Page 18 of When You’re Forgotten (Finn Wright #10)

Finn dashed up the main staircase with Amelia a pace ahead, the lingering echoes of a woman’s scream ringing in his ears.

Behind them, the steady footfalls of Hobbs pressed close, his breath ragged from the sudden sprint.

The manor’s architecture seemed to warp in the panic—hallways that felt straightforward hours earlier now appeared twisting, lit by wall sconces casting ghostly shadows on the floral wallpaper.

The old wood underfoot groaned and popped, as if the house itself disliked being so quickly traversed.

He thought of the children—Bella and Charlie—hoping they hadn’t heard the scream or, if they had, that Marianne managed to keep them calm. The entire family had endured too much tragedy already. More fear at this juncture would only compound the pain.

Amelia reached the landing first, skidding to a halt and peering down the intersecting corridors. “Which direction?”

Finn’s heart thumped. He listened for any continuing shout or sob, but the house had fallen into an ominous hush. Then, as though on cue, Marianne’s voice drifted from the left corridor: “Finn! Amelia!”

A jolt of relief coursed through him—at least Marianne was unhurt enough to call for help. Without waiting, they hurried left, footsteps pounding on the runner carpet. Hobbs followed, glancing over his shoulder nervously as if expecting another intruder to appear.

At a small door at the corridor’s end, Finn heard Marianne call out again, “Finn, please, hurry!” The desperation in her tone sent a chill down his spine. He rapped on the door quickly. “It’s Finn,” he announced, pressing his ear to the wood.

The handle turned from within. The door opened, revealing Marianne’s drawn face. Her cheeks were flushed, strands of her dark hair escaping the neat chignon she usually maintained. In the dim glow of a single overhead lamp, he saw that Bella and Charlie huddled close, eyes wide and frightened.

“Thank God,” Marianne breathed, hand shaking as she eased the door wider. “The children heard it—they’re terrified. We couldn’t tell where it came from, just that it was a woman screaming.”

Amelia hovered beside Finn, scanning the small sitting room behind Marianne. A single armchair stood by the window, and a tea tray lay abandoned on a side table. “Are you injured?” she asked.

Marianne shook her head quickly, hugging Bella’s shoulders. Charlie peered out from beneath Marianne’s arm. “No… but we’re rattled. Please, is anyone else hurt?”

Finn stepped inside just far enough to see that no danger lurked in the corners of this room. Satisfied, he said to Hobbs, “Stay with them. Don’t let anyone in or out unless it’s us or the authorities. Lock this door behind you.”

Hobbs bowed his head. “Of course, sir.” He guided the children gently into the center of the room. Charlie clutched the bottom of Hobbs’s jacket, while Bella held her mother’s hand. They appeared spooked enough to cling to any adult who offered security.

Marianne nodded, meeting Finn’s gaze. “Please be careful,” she whispered, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. “I— I can’t lose anyone else.”

Finn gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “We’ll do our best. Tell the children it’ll be all right.”

Her lips quivered in a faint attempt at a smile. Then Hobbs quietly pushed the door shut, and they heard the lock click from inside. The corridor outside felt abruptly colder, the faint lighting an uneasy contrast to the burst of alarm that spurred them moments ago.

Amelia exhaled, placing a hand on her hip. “So if it wasn’t Marianne, who screamed?” She shot a meaningful look at Finn. “We know Mrs Hughes, Catherine Penrose, and Jenna Penrose are the only other women in the house, right?”

“Yeah,” Finn responded, rolling his shoulders to shed the tension. “That narrows the possibilities, though not by much. Catherine and Jenna are both capable of holding their own. Mrs Hughes… well, she’s older, but I wouldn’t bet against her in a panic.”

Amelia’s expression darkened. “If it was fear or distress, it suggests something real happened. We should figure out where exactly we heard that scream.”

Finn nodded, taking a cautious step forward. “You lead or me?” he teased gently, remembering how she’d wanted to rush ahead.

She tipped her head in a half-smile. “I’ll go first, but I promise not to run off. Someone could be hurt, though— I can’t just dawdle if a person’s life is on the line.”

He rubbed the sore spot at his temple, recalling the blow the masked figure dealt him the night before.

“I’m just worried about another ambush. That intruder could still be around.

” Finn’s stomach knotted at the memory of losing that chase, and the possibility that the masked assailant had returned to strike again.

Amelia exhaled, adjusting the flashlight she carried.

“Point taken. Let’s keep our eyes open. And I wish we had a weapon.

” Her small joke about a ghostly presence hours ago felt considerably less amusing now, overshadowed by the genuine danger.

“Let’s check the corridor leading away from Marianne’s room.

That scream seemed distant— probably deeper in the east wing. ”

They set off, flashlights scanning the gloom, though overhead lamps cast flickers of warmth at intervals.

The manor’s old portrait paintings loomed on the walls, capturing stern Penrose ancestors in oils and gilded frames.

In this unsettled atmosphere, the faces seemed almost to shift with each step, as if condemning their intrusion. A shiver crawled along Finn’s spine.

Suddenly, a muffled sound reached them—a quiet, uneven sob. A woman’s voice, though hoarse with emotion. Amelia caught Finn’s eye, half-laughing in nervousness. “You think it’s a ghost wailing away?”

Finn forced a grin. “If it is, I only need to outrun you.” The attempt at humor belied his pounding heart. “Come on.”

They followed the sound, turning at a junction and pressing deeper into the east wing.

The sobs grew louder. Finally, they turned the corner and found Jenna Penrose, Richard’s wife, collapsed on the corridor floor, weeping into her hands.

Her posture was one of utter despair—knees pulled close, shoulders trembling.

She wore a blouse and trousers that now looked rumpled, as if she’d sprinted or wrestled with something intangible.

Amelia crouched beside her, gently resting a hand on Jenna’s shoulder. “Jenna… hey, what’s going on? Are you hurt?”

Jenna lifted her tear-streaked face, eyes glazed with horror.

Her lips moved, but words refused to come.

In her trembling right hand, she still clutched a small handkerchief bunched in a tight fist. She raised her other hand to point down the corridor at a single door, closed and unremarkable except for a faint glow of lamplight slipping under it.

Finn’s heart sank. He exchanged a knowing look with Amelia, then straightened. “Stay with her, okay?” He had no illusions about what he might find beyond that door. The tension in the air was thick, and Jenna’s sobs echoed with true terror.

As Amelia tried to coax words out of Jenna, Finn steeled himself.

He moved down the corridor—one that felt narrower than any other in the house.

The lamps overhead flickered. Cold air seemed to cling to the walls.

He reached the door, breath catching in his throat.

It was slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of an interior room.

He paused, forcing himself to remain calm. If an attacker was inside, he needed to be prepared. Taking a deep breath, he nudged the door open. The sight that greeted him made his stomach twist in revulsion.

The room was modest—only a small desk, a couple of chairs, and a tall window that overlooked the side lawn.

But the first thing he noticed was the toppled chair in the middle of the room, the seat cushion torn.

Nearby, papers were scattered underfoot, as though someone had rifled through them in haste.

And in the corner, a heap of thick red curtain lay crumpled on the floor, evidently pulled down from the window rail.

“Hello?” he called softly, though he already suspected there's be no answer.

He approached the curtain and realized there was a shape beneath it—a still form.

Prickles of dread skittered over his skin.

Kneeling, he gently lifted the curtain’s edge.

The color drained from his face as he recognized the motionless features of Catherine Penrose.

Her eyes stared wide and lifeless, mouth parted in a silent gasp, and her skin felt chill to the touch.

In her hand, rigid with apparent rigor mortis, she clutched a letter opener, a dark stain of dried blood marking its handle.

Finn swallowed hard, pressing two fingers to her throat.

The pulse was non-existent, and her body had begun the early signs of stiffening.

Whatever had happened to her must have occurred hours ago.

The pose—her arm half-raised as if in defense—spoke of terror or a final desperate attempt to fend someone off.

“Damn,” he whispered, his voice shaking. Another grim end within these cursed walls. Another dead Penrose sibling, not even days apart from James’s own suspicious demise. He carefully lowered the curtain back over Catherine’s torso, a muted wave of sorrow coursing through him.

Stepping back, he inhaled a steadying breath. “Focus,” he told himself. He might need to check around the room for clues, but first he had to calm the hysterical woman in the corridor and ensure no immediate threat lurked. If the killer was still inside, they could be anywhere.

He ducked out of the room, wiping clammy sweat from his brow. At the far end of the hallway, Amelia held Jenna in a loose embrace, murmuring soothing words. Jenna stared at Finn, tears brimming anew as she read the truth in his expression.

“Is it—Catherine?” Jenna managed in a trembling voice.