Page 17 of When You’re Forgotten (Finn Wright #10)

Finn stepped out onto the gravel path encircling Brynmor Hall, a flashlight in hand, the crunch of small stones underfoot echoing in the quiet dusk.

Next to him, Amelia held her own flashlight, its beam sweeping across the manor’s stone facade.

A faint orange light clung to the horizon where the sun had just set, and the sky above was a stretch of purpling clouds.

The air carried a mild chill, and each breath felt crisp with the scent of dew-coated grass and distant pine.

He cast Amelia a sidelong glance. The bruising at her temple had faded slightly in the day’s time, though the bandage still covered her knuckles. “The last thing I want is another intruder slipping in,” he said, scanning the low windows along the eastern wall.

She nodded, directing her flashlight over an old side entrance. “At least it’s quiet tonight. Maybe too quiet. The way this place is built, there are so many ways in or out—subtle doors, old servant entrances, basement-level hatches. We can’t check them all thoroughly in one go.”

Finn grunted agreement. “Well, we’ll do our best. If the intruder wants in badly, he’ll find a way.”

“Inspector Thomas has posted a watch on the gates of the estate,” Amelia offered. “And one of his men will patrol the perimeter fence as best as possible, but it’s such a large estate, he’d need at least fifty constables to guarantee no one gets in, and he doesn’t have those kind of resources.”

Finn nodded and then paused, shining his flashlight onto a patch of ivy creeping up from the foundation. “You still rattled from what happened earlier?”

Amelia hesitated, momentarily flicking the beam of her torch across his face.

“A little. I keep picturing your masked man rummaging around. Then I remember the shape we saw on the security feed, crawling on all fours.” She shuddered lightly, turning away.

“I can understand why the locals tell stories about the house and its grounds, this place could make a person believe in ghosts.”

Finn gave a half-laugh, though he felt a twinge of unease. “So we’re ghost hunters now, as well as homicide investigators?”

She shook her head, stepping cautiously over a small puddle.

“I’m usually not one for haunting stories.

But something about Brynmor Hall unsettles me.

The wind in the rafters, the old halls… it gets under your skin.

And the woods… It feels like I’m being watched whenever it gets dark. It makes my skin crawl.”

Finn began to say something reassuring, but a noise from the bushes made him pivot. A sudden rustle, then a snap of twigs. “You hear that?” he hissed, focusing his flashlight on a row of neatly trimmed hedges at the perimeter of the lawn.

Amelia whipped her beam around too. “Yes—someone’s there?”

Without waiting for an answer, Finn broke into a swift jog toward the sound, adrenaline kicking in. Amelia matched his pace. They parted the hedge branches, scanning for any sign of movement. A fleeting dark shape darted off deeper into the lawn’s edge.

“Stop!” Finn shouted, though his rational side knew it might just be an animal.

Even so, his pulse hammered. He and Amelia plunged into the grass beyond the manicured hedgerow, flashlights bobbing wildly.

His shoes slipped on a patch of soft earth, but he caught his balance just in time—only to feel Amelia’s grip on his sleeve falter.

She let out a startled yelp. “Oh—!”

He turned to see her foot slide in a muddy patch, sending her sprawling. Reflexively, she grabbed at him, yanking him down. With a muffled thud, Finn landed half on top of her, arms braced to keep from crushing her entirely. Mud splattered across his arm and onto Amelia’s jacket.

They lay there for a disorienting second, breath coming in short gasps, flashlights shining random angles across the grass. Then Amelia gave a breathy laugh. “Well, that was graceful.”

Finn braced himself on his elbows, feeling the wet suction of the ground on his knees. “Yeah… real smooth,” he said. “At least it wasn’t a six-foot ditch.” He rolled to the side, half-smiling at the ridiculousness of the situation.

Amelia, giggling, tried to wipe mud from her sleeve. “You okay?” she asked, concern flickering in her eyes even as she snickered.

"Just bruised my pride." He went to help her up but froze when they both noticed a movement just a few yards away.

In a sudden burst of motion, a deer bounded past, graceful legs cutting through the grass.

The creature vanished swiftly, hooves clattering on a stony patch before it disappeared into the dusk.

Relief poured through Finn. “So we have a ghost deer, apparently,” he joked, a grin tugging at his lips. “At least it wasn’t the masked intruder or some undead ancestor.”

Amelia shook her head in amusement. “I can’t believe we ended up chasing a deer. Must’ve spooked it as badly as it spooked us.”

Finn carefully got to his feet, offering Amelia a hand. Her palm was slick with mud, but she took his grip, letting him tug her upright. The comedic moment soon overshadowed the earlier tension. He flicked on his flashlight again, assessing her jacket for damage. “You’re an absolute mess.”

She snorted. “Takes one to know one.”

He smirked, reaching out to brush a smear of mud off her cheek with his thumb. “You’ve got a little… right there.”

She placed her hand over his, a quick warmth in the contact. “Oh, Finn,” she murmured, a note of endearment and exasperation mingled.

He leaned in, drawn by her voice and the way her eyes caught the dim glow of the flashlight.

She began to tilt her head, but then pressed a muddy finger to his lips.

“Not here,” she whispered, half-laughing.

“We’re supposed to stay professional, remember?

Wait until I get you back to the cottage in Great Amwell. ”

Despite the rebuff, Finn grinned. “All the more reason to solve this case quickly, then?”

She lowered her hand, her cheeks slightly flushed, and turned to gather her flashlight. “Come on, charmer. Let’s see if we can salvage our dignity. The house is as secure as it can be, from what I can tell.”

Finn swept the flashlight around, verifying no more shapes or suspicious figures lurked.

"I guess we can call it for the night. Marianne and the kids are in the master bedroom, and they've locked the door.

I just hope that masked figure I chased off was a simple thief rather than a killer—someone rummaging for valuables or documents, and then spooked away. "

They trudged back toward the manor, footprints squelching in the muddy patches. At the main porch, a lantern cast a warm glow across the steps. Hobbs—Marianne’s driver—stood by the half-open door, arms folded. He seemed about to go inside when he spotted them.

“Mr. Wright. Miss Winters,” he said, dipping his head. “I was just turning in for the evening. Everything all right?”

Finn exchanged a look with Amelia, noting the mud stains on both their clothes. “We’re fine. We chased a noise out in the bushes, turned out to be a deer. How about you?”

Hobbs sighed, shifting his stance. "I took dinner trays up to Mrs. Penrose and the children. She wants them in bed early. Tomorrow, I'm to drive them to a friend's place for their own safety."

Amelia nodded sympathetically. "They're going away, then? Probably a good idea for everyone's peace of mind."

Hobbs pursed his lips. “It’s… an unfortunate business. They’re grieving their father, and now the house is full of uncertainty. Hardly restful for children.” He ran a hand over his short-cropped hair. “I hope this is over soon.”

Finn considered the stoic figure of Hobbs in the lantern light. “Do you personally believe James was murdered?” he asked quietly.

A flicker of emotion crossed Hobbs’s face—fear, perhaps, or reluctance. “I’d rather not stir the pot, sir. Some things at Brynmor Hall are best left alone.”

Amelia took a step closer, her tone gentle yet insistent. “We appreciate your caution, but we need every perspective. If you know something that might help us—”

Hobbs drew a slow breath. “There’s a story. Maybe it means nothing, but... well, James had an older brother, Wilkie. Died nine years ago, also under strange circumstances.”

Amelia’s interest sharpened visibly. “Mrs Hughes mentioned him briefly when we arrived.”

“Yes, Wilkie and Armand, that was Mrs Hughes’ husband…” he almost trailed off for a moment. “They were very close, actually. I don’t think Armand was ever the same after Wilkie passed. He died a couple of years later.”

“What did you mean by strange circumstances?” Amelia asked.

Hobbs scanned the dim yard, as though searching for eavesdroppers. “I was here that night. Wilkie vanished. We only found him the next day. By then, he’d—” Hobbs paused, swallowing. “He’d died in the cellar. Inside an old wardrobe, of all places. Shut himself in, apparently.”

Finn felt a chill prickle along his neck. “That’s… unusual. Why hide in a wardrobe?”

Shrugging unhappily, Hobbs continued, “We never knew. He was slumped over inside. Rigor mortis had set in. Terrible sight. Me and the groundskeeper at the time—Edwin Pierce—found him. It was like he’d tried to claw at the door from the inside.

His hands were up over his face, locked that way, like he was fighting off something. ”

Amelia let out a hushed breath. “That’s horrifying. Do you think it connects to James’s death?”

“I can’t say. But I do know that after Wilkie died, James became terrified. That’s when he had that panic room built. He said if something like that ever came for him, he wanted a safe place.” Hobbs paused, shoulders tensing. “Seems like in the end, it got him anyway.”

Finn’s mind churned with the parallels: Wilkie dying alone, presumably from a fear-induced or unexplained cause, James with a heart condition, alone in a panic room.

“Sounds like the family’s ghost stories have fed into this.

If Wilkie died under bizarre circumstances, James might’ve truly believed something haunted them. ”

Hobbs regarded Finn with a sober gaze. “They’re not stories. I’ve seen them—spirits roaming the halls: a woman in a Victorian dress gliding through walls, and a man in old fox-hunting gear glaring at me. Then they vanish. They look angry, as if they blame us for something.”/

Finn didn’t want to challenge him on this, it wasn’t the time or place. He just nodded.

Amelia folded her arms around her muddy jacket, her flashlight clipped to her belt.

“Either Wilkie and James were both victims of some intangible fear, or someone alive used that fear to kill them. If it was murder, terrifying them—especially if they had health conditions—would be enough, wouldn’t it? ”

Hobbs nodded. “Perhaps.” Then he seemed to catch himself, glancing at the door. “Anyway. Enough talk of the dead. They say you’ll believe once you see them for yourself. I hope you never do.”

Before Finn could respond, an earsplitting scream cut through the evening air—a piercing shriek from somewhere within the manor. All three froze, hearts in their throats.

“That came from upstairs,” Finn gasped.

Amelia whipped around, yanking out her flashlight even though the hall was lit. “Is someone hurt?”

Hobbs’s face went pale, and he gestured for them to follow. Without further thought, Finn and Amelia bolted back into the house, the scream echoing in their ears like a dreadful call from the grave.