Page 8 of When You’re Broken (Finn Wright #11)

Brendan Wilson flexed his aching shoulders, each movement drawing a dull stab of pain from the rope gnawing at his wrists.

He’d lost track of how many hours had passed since Wendell last left.

The overhead light remained a single, naked bulb, swinging gently whenever someone opened the lone basement door.

Even that slight motion teased out fresh lances of discomfort in Brendan’s arms, forcing him to shift again in the metal chair.

A faint drip of water somewhere in the corner set the silence pulsing with tension.

The basement smelled perpetually damp—like mildewed concrete—undercut by the acrid tang of old blood.

It was the kind of stench that didn’t just cling to the air; it settled on his skin, threaded itself into every breath.

At least the tape was off his mouth now, so he could manage real conversation.

The other prisoner needed that conversation desperately.

The man seated next to Brendan, tied just as tightly to his own chair, was named James Peterson.

He looked older than Brendan by a decade or so, with short graying hair matted to his scalp by sweat and congealed blood.

James’s face had recently been battered: a crusted cut across his temple, bruises across his cheekbones, swelling around one eye.

But after Wendell disappeared an hour ago, James’s tremors had shifted from shock to restless anxiety.

He seemed desperate to speak—maybe just to cling to the last shred of humanity in this cellar. Brendan recognized that need.

He coughed softly, drawing James’s attention from the dreadful line of “tools” on a rickety table in front of them.

A thick-bladed knife, a heavy hammer, rusted pliers, and a plastic bottle of white spirit.

The sight made every nerve in Brendan’s body coil with dread.

Don’t let him stare at those too long , he told himself. Distract him.

“James, will you look at me?” Brendan asked quietly, mouth dry. “How’re you holding up?” The rope around his chest made inhaling painful, so his words came out more softly than he intended.

James sniffed and rolled his head to one side, his voice cracked and raw.

“Does anybody ever hold up okay in a place like this?” A pathetic attempt at a laugh died on his lips.

He turned his eyes toward Brendan, exhaling shakily.

“Sorry… I’m not used to this. Still trying to figure out… how I got here.”

Brendan resisted the urge to glance at the table. Instead, he forced eye contact. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “Just talk. Sometimes that helps.” And it keeps your mind off… everything else , he thought.

James’s gaze drifted to the grimy floor, where dried stains told silent horror stories.

“I’m not sure how long ago I was taken. Everything is hazy.

” He took an uneasy breath. “I remember going to pick up groceries—milk and eggs. Then I felt a sharp sting in my shoulder, like an injection. Next thing, I was in some dark room, drifting in and out. He—Wendell—he must’ve been sedating me, because I’d wake up woozy, barely able to form a thought.

After that… well, I ended up here with you. ”

Brendan nodded in sympathy, ignoring the dryness in his throat. “Same brand of trick with me. He used chloroform, or something like it. Claimed he was checking for a gas leak. Then I blacked out.”

James let a low moan escape. “It’s maddening, not knowing how many days you’ve lost.” His eyes flicked over to the table, resting on the handle of that large knife.

Panic swam behind his exhausted stare. He tried to swallow, but the dryness made him cough.

“He… he’s going to use those on us, isn’t he? ”

Brendan’s stomach clenched. He flicked his gaze away from the tools. “Don’t think about that,” he urged. “He’s probably just trying to scare us. Focus on anything else. Tell me about yourself.”

James almost laughed, a shaky noise that bordered on a sob. But he seized the lifeline. “All right,” he whispered. “What do you want to know?”

Brendan tried to settle his breathing. The ropes cut into his skin again when he shifted, but he had to keep James from diving too deep into despair. “Family, maybe? Someone who might be looking for you out there.” He forced an encouraging tone.

James’s expression shadowed, fresh tears brimming at the corners of his swollen eyes. “Family… yeah, I— I did have one. A sister. She died a few years ago. My parents are gone, too.”

Brendan’s heart twisted. “God, I’m sorry.”

James nodded stiffly, tears slipping across the cut on his cheek.

“It’s all right. I guess in a place like this, everyone’s got a sad story, right?

” He forced a trembling exhale. “The only person I have left is my brother, Stanley. He’s…

we’re not super close, but we keep track of each other.

” A fleeting flicker of hope sparked, then died.

“He’s all I got. If I don’t make it out of here—”

“Don’t say that,” Brendan cut in, voice rough with unspent emotion. “You will get out. You’ll see your brother again.”

James sniffed, the attempt at hope fading quickly. “You sure about that?”

Brendan clenched his jaw. He’s right to question it. “We have to believe it,” he said quietly. “If we don’t, we might as well hand Wendell a victory.” He swallowed, feeling a throb in the back of his skull. “I’d give anything to see my parents right now, too, you know. They must be worried sick.”

James blinked, pivoting the conversation. “Your parents… so you have a family?”

Brendan nodded. “Mum and Dad. They’re older but strong.

Good people. They adopted me when I was just a kid.

” He paused, lips twitching with a sad half-smile.

“I also have a sister. She’s out there, somewhere.

I always wanted to find her… well, find her properly, I mean. We got separated when we were small.”

James’s battered face showed a flicker of curiosity. “Separated?”

A hollow ache opened in Brendan’s chest. “Our folks had… problems. They were addicted to something. Social services took us away. I got adopted, but my sister ended up in another arrangement. We never reconnected.” The words came out haltingly.

He rarely voiced this story, and the squalid basement hardly felt like the place for personal confessions. Yet the dire mood compelled honesty.

James nodded solemnly. “I see. I guess you do understand about losing family.”

“Yeah. And hopefully finding it again.” Brendan forced an unsteady grin.

“Hope’s what keeps me breathing in here, you know?

I keep thinking… if we make it out, I’ll finally track her down.

Or she’ll find me one day and appear at my door with a big smile and a hug.

” He let out a small, ironic chuckle that contained more fear than humor. “I know that sounds like fantasy...”

James let silence stretch. Drips in the corner set a grim tempo.

Then he murmured, “If you do get out, you should definitely find her. Why waste time? That’s…

that’s what I’d do if I had a living relative out there.

” His gaze dropped. “All I’ve got is my brother Stanley, and I never told him half the stuff I wish I had. ”

Brendan’s throat tightened. “You’re right. If we… if we get out, that’s exactly what I’ll do.” He tried to summon a steadiness in his voice, for James’s sake. “Funny how regret surfaces when your time might be up, right?”

James swallowed. “Yeah.”

A hush fell, both men absorbing their thoughts. The table with the hammer and knife loomed in their periphery. The thick smell of dread wafted around them, made worse by the knowledge that Wendell enjoyed theatrics. He’d likely come back soon.

Sure enough, after a few heartbeats, the door at the far end of the basement banged open.

Light from the corridor speared inside, throwing Wendell’s silhouette across the floor.

A shock of black hair framed his face, though he wore a surgical mask and rubber gloves that gave him a ghastly, clinical air.

He strolled in with an unsettling cheer, eyes glinting behind that plain mask.

Brendan’s stomach plummeted. Again, he’s back. He couldn’t hide the tension in his shoulders. James stiffened, letting out a small whimper.

Wendell closed the door behind him with a theatrical flourish.

“Ah, my patients,” he said, voice muffled slightly by the mask but still oozing false warmth.

He tapped gloved fingers together. “The doctor is ready to see you. Hope you’ve had a nice little chat while I was gone. Getting acquainted, yes?”

Neither prisoner spoke. Brendan’s skin prickled with the knowledge that any sudden defiance might trigger Wendell’s cruelty. He tried to keep James calm, shooting him a glance. James’s face had drained of color.

Wendell, unbothered, crossed to the battered table, running gloved fingertips over the array of instruments. “Now that you two are well acquainted,” he said, feigning a thoughtful sigh, “I believe we can proceed to the next stage of our… game.”

Brendan tried to speak. “Don’t do this. Whatever you’re planning, we—”

“No, hush.” Wendell’s voice turned chilly.

“There’s nothing you can say to stop me.

My plans always play out exactly as intended.

” He turned abruptly to James, who flinched at the attention.

“We’ll do it fair and square, though, so you feel a sense of fate in all this.

I have a coin.” From his trouser pocket, Wendell produced a small coin, brandishing it between gloved fingers. “Heads or tails. Win or lose.”

Brendan’s throat felt like sand. “What do you mean ‘win or lose’?”

Wendell gave him a lazy shrug. “It’s quite simple: I flip. If you win, you live. The other…” He made a slicing gesture across his own neck. “Loser.”

James’s breath caught in his throat, tears sliding anew down his battered cheek. “You can’t—”

Wendell made a tsking sound. "I can, actually. I enjoy a bit of drama. Don't you, Brendan?" He turned to James. "Now, since you're the new arrival, I'll let you pick heads or tails."

James’s eyes widened with raw terror, his body trembling so violently the chair rattled. “Please… I… I don’t want to kill him or me. I—”

Wendell’s mask crinkled at the corners, indicating a smile. “Choose, or I’ll shoot you both right now.”

A sob tore through James’s chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears dripping from his chin. “Heads,” he managed, voice breaking. “Heads.”

Wendell’s gloved hand twitched in something like excitement. “Heads for James. Then tails for dear Brendan.” He extended the coin with showy exaggeration, flicked it into the air. It spun, glinting in the overhead light, then clattered to the concrete, rolling near their chairs.

Brendan’s heart lurched. This can’t be real. He felt a cold sweat bead at his temple. The coin finally came to rest near Wendell’s foot. The man stooped to pick it up, letting the tension mount. He peered at the coin, then turned with a mocking gleam. “Heads it is,” Wendell announced softly.

Shock hammered Brendan’s mind, a sense of unreality. If heads meant James lived, it meant he was the loser. The breath stuttered in his lungs. “No—”

James began sobbing anew, guilt and relief tangling in his voice. “Oh God, oh God—”

Brendan pressed his back to the chair, forcing calm. James was unraveling, but he needed to hold the man together. “James,” he said, his own voice wavering, “look at me.”

James lifted tear-filled eyes, trembling.

“It’s okay,” Brendan continued, though the swirl of panic nearly choked him.

“You’re going to get out of this. You’ll see your brother, Stanley, again.

And when you do… look up my mum and dad, okay?

Tell them I love them.” He couldn’t stop his voice from cracking.

“Tell them I’m sorry I didn’t make it back. ”

James made a strangled sound, nodding wordlessly. The heartbreak on his face was unbearable.

Wendell interrupted, clearing his throat with faux politeness.

“Touching. Now, let’s make it official.” He pivoted back to the table of tools, humming under his breath.

“Decisions, decisions,” he muttered, trailing gloved fingertips over the hammer.

He lifted it briefly, then shook his head.

“No, too ungentlemanly.” Next, the pliers.

“Too messy.” The bottle of white spirit earned a thoughtful tilt of his head.

“Might need this later to clean up blood.”

Finally, Wendell picked up the broad knife, the overhead bulb glinting off the blade. He turned, presenting it to Brendan with a theatrically apologetic shrug. “Just right,” he said.

A tremor raced through Brendan’s core. He clenched his fists behind the chair, trying not to panic. Keep calm. Don’t give him satisfaction.

James sobbed harder. Wendell stepped toward Brendan, the knife’s tip tracing the air in idle patterns. He gripped Brendan’s hair roughly with his free hand, forcing his head back.

“James,” Brendan said hoarsely, ignoring the blade near his cheek.

“Don’t watch.” He wanted to spare James the horror.

The cold metal slid across Brendan’s skin, not yet cutting but promising violence.

The surgical mask made Wendell’s grin invisible, but Brendan felt it in the man’s posture—coiled, malicious delight.

Then, without warning, Wendell twisted away from Brendan.

The movement was so abrupt that Brendan’s mind lagged a second behind.

Wendell’s left hand released Brendan’s hair.

Instead of stabbing Brendan, he pivoted and lunged at James.

The blade drove into James’s side with a wet impact.

James’s scream reached out like the crack of a soul, only to die in a choking gurgle.

“Sorry, James,” Wendell murmured, voice almost gentle. “But you were always going to die. I don’t believe in fate or chance… only entertainment.” He jerked the blade free, leaving James gasping, blood staining his shirt.

Brendan’s stomach lurched, bile rising in his throat. “You’re crazy,” he spat, voice ragged.

Wendell let out a low laugh and pulled James upright by the shirtfront, ignoring the man’s dying groans. Then he took hold of the chair, dragging it across the concrete, squeaking and rattling with each movement. Drops of blood traced their path. James then fell silent, lifeless as a child’s doll.

“Tomorrow, Brendan,” Wendell said, pausing at the threshold, “you’ll see just how crazy I can be.”