Page 2 of When You’re Forgotten (Finn Wright #10)

Amelia paused in the shadow of a gaping doorway, heart pounding against her ribs, the sting of sweat in her eyes.

The mid-afternoon sun, bleached and glaring, cast rectangles of harsh light through the shattered windows of the abandoned school.

Dust motes swirled in the beams, and every faint noise echoed in the eerie hush of a place long forgotten by time.

She pressed her back to the wall, inhaling slowly. Over the crackle of static in her earpiece, Inspector McNeil’s voice came through, sharp and displeased. “Winters! Report. Are you seriously alone on the east side of the building? I told you not to run off!”

His words grated on her already-strained nerves. She closed her eyes for a moment, collecting herself, before lifting a hand to the small device at her ear. “I’m handling it, Inspector,” she whispered. “I saw movement in the corridor and had to follow. I can’t let Wendell Reed slip away again.”

“That’s not your call!” McNeil’s frustration nearly crackled into a shout.

“We are doing a coordinated sweep, do you understand? Detective Constable Clint and I are on the northwest end. You were supposed to wait for us. You’re risking your own safety—and, might I add, interfering with our operation. ”

Amelia swallowed back a retort. She understood McNeil’s logic, but she was beyond caring about protocol.

The entire task force had converged on the decrepit school after security footage from a nearby construction site had captured someone matching Wendell Reed’s description entering and leaving these premises.

Any lead had to be followed, especially when it involved such a dangerous killer moving around in the public.

Already, the building’s labyrinth of corridors and classrooms threatened to devour them.

Broken desks, ragged posters on peeling walls, shards of glass beneath sagging windows—everything reeked of disuse and decay.

But Amelia’s mind kept dredging up more pressing concerns: Wendell Reed had singled her out, watched her every move, and threatened her loved ones.

He had already harmed innocents in his twisted pursuit.

If she lost him again, who knew how many more lives he might destroy?

“Amelia.” McNeil’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Are you listening? Fall back to the entrance. If you don’t comply, I will have you thrown off this task force. You’re a liability.”

She set her jaw and answered in a whisper, “Inspector, I can’t stand by. Wendell Reed directly threatened me—threatened my family. I won’t let him vanish. Not again. I’m moving carefully, but if there’s a chance he’s right here, I can’t waste time.” She waited for the scolding she knew would come.

A sharp exhale filled her ear. “Do what you want, it’ll be the last time you work with us. You’d better keep your line open, and the second you see anything conclusive, you report in. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” she said tightly, easing forward a step.

She was in what used to be the ground-floor wing for younger students, if the cheerful (though now half-torn) alphabet murals on the walls were any indication.

The hallway was a broken mosaic of debris: crumpled children’s chairs, a collapsed coat rack, damp patches of mold creeping where the roof had leaked.

The air felt close and heavy. Amelia stifled a cough as her flashlight beam skimmed across a series of closed doors, each battered with years of neglect.

Where are you? She wondered, imagining Wendell’s mocking grin in every shadow.

Her insides twisted with a mixture of dread and grim resolve.

Memories of his recent kill, tying the bloodied body of a woman to the undercarriage of a train, churned in her mind.

She wished she could borrow Finn’s steady calm, his knack for diffusing the fear that clenched her insides.

If Finn were at her side, she might feel more confident—less alone.

But Finn had been blocked from being part of the task force by McNeil.

She had to push forward without him, trusting her own instincts.

A scuttling noise echoed from up ahead, beyond a door whose glass pane had been shattered.

Amelia’s entire body tensed. Could that be Wendell, or just some vagrant?

She advanced, flashlight raised, while her free hand hovered over the holster at her waist. The midday sun did little to illuminate the dank interior; she forced her eyes to adjust.

Soft footfalls sounded again, closer this time. She managed two more steps before McNeil’s annoyed voice piped up. “Winters? Where exactly are you now?”

She nearly jumped, but clutched at the earpiece.

“Ground floor, still on the east side. I’m passing what looks like an old coatroom,” she murmured.

“He might be close.” Without waiting for McNeil’s response, she pressed the device a bit more snugly into her ear so she wouldn’t miss anything if the team gave a warning.

Another scuffling noise—a distinct scrape against the dusty floor—echoed through the corridor.

Amelia’s pulse thundered. She swung the flashlight beam sharply to her left.

For a split second, she caught a glimpse of a figure—tall, lean, wearing what seemed like layers of ragged clothing and something wrapped around the lower half of his face.

Before she could call out, he vanished into the adjoining hall.

She dashed forward. “Stop!” she shouted, voice ringing in the emptiness.

Her earpiece crackled. “Winters, what’s happening?” McNeil demanded.

“I’ve got eyes on a suspect,” Amelia panted, already in motion.

The hush of the building exploded with her footfalls as she sprinted into the corridor.

Broken ceiling tiles crunched underfoot.

She fought her way past toppled chairs. “He’s heading—” She stumbled briefly, trying to keep track of the man, but he darted out of sight again.

“He’s heading deeper into the east wing! ”

Her only answer from McNeil was a burst of static and a muffled oath.

Possibly the signal was degrading in these walls.

She pressed on regardless, refusing to let her target escape.

The next hall was narrower, with doors leading to what might have been administrative offices.

Posters tacked on the walls hung in tatters, their messages of school spirit unreadable.

A stale odor of rot made her stomach lurch.

The overhead lights were long dead, leaving only patchy sunlight from high windows, most broken and boarded over.

Rounding another corner, she glimpsed him again: a figure draped in a threadbare coat, face covered by a strip of cloth.

He moved with swift certainty, as if he knew the building’s layout.

Amelia’s breath came in ragged gasps as she accelerated, boots pounding the corridor.

She was close enough now to see the tension in his shoulders, to note how he clutched something in his right hand—something slender, maybe a blade or a narrow piece of pipe.

A rotted door loomed up on her left, the sign too faded to read.

Without hesitation, the figure slammed a shoulder into it, vanishing through.

Amelia skidded to a stop, gun half-drawn, unsure if he’d laid a trap.

He was definitely leading her away from the main hall, away from backup, but this was the best chance she had.

If it was Wendell—if it was truly him—she might be seconds from nabbing him once and for all.

The weight of his threats, the memory of terror he inflicted on so many, fueled her determination.

“Amelia, come in!” McNeil’s voice crackled in her ear. “We lost track of you. Where are you?”

“He’s leading me into some side offices,” she said under her breath, stepping warily over the threshold.

The room she entered was more of a large storage area, piled with rusted metal shelves and scattered textbooks half-eaten by mold.

A single row of windows near the ceiling admitted watery light.

The figure was already on the far side, rummaging in a corner.

“Wendell, stop!” she barked, raising her flashlight. “Police!”

He responded by hurling a broken chair in her direction.

She leapt aside, the chair splintering on the floor.

“Stay back!” Amelia shouted, but the man lunged.

She barely brought her arms up in time to block a blow aimed at her head with what looked like a jagged pipe.

The impact rattled her forearms, her flashlight spinning away, clattering under a shelf.

She twisted her body to deflect another wild swing, then pivoted on her left foot, landing a strike with her right palm to the man’s shoulder.

He grunted, staggering. For an instant, Amelia tried to see if he was indeed Wendell—did the eyes match the criminal’s typical glare?

But the cloth around his face and a low cap prevented a clear look.

He recovered swiftly, surging at her with renewed force.

Amelia ducked, hooking a leg behind his knee.

He half-fell, but before she could capitalize on it, he wrenched free, landing a glancing blow against her side.

Pain flared. She reeled. Meanwhile, the man bolted for the door leading out of the storeroom.

Gasping for breath, Amelia steadied herself.

“You’re under arrest!” she yelled again, lurching forward.

She couldn’t see a weapon in his hand anymore—he might have lost the pipe or thrown it aside.

In two swift strides, she was at his back, grappling to get an arm around his midsection. She wasn’t about to let him slip away.

He twisted viciously, elbow slamming into her ribs. The shock sent a burst of agony through her chest, and her grip slackened. He tore himself free, sprinting through the exit. Cursing, Amelia forced her feet to move, ignoring the throbbing in her side.

Her earpiece crackled again with McNeil’s frantic voice. “Winters, are you engaging him? For God’s sake, you do not have clearance to proceed alone! We can’t get a fix on your location. Clint and I are heading upstairs from the west side.”

She couldn’t spare the breath to reply, adrenaline surging as she tried to keep the figure in sight.

He was heading deeper into the building, likely searching for a route to vanish.

The corridor ahead angled sharply, and she realized he was making for the stairwell—maybe planning to cut across the second floor or find a roof exit.

She willed her lungs to keep working as she barreled after him.

A battered sign pointed to the second level.

The man took the steps two at a time, boots thudding on warped wood.

Amelia was only steps behind, close enough to see the tension in his stance.

The midday light from broken windows turned the battered stairwell into a patchwork of brightness and gloom.

She set one foot on a half-rotten step that gave a warning groan.

Still, she continued upward, determined not to lose him.

Her mind raced. If this was Wendell, she was on the cusp of bringing him down.

All his vile intimidation, all the pain he caused—she could end it.

She pictured Finn’s face, how he’d told her to be careful.

She pictured Inspector McNeil’s anger. None of it mattered now.

What mattered was stopping the man who haunted her life, threatened those she cared about, made her second-guess every shadow.

The second floor hallway stretched out in front of her, even more decrepit than the first. Sections of ceiling had caved in, and water damage turned the floor planks spongy. The air smelled of mildew and stale fear. She glimpsed the man darting into a side room.

Teeth gritted, she pressed on. “Inspector, he’s on the second floor, heading west,” she panted into her earpiece, hoping the signal would carry.

“Christ!” McNeil’s exasperation was clear. “We’re on the west side, second floor, but the corridors here are blocked. We’re going to have to find another route. Stay put, do you hear me? He’s too dangerous.”

But the man was just a few paces away, the door to that side room half open.

Amelia inhaled, half-lunged, half-ran. She spotted the figure again, stumbling across a chamber that might once have been an art room—broken sinks, dusty counters, and scattered chairs.

The large windows on the far side let in swathes of cold sunlight.

Some of the floor near the center looked dangerously cracked.

For a moment, the man spun to face her, cloth still obscuring his features.

She saw his gaze flick to the compromised floor, then to the door behind her, as if measuring distances.

Amelia circled warily, arms raised, stepping closer.

“Wendell?” she demanded. “If that’s you, it’s over. You have nowhere to run.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he crouched, preparing to spring.

She tried to gauge her footing, noticing how the boards at the center sagged ominously.

The man lunged first. Amelia pivoted to the side.

Their bodies collided in a brief, frenzied scuffle.

She shoved him away, boots slipping on a rotten patch.

He tried to sidestep, but the floor shuddered under their combined weight.

Her earpiece crackled again with McNeil’s voice, barely audible: “Winters, get out of there—the floor can’t—”

The words came too late. A deafening crack echoed through the empty school.

Splinters flew as a large section of the floor gave way beneath them.

For one heart-stopping instant, Amelia seemed to hover, arms flailing, before gravity seized her.

She felt the man’s shoulder slam into her torso as they dropped.

Her mind registered the sight of dust and debris swirling around them, the second-floor windows receding above her.

She crashed into something hard—wood or plaster—somewhere below.

A searing jolt of pain shot up her right leg, and her head snapped back.

Everything spun, a kaleidoscope of falling rubble and swirling dust in the half-light.

She saw the figure land a short distance away, the impact jarring. Her vision blurred.

Then, in a haze of confusion, she slammed onto the final floor with bone-jarring force.

The wind left her lungs in a ragged whoosh.

Another wave of dust and debris rained down, striking her arms and shoulders.

Her earpiece dislodged, crackling and sparking.

The last thing she heard was McNeil’s distant holler, mingled with static.