows and quaint signs pointing off towards nearby farmland.

The hamlet soon came into view: a cluster of modest stone houses, a central green with a weathered war memorial, and a single-lane high street hosting a bakery, a small grocery, and a pub bearing a sign shaped like a fox.

Morning sunlight turned the old stone walls into gold, and a faint breeze carried the smell of damp grass.

Finn slowed the Corvette, steering it past a short row of terraced cottages.

The sat-nav beeped, indicating a turn onto a side street.

Ahead, a modest townhouse stood tucked behind a low wrought-iron fence, a trim patch of garden in front.

Red bricks, aged mortar, and white-framed windows gave it a cozy impression.

Pink daisies and lavender thrived along the footpath.

“This is it,” Amelia said, checking the address. Her voice was subdued. “They said they’d be waiting.”

Finn pulled up to the curb. The engine’s rumble diminished as he switched off the ignition. “Ready?”

Amelia exhaled, nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”

They climbed out. Immediately, the village’s tranquility enveloped them: a distant crow cawed, and the hush carried the faint clang of someone working with a tool in a shed.

Finn glanced at Amelia, who straightened her shoulders.

Together, they walked up the short garden path to the door.

Amelia rapped her knuckles lightly on the pale blue paint.

For a moment, nothing. Then footsteps, and the door swung inward.

A woman in her late fifties, hair streaked gray, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, peered out.

Her face had that stiffness of someone who hadn’t slept.

She wore a plain cardigan, the collar wrinkled, as if she’d thrown it on hurriedly.

Behind her, a man lingered in the hallway, arms folded.

He looked similarly fraught, lines of worry etched across his brow.

“You must be Finn Wright and Amelia... Winters,” the woman said, voice trembling. “The detectives? We were told you’d be coming.”

Amelia managed a brief, tight smile. “Yes. We’re here about Brendan.”

The mention of their son's name made the woman's face tighten. She stepped aside, beckoning them into a small living room. "I'm Meredith. Meredith Wilson. This is my husband, Gareth." Her voice quivered. "Please, come in."