Page 23 of When You’re Broken (Finn Wright #11)

Wendell Reed sat in the abandoned mall’s former food court, the fluorescent tubes overhead long since dead.

In the gloom, only a pair of battery-powered lanterns cast lopsided circles of faint light on the dusty tiles.

A single plastic chair supported him. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, letting the hush of night swallow the echoes of his own slow breathing.

Before him, on the battered remains of a table whose laminate surface had chipped away, lay a notepad.

Its dog-eared corners hinted at frequent use; it was an intimate ledger, of sorts.

The ink scrawl was stark in the lantern light.

He stared at the list of names, methodically crossing out the one that read Rob Collins .

The flourish of his pen dug deeper into the paper than needed, as though emphasizing a final act.

He paused, letting a thin smile curve his lips.

Collins was dealt with. He pictured the policeman crumpling on his own kitchen floor, blood soaking through that crisp shirt.

A swift shot to the abdomen—nothing complicated.

Wendell recalled the shock in Rob’s eyes, a rush of satisfaction.

He wished he could have been there to see Amelia’s reaction.

The hush of the memory melted into the present, where the mall’s vacant corridors stretched around him: metal storefront grilles, broken mannequins, scraps of old signage fluttering in the draft.

Even the rats had given up on the place.

Now, with Rob’s name struck off, Wendell’s eyes scanned the next lines. Only two remained, each equally significant: Brendan Wilson and Finn Wright. Two more threads in the tapestry of his grand plan, two final moves he needed to orchestrate precisely.

He tapped the pen on the list, heart fluttering with a mild excitement. “So close,” he murmured. His voice echoed in the empty space, bouncing off cracked tiles and rusted rails. It was all unstoppable now.

He looked up to the high windows overhead.

The night sky provided little more than a dull navy glow.

Nothing out there, he reminded himself. No one to stumble upon me by accident.

A perfect lair. The basement was functional for holding captives, but this mall gave him so much space to linger, to remember.

He realized with a mild start that it triggered a memory from long ago.

He closed his eyes. A flash. He was six, maybe.

His mother had brought him to this exact mall once, when it was alive with bright lights and enthusiastic shoppers, not this now rotted husk.

She’d bought him a milkshake from a garishly lit fast-food counter.

He could still recall the shape of the plastic cup, the taste of synthetic strawberry.

They’d also wandered into a pet store, and on a whim, she purchased a small puppy—an impulsive but joyous surprise.

The store’s fluorescent lights and squeaky cages rushed through his mind: wagging tails, the clerk praising them for giving the dog a good home.

His mother had been radiant that day, her hair pinned back, eyes crinkling with rare delight.

The memory made him grin. He remembered how she’d looked at him, hope shining in her gaze, as though for once they could be a normal family.

The dog wriggled in his arms on the drive home, nuzzling Wendell’s cheek.

He’d named it Captain or maybe Baxter—he couldn’t quite recall.

The details blurred, overshadowed by what happened next.

Now, that recollection twisted, morphing into an intrusive thought: the nighttime hush in their old house, his father’s voice echoing in rage.

Wendell’s mother crouching in a closet with him, pressing her finger to her lips.

“Don’t go out,” she whispered. She was trembling, stifling sobs.

Wendell, a child, hearing the dog whining somewhere down the corridor.

Then his father’s furious holler: “Where is that damned dog?” The hamper of scattered shoes in the closet, the stench of musty clothes, the stifled fear.

Wendell wanted to protect the dog, to hold it safe.

In the memory, he felt himself tug free of his mother’s arms, ignoring her desperate grip.

He darted out of the closet, drawn by the panting and pitiful whimper of that puppy.

He scooped the small creature into his arms, meaning to run, to find a window maybe.

But the father’s heavy footsteps pounded down the corridor.

A rough yank, a flurry of cursing, and then he seized the puppy from Wendell’s grip.

Wendell's mother screamed for him not to hurt it, but the father barged into the bathroom.

The dog yelped, splashing. Wet, thrashing, high-pitched cries that quickly muffled.

Wendell, frozen with horror, heard water sloshing—his mother's ragged pleas cut short by a strike.

Then the puppy's yelping ended, replaced by an unearthly silence.

Wendell’s eyes snapped open, a tremor coursing through him.

He clenched his fist, slamming it down on the table, rattling the pen and his lantern.

The metal clang reverberated across the deserted mall corridor.

He forced slow breaths, reminding himself that was long ago, that the father was gone now, the mother dead too.

None of them existed except in these flashes that haunted him.

Focus on the present , he commanded, dragging his gaze back to the notepad with the final two names: Finn Wright. Brendan Wilson.

He ran a finger across each name, frowning.

The question lingered: Which do I go after next?

A savage satisfaction blossomed in his chest. Both are prime targets.

Finn was formidable, but oh, how sweet to break Amelia’s spirit by finishing Brendan first. Yet part of him wondered if finishing Finn might be more satisfying, as Finn was cunning—could pose a threat.

He pulled a coin from his pocket, a well-worn piece of currency he’d used for an earlier twisted game.

“Maybe I was wrong. Maybe there is something to be said for fate.”

Tails or heads, life or death, a random mechanism for deciding his spree’s order.

The unpredictability appealed to him, letting him relive that moment of absolute control.

He flicked the coin in the air, letting the faint lantern light catch its dull edges.

In the hush, the coin’s spin sounded crisp, dancing in the stale air.

Before it fell, he snatched it from the air, palm covering it. He savored the anticipation, a grin twitching at his lips. Then he peeked—heads. “Heads it is,” he murmured. For some reason, it felt right.

He rose, shutting off one of the lanterns.

The surviving beam cast long shadows as he navigated the mall’s labyrinth toward a set of concrete stairs leading down to a sub-basement.

This area had once housed maintenance equipment, perhaps.

Now, it was Wendell’s little detention facility.

The manager’s assistance in setting up certain aspects had been minimal but enough.

And here, he kept one occupant locked behind old steel doors: Brendan Wilson, the precious brother of Amelia, the lever that could break her completely.

Wendell’s footsteps echoed on the cracked steps.

The air grew musty, thick with the scent of old concrete and brackish water seepage.

The sub-basement corridor branched, but Wendell followed the right-hand path, eventually arriving at a padlocked metal door.

He unlocked it with a key from his jacket, slipped inside.

In the gloom, a single overhead fixture glowed weakly from a distant generator line, providing a flicker of illumination over the captive figure.

Brendan Wilson. Tied to a metal chair, ankles and wrists bound, head drooping.

He looked up at the sound of Wendell’s approach, eyes reflecting fear that flickered into a desperate kind of wariness.

Wendell stepped closer, letting the door swing shut behind him. The overhead light cast his silhouette across the floor, looming over Brendan. The captive’s voice came out raspy: “What’s happening?”

Wendell studied him for a moment, letting the question hang.

He was aware Brendan’s body had grown weaker from days of captivity, but that flicker of defiance remained in his eyes—some intangible hope, perhaps.

Wendell produced the coin from his pocket, rolling it across his knuckles.

“It all came down to the coin again,” he said quietly.

Brendan’s expression tightened. “I didn’t pick a side,” he said, voice trembling. “You never gave me a choice.”

Wendell let out a small, humorless chuckle, flipping the coin once more in the air and catching it with a snap of his wrist. “Oh, but you did,” he replied in a near whisper, stepping closer. “You always did.”

The overhead light buzzed faintly, casting uneasy shadows on the damp walls. Brendan’s breath hitched. “Please… I— I can’t do anything for you. My sister… my parents… I swear, just let me go.”

Wendell crouched, bringing his face level with Brendan’s. He saw the captive shrink back against the chair. “It’s time.”

Those words were quiet, but final, reverberating in the stale air. Brendan’s eyes went wide; he tried to wrench his limbs, but the ropes bit into his wrists. “No, wait… wait—”

Wendell pulled a small syringe from a cloth bag on the floor, brandishing it like a serpent’s fang.

A colorless fluid swirled inside. The perfect solution, he mused.

He offered no explanation, no chance for further argument.

With a quick pivot, he pushed aside the collar of Brendan’s shirt, jammed the needle into the captive’s neck, and depressed the plunger.

Brendan gasped, mouth forming a stunned “O,” then his eyelids fluttered. At first, his chest heaved, a ragged moan escaping his throat. Then his body’s tension slackened, arms going limp as though all muscle power had drained away. His eyes closed, head lolling. Stillness, absolute.

Wendell withdrew the syringe, dropping it onto the floor where it rolled away.

For a few seconds, he watched Brendan’s slack face, the parted lips that gave no sign of consciousness.

Whether the man was dead or deep in sedation was irrelevant to Wendell, for now.

The important part was that he no longer struggled.

Cutting the ropes took only a few minutes with the short blade Wendell carried.

The sharp twine parted from Brendan’s arms and ankles, leaving faint welts on his skin.

Freed, the body slumped in the chair, useless.

Wendell gently pulled Brendan forward, hooking an arm under his knees and around his back.

Despite the man’s taller frame, weeks of stress and near-starvation had made him lighter than expected.

He hoisted the limp body over his shoulder in a rough carry, the dead weight pressing on Wendell’s spine. He turned, ignoring the faint protest from his own muscles, and started for the doorway. A grin crept across his face.

He flicked off the single overhead light with a free hand, leaving the sub-basement in near darkness. “I have a good place to end this,” Wendell thought, voice silent but triumphant. And with that, he carried Brendan’s body out into the darkness of the mall, grin unwavering.