Page 9 of When You’re Broken (Finn Wright #11)

Finn leaned on the table’s edge, gazing at the manager across from him—a man who looked far older than he likely was.

The blue-tinged lighting in the Hertfordshire HQ interview room cast everything in sharp lines and shadows.

Evening had settled outside, the darkness pressing against the windows of the station corridors, but inside this cramped space, bright artificial light made escape feel impossible.

Amelia stood a short distance away, arms folded, eyes flicking from Finn to their suspect.

The manager’s name was Stanley Peterson, though in Finn’s mind, he kept defaulting to the manager —the man who nearly ended their lives that afternoon at Wainwright Lodge.

The lines of Peterson’s face betrayed pure exhaustion.

He looked hollowed out by guilt and terror, though that didn’t erase Finn’s memory of the manager’s finger on a stolen gun, the bullet spitting sparks off the children's home’s floors.

Still, after the shock and the foam fiasco, they’d brought him here, to Hertfordshire HQ, for questioning.

Finn spoke first, voice level but firm. “How did Wendell get in touch with you?” A wave of tension underpinned the words.

Peterson sighed, shoulders drooping. In the overhead glare, dried foam streaked his hair and clothes—remnants from being subdued by a fire extinguisher.

"I received a phone in the post… It had instructions to be turned on.

That's how he showed me my brother and told me what I had to do.

It was the only way to save my brother," he muttered, voice quivering.

He stared at his own cuffed hands as if they were a foreign puzzle he couldn't solve.

Amelia stepped closer to the table, placing her palms flat on the cool surface. “Did you not consider calling the police?” she asked gently, though her posture held an undercurrent of tension.

Peterson sighed, swallowing hard. His eyes grew damp. "He's the only family I've got… and Wendell found out. He used it against me. I couldn't risk anyone knowing. He said he had eyes everywhere, and if called for help, my brother would end up in the Thames… In pieces."

Finn studied Peterson’s haggard face. When Peterson shot at them, his eyes had been full of desperation. Now, that expression had curdled into shame. “What’s your brother’s name?” Finn asked.

Peterson flexed his fingers, the cuffs rattling quietly.

“James. James Peterson.” He paused, mouth twisting in a bitter line.

“Wendell must have grabbed him in the last week or so. I can’t be sure.

He threatened to kill him if I didn’t… follow orders.

He gave me a phone and instructed me where to go to find a gun he had hidden for me nearby.

He said he’d message or email me instructions.

Two nights ago, he told me you two might show up at the children's home, and if you did… I had to kill you, Finn. Leave Amelia alive.” He lifted a weary gaze to Finn, voice trembling.

“Wendell said specifically: if the male detective steps foot on that property, shoot him. That was the only way to save James.”

Amelia’s lips parted. “I can understand the pull of wanting to save a brother… More than you know.”

“I just tried to do what I was told, hoping maybe it’d keep James alive. He’s all I have!” A tear slipped down his cheek, but he wiped it away roughly.

Finn exchanged a look with Amelia. The manager’s story fit the pattern of Wendell’s manipulations—he twisted people’s vulnerabilities into lethal demands.

But we need more details, Finn thought, forcibly keeping his own anger in check.

He placed both hands on the table’s edge and spoke slowly.

“All right. Was the phone we found on you when you were arrested, the burner?”

Peterson’s face flushed with either frustration or desperation. “Yes,” he answered.

Amelia glanced at the corner of the room, where an evidence shelf held the manager’s personal effects. She stepped away from the table and returned with a clear plastic evidence bag containing a smartphone. “This is the phone he gave you?” she asked, holding it at eye level.

Peterson nodded, pressing his cuffed hands against the table in a futile attempt to stand or reach. “Yes, that’s it.”

Finn gently took the bag from Amelia, turning it in his hands.

The phone lay inert within the plastic, screen black.

If it contained a record of Wendell’s instructions or demands, it might be a critical lead.

And it might also confirm or deny the manager’s claims about his brother’s abduction.

He set the bag down gently, ensuring Peterson could see it.

“We’ll examine the phone. If you’re telling the truth, we’ll find emails from Wendell, maybe attachments or images. You’ll have to unlock it.”

Peterson nodded, relief flickering in his eyes. “Yes. Please, look… you’ll see. Wendell threatened to kill my brother if I didn’t do exactly what he said. All the proof is in there.”

Before Finn or Amelia could respond, the door to the interview room swung open.

Inspector McNeill—tall, broad-shouldered, and sporting his usual glower—stepped inside with a near-audible crackle of anger.

He wore a dark suit, tie slightly askew, as though he’d been tearing around the station all evening.

Without preamble, he jerked his head at Finn and Amelia. “You two. Outside. Now.”

The manager blinked, startled by the intrusion. Amelia lifted her hands in a calming motion. “Inspector—”

“Hallway,” McNeill repeated, voice taut.

He stepped aside, though the tension in his stance said he wasn’t about to politely wait.

Finn pursed his lips, exchanging a quick look with Amelia.

She exhaled, then nodded, and Finn placed the bagged phone back on the evidence shelf.

They both followed McNeill out into the corridor, leaving the manager behind with a uniformed officer.

In the hall, the overhead lights cast a sterile pall.

The station was calmer now that it was after hours—only a few desks were lit, and a hush had settled that felt at odds with McNeill’s evident fury.

He spun to face them, fists clenched, jaw set.

“Care to explain why you two are interviewing a suspect clearly connected to the Wendell Reed case without my authorization?”

Finn felt a flush of heat creep up his neck. “Inspector, we discovered a lead at the children's home. This manager was armed and—”

"I don't care what you've discovered!" McNeill cut in, voice rising.

"You were supposed to coordinate with the taskforce.

Instead, I find out you nearly got yourselves shot by some manager .

In a children's home? And that you brought him in for questioning like a pair of vigilantes?

I'm the lead on the Wendell Reed operation, not you. "

Amelia stepped forward, arms folded. “With respect, we’re part of the Home Office directive to apprehend Wendell. We pursued a lead about old adoption records, and we didn’t expect the manager to start shooting at us.” She kept her tone measured, but Finn sensed the anger simmering beneath.

McNeill’s eyes narrowed. “I never wanted you on this taskforce, Winters. The only reason you’re here is because the Home Office insisted on your involvement. And guess what? This fiasco is exactly why. You’re a liability. Look at the chaos you cause—gunfire in a place full of children.”

Finn found it hard to keep calm. He stepped closer, fists tight. “That manager pulled the gun on us, not the other way around. Amelia and I had no intention of making a scene, we were just investigating a possible break-in at the children's home linked to Wendell—”

McNeill moved in as well, not backing down. “You nearly got yourselves killed. And you think I don’t know how that plays right into Wendell’s hands? If you’d ended up dead, we’d have a crisis on our hands. You’re acting like amateurs.”

A burst of outrage flared in Finn’s chest. He felt the tension coil in his shoulders. How dare McNeill belittle Amelia like that. He stepped forward, jaw taut, half considering throwing a punch. Amelia placed a steadying hand on his arm, murmuring low, “Finn, don’t.”

McNeill glared at them both, noticing Finn’s posture.

“Go ahead, take a swing if you want to lose your job. I don’t care how loved by the press and the Home Office you are!

” he spat, then pivoted to Amelia. “You’re out of line.

You always have been. I told them from the start you were too personally involved to be rational. Now look at the mess.”

Finn’s chest rose and fell rapidly. He hated every word from McNeill. He wanted to defend Amelia, especially after hearing her called a liability. But he forced himself to remain silent for a second, forcibly swallowing down the fury.

Just then, a shrill ping reached them—a phone notification. The phone in the evidence bag. All three of them turned their heads. Amelia seized the moment to calm her breathing. “That might be Wendell,” she said, voice rigid. “We need to get the manager to unlock the phone now, Inspector.”

McNeill looked like he wanted to keep yelling, but reason overcame him. He jerked his chin. “Fine. Check the message. Then come straight back out. We’ll discuss your disregard for protocol further.”

Amelia gave a curt nod, stepping past McNeill. Finn followed her back into the interview room, chest still tight with residual anger. The manager looks up, forlorn.

“Did you hear that?” Amelia asked, voice clipped. “It might be Wendell contacting you. Unlock it.”

Peterson hesitated, tears still glistening in his eyes.

Finn picked the plastic evidence bag off the shelf, retrieving the phone from inside. He thumbed the power button. The screen lit, demanding a pass-code. He glanced at Peterson. “Go on. Type your code.”

Peterson’s cuffed hands shook as he rose slightly from his chair, shuffling close enough to peck at the screen with bound wrists.

Finn had to hold the phone for him at an angle so the manager could manage it.

A beep sounded, and the screen unlocked.

Another beep signaled a new message or email arriving.

Amelia hovered at Finn’s shoulder, tension coiled in her stance. “Check the messages. See if Wendell’s name or an unknown number is sending anything.”

Finn tapped into the phone’s email app. A single unread message stared back at him, no subject line, from a random sequence of letters—likely a throwaway address. He opened it. A short text read: He’s of no use to me anymore. Lovely working with you! Attached is a photograph.

Amelia’s face went pale as she stared at the screen. Finn’s stomach did a sickening lurch. The photo showed a man’s body face down on a grimy floor. A bullet wound at the back of his head. Hard to see the man’s features from that angle.

“God…” Finn let out.

“Let me see!” Peterson said.

“Stanley…” Amelia began.

“Please! Is it my brother!?”

Finn handed the phone back. The manager's hoarse gasp made it obvious: This was his brother, James.

Peterson made a strangled cry, staggering back to the chair, half-collapsing. “No… No, no, no,” he moaned. Tears flooded his face. “That’s… that’s James! God, Wendell said if I obeyed, he’d… he’d let him go.” His voice cracked into a sob.

Amelia’s throat bobbed, pity flashing across her features.

She stepped forward, resting a tentative hand on Peterson’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently, eyes shining with genuine sorrow.

“He lied to you. He always does.” She gave a look at Finn.

He recognized that look—Amelia’s frustration at how this monster exploited innocent people.

For a minute, the manager’s sobs echoed in the interview room.

He seemed barely aware of his surroundings, consumed by heartbreak.

Finn let him grieve. Then he cleared his throat, attempting to speak in a measured tone.

“If Wendell sent this, it’s probable the time stamp or metadata might help us track his location.

We’ll run a forensic analysis. We can confirm that your story was true—that you were coerced. ”

The manager sniffled, voice cracking. “I… I can’t believe… He was my only family.” His eyes flicked up, red-rimmed with shock. “I did everything they asked, and it didn’t matter. James is gone.” He dropped his head into his cuffed hands, tears spattering the table.

Amelia drew a shallow breath. She glanced at Finn.

"If your story checks out that Wendell forced you under threat, the courts might consider it.

But I can't promise more." She seemed almost apologetic, compassion warring with her role as detective.

"We'll have a solicitor come soon and take your statement.

The least we can do is ensure your side of the story is heard. "

Peterson’s nod was barely perceptible. He kept murmuring “James, oh God, James,” under his breath. Finn’s own gut churned. Wendell’s cruelty has no limit. First, forcing the manager to do his bidding, then killing the hostage anyway. All to sow fear.

Amelia gently patted Peterson’s shoulder.

“I’m truly sorry.” She gestured to the uniformed officer, who stepped forward to remain on watch.

Amelia gave a final nod at Finn, then moved to the door.

Finn followed, phone in hand. He stepped out of the interview room, carefully sealing the manager’s phone back in its bag.

The corridor’s lights felt too bright, his eyes raw from tension and anger.

To his surprise, Inspector McNeill was nowhere in sight. Finn’s jaw clenched, anticipating more yelling from that direction. But there was only the quiet hum of overhead lamps. Not entirely quiet—some voices carried from the station’s main area, but no sign of McNeill’s towering presence.

Amelia looked down the hall both ways, then her gaze snagged on a figure a few yards away, approaching. Rob stood in his Chief Constable’s uniform, arms crossed. He wore a worried expression that only deepened when he saw them emerge.

Amelia frowned, stepping over. “Chief? Where’s McNeill?”

Rob inhaled slowly. “He told me what happened, then stormed off.” A hesitant flicker passed across his face, as if uncertain how to deliver the message.

“McNeill wants both of you in the briefing room for the Wendell Reed taskforce. He said you were both about to find out why you should never have crossed him.”

Finn felt a chill run up his spine. He glanced at Amelia, reading the same apprehension in her eyes. A cold hush seized the corridor. Wendell’s cruelty was bad enough—now they faced an internal war with their own lead inspector. So be it.