Page 4 of When You’re Broken (Finn Wright #11)

Finn had expected something grander, with less peeling paint and crumbling stone, but Wainwright Lodge looked startlingly ordinary at first glance.

The squat structure rose out of a row of tall hedgerows on the outskirts of London, its tired brick exterior half-renovated.

One side showed signs of fresh mortar and a newly replaced window frame, while the opposite side bore cracked sills and a sagging gutter that dribbled water onto a weed-choked patch of ground.

A pair of battered swing sets stood in an overgrown lawn, empty of children.

The late morning light gave the place a static hush, as though the life had bled from it.

Finn parked the red Corvette. He switched off the engine and let silence settle for a moment.

Beside him, Amelia shifted in her seat, her eyes taking in the children's home’s main door with a guarded reluctance.

She’d said she remembered nothing about her time there, yet he saw the tension in the set of her mouth and the stiff angle of her shoulders.

It was as though an invisible hook tugged at her nerves the longer she looked at the building.

“You all right?” he asked softly, turning in the driver’s seat to face her.

She blew out a breath, tapping her fingertips on her thighs. “I will be. I just… I hate how this place makes me feel. I don’t recall living here. I have zero memory. But it’s like there’s this echo at the back of my head telling me I’ve been here.”

Finn reached over, curling his fingers briefly around hers. “We’ll figure this out together.” He let go before his own anxiety betrayed him. The sense that they were walking into a cluster of old secrets had his pulse skittering.

They stepped out. Despite the fresh patch of concrete near the entrance, the grounds felt deserted.

The breeze carried the faint tang of damp leaves and the metallic hint of a nearby highway.

A single door led inside, broad and solid, with tinted glass that made the foyer dark from the outside.

Finn tried the handle; locked. He saw a buzzer near the frame, pressed it.

The ring echoed into the interior. They waited.

A minute passed. He looked at Amelia, who shrugged. Then footsteps approached from within, and a tall figure appeared behind the door’s glass. The lock clicked, and the door swung open.

The man who greeted them looked to be in his early fifties. Sharp cheekbones, a trim beard peppered with gray, and slender shoulders. He wore a pressed button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that seemed lean but strong. He offered a polite, if stilted, smile.

“Good morning,” he said. “Can I help you?”

Finn noticed the man’s posture: slightly forward, as though bracing for unwelcome news. “We’re looking for the current manager, Stanley Peterson,” Finn said, keeping his voice calm.

“That’s me. I am both manager and caretaker.” The man stepped back, gesturing for them to enter. “Come in. You’ll excuse the mess. We’re, uh, short on staff these days.”

Inside, the foyer was smaller than Finn had imagined.

A battered reception counter faced them, and behind it a narrow corridor disappeared into the building’s depths.

The walls had fresh coats of paint—stark white that made everything feel sterile.

Yet the fluorescent lights overhead hummed, flickering in places, lending a sense of half-abandonment.

Amelia cleared her throat. “Thank you. I’m Detective Amelia Winters, and this is Finn Wright, also with the Home Office.

” She offered her ID, which Peterson glanced at before handing back with an oddly tense nod.

“We need to ask you about some older records. We suspect someone might’ve come here recently, looking for files related to past adoptions. ”

Peterson rubbed his palms on his trousers, gaze flicking between them.

“I… well, yes. That’s partly correct. There was a man, a few weeks ago, claiming he was researching a book about the transition of orphanages into children’s homes.

He asked to see some of our records. We have strict policies about releasing adoption data, of course, so we never let him see anything.

I didn’t deal with him, but the staff members who did told me they had to be quite stern with him until he left. Then, soon after, we had a break-in.”

Finn’s ears pricked at the mention of a break-in. It matched what they feared—Wendell or an associate might’ve forced entry, scouring for any trace of Amelia and Brendan’s earliest records. “Can you tell us about it? Did you see him again? Or notice anything missing?”

Peterson cocked his head, a nervous tic at his jaw.

“I didn’t see his face during the break-in.

Our security is minimal. This place doesn’t have the funds for advanced alarms, so we rely on old locks and some cameras that rarely function.

By the time I discovered something amiss, it was too late.

A lock was broken on the basement door, and we think some of our archives were rifled through. Is he dangerous?”

“If it’s Wendell Reed, then yes,” Finn answered, bluntly.

Amelia surveyed the corridor behind him, as though expecting to spot the leftover chaos. “Are those archives still down in the basement?”

He hesitated. “Yes. It’s not the ideal place, humidity and all, but it’s the only area we can spare for old paperwork. Look, if you want me to show you—”

“We do,” Amelia said, stepping forward. “We believe that’s how a dangerous criminal discovered information about my brother, and we’re trying to trace his steps.”

Peterson’s mouth twitched. “Your brother?”

Finn offered a quick nod. “Yes, he and Amelia were once under the care of Wainwright, and we suspect the intruder sought details on their personal history.” He studied Peterson’s reaction carefully.

Something like recognition flitted across the man’s face, but it vanished so quickly that Finn couldn’t be certain. Peterson pressed his lips together. “Then I’ll do whatever I can to help. Follow me.”

He led them through the short corridor. The floors were polished linoleum, scuffed in places as though kids once dragged chairs across them.

Yet Finn saw no children, no staff. The hush felt unnatural for an operating children's home.

Faint footsteps overhead hinted that perhaps someone occupied the upper floors, but no voices or laughter carried down.

Something about it gave him a prickle of unease.

“How many kids do you currently have here?” Amelia asked quietly.

“Not as many as we used to,” Peterson replied, not looking back. “Some are still in the building being supervised by our carers, but many are away on a field trip with Jenny Lange, our head care-worker. That’s why it seems so dead right now.”

Finn heard Amelia murmur an acknowledgment, but from her stiff posture, he guessed she found the children's home’s emptiness unsettling.

A stale odor lingered as they walked, a mix of disinfectant and mildew.

At the end of the corridor, a heavy fire door stood.

Peterson unlocked it with a rattling key and pushed it open, revealing a descending staircase with metal rails.

The overhead bulb flickered once as if protesting.

He gestured them down. "Basement's this way. The break-in was discovered at the bottom, near the file cabinets." He hesitated, then managed a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Sorry, it's not well lit."

Amelia started down, Finn on her heels, with Peterson trailing behind.

The steps were concrete and somewhat narrow, forcing them into single file.

The cold air thickened with each step, and Finn’s footfalls echoed as if in a bunker.

He found himself peering over his shoulder at intervals, noticing how Peterson walked with a measured pace, arms stiff at his sides.

A door at the bottom led into a corridor with walls of raw cement. Overhead pipes ran the length of the ceiling, clanking softly. The corridor branched right, with a sign reading ARCHIVE. A padlock hung from the door handle, but it was unlatched. Peterson slid it aside and pushed the door open.

Inside, overhead lights buzzed. Dozens of metal file cabinets lined the walls, interspersed with cardboard boxes stacked in corners. A few shelves held old binders, some labeled by year, others unlabeled. The smell of dusty paper hung in the air, distinct and heavy.

Finn watched Peterson with a subtle wariness. The man’s posture looked forcibly casual now. Something about the stiff set of his shoulders struck Finn as off. “When the break-in happened, what did the police say?” he prompted.

“Eh… Not much, usual kind of fluff, not much to be done, really.”

Finn felt the answer was odd, and the man’s nonchalant behavior around such a break-in, when children lived in the building, was concerning. Finn wondered if he should be manager of such a place.

Peterson nodded, stepping further into the room. Amelia followed, scanning boxes. She ran her hand lightly over one battered cabinet, as though half hoping a sudden memory might jolt free. Finn hung back near the threshold, letting them explore but not letting Peterson out of his sight.

“Yes,” Peterson said, voice echoing off the cement.

“We found a few boxes pulled out, some files scattered across the floor. We tried to do inventory, but the place was a mess, and we aren’t sure if anything vital was taken.

” He turned slowly to face Finn. “I suspect you think that man—this Wendell person—was behind it.”

“It’s likely,” Finn replied. “He’s done a lot to hide his tracks. Breaking into a children's home for old documents wouldn’t be out of character.” He paused, something about Peterson’s eyes making him uneasy. The manager’s gaze looked too sharp, too aware.

Amelia picked through a stack of files with care, reading half-faded labels. “When exactly did this happen?” she asked.