Page 25 of When You’re Forgotten (Finn Wright #10)

Finn advanced cautiously through the dense cluster of oaks and conifers, the thick canopy above allowing only faint slivers of daylight to break through.

Even though it was midday, the forest floor lay in an eerie twilight, steeped in greenish shadow.

He walked slowly, mindful not to snap too many twigs or rustle the underbrush more than necessary.

Every sense stayed on high alert—if this was the masked man or another threat, Finn wanted to avoid another ambush.

A bird’s sudden flutter caused him to freeze, heart thumping loudly.

For a moment, he thought it might be the man he’d followed from the walled garden.

But no, it was just a startled thrush flapping to a higher branch.

Drawing a slow breath, he pressed on. The figure he trailed—an older man in a flat cap—had vanished among the trees moments before.

With each step, Finn watched for footprints in the loamy soil, for broken branches or any sign of passage.

Gradually, the woods grew denser, trunks closing in so that the path was little more than a faint gap in the greenery.

Moss hung from low branches, and damp leaves clung to Finn’s shoes.

He paused intermittently, listening for a stray footstep or the rustle of movement.

It felt like an unspoken cat-and-mouse game: each time he paused, the forest returned to a hush, broken only by the soft drip of condensation from leaves overhead.

Then, in the distance, he saw a glow that stood out from the natural gloom—a weak, steady light.

At once, Finn’s heart gave a lurch of adrenaline.

Could it be a lantern or lamp at some hidden hideaway?

He pressed forward, weaving past a cluster of ivy-choked trunks.

As he drew nearer, the shape of a small cabin emerged from behind a bramble of wild holly.

The structure had a makeshift look: rough-hewn logs, a slanted tin roof, and a single window that glowed faintly from within.

Holding his breath, Finn edged closer, stepping lightly over a muddy patch.

The cabin had no sign of electricity aside from that lamp, which cast a flickering glow on the wooden walls.

Carefully, he peered around the corner, hoping to glimpse whoever was inside.

He managed to get close enough to see a window on the side.

Rising onto the balls of his feet, he angled to look through.

No immediate figure was visible in that portion—just a small table with scattered gear, a coat thrown over a chair.

He strained to see further, leaning a fraction more.

Before he could fully adjust, something cold and unyielding pressed against the back of his head.

Instantly, his pulse spiked, and he froze. It was a gun barrel.

“Never hunt a man in his own woods,” a voice growled behind him. It was deep, raspy, and unmistakably the same older man from the walled garden. “Turn around slow-like, hands where I can see them.”

A jolt of fear flashed through Finn, but he forced a calm tone. "Easy," he said, raising his palms. "I'm not hurting anyone. I'm a detective. Others know I'm here, so let's not do something we both would regret."

The man let out a short, humorless laugh.

"I already know who you are, Finn Wright.

The fancy detective staying at the Hall with that lovely partner of yours.

" He withdrew the gun from Finn's skull with a careful motion, though he didn't holster it.

"But you're pokin' your nose where it doesn't belong. "

Slowly, Finn turned to face him. The older man’s cap shadowed a rugged face lined by years of outdoor living.

In the gloom, Finn saw the glint of steel in the firearm, a standard shotgun with a shortened barrel—legal for pest control on large estates, perhaps.

The man gave him a cold, assessing stare, then lowered the muzzle slightly.

“My gun’s licensed,” he said in a calmer tone. “I use it for pests and vermin around these parts. Nothing illegal about that.”

Finn lowered his hands, though he remained tense. “Sorry for trespassing,” he said evenly, “but I saw you talking to Mrs. Hughes in the walled garden. We suspect someone’s been committing murders, or at least scaring the Penrose family to death. So I’m investigating.”

A flicker of frustration crossed the man’s face. He gave the briefest nod and then stepped back toward the cabin door. “Well, come inside if you want answers. I’m not about to shoot you in cold blood. Long as you mind your manners.”

Finn’s heartbeat still pounded, but relief flooded him at the man’s shift in stance.

“All right.” He followed the man up two wooden steps onto the small porch.

The older man shoved open the door and beckoned Finn in, keeping the shotgun at his side.

Inside, the cabin smelled of pine resin, wood smoke, and something sharper—perhaps homemade spirits.

Finn noticed many different plants, some local, some obscure, cultivated in different pots.

The single room boasted a stone fireplace, a narrow bed with rumpled blankets, and a small table. A lantern hung from a hook on the wall, casting dancing shadows. The man nodded to a battered wooden chair near the center. “Sit.”

Finn perched on the edge, scanning the walls. Animal pelts hung in places, and some old photos of hunts or gatherings adorned a makeshift shelf. “I appreciate you not pulling the trigger back there,” Finn said, attempting a half-joke to break the tension.

The man shrugged, setting his shotgun aside on a rack near the door. “You’d only have yourself to blame, creeping up on folks. I’m Edwin Pierce, by the way.”

Finn’s eyes flickered—he recalled the name from Hobbs’s account. “Edwin… you discovered Wilkie Penrose’s body years ago, right?”

Edwin's weathered features twisted in a grim half-smile. "Hobbs told you, did he? Indeed, that was me. Used to be the groundskeeper at Brynmor Hall. Now, I just keep to these woods. Mind my own business mostly."

Finn nodded. Mrs. Hughes hadn’t mentioned Edwin’s name or presence in the official staff list. “Why did Mrs. Hughes not mention you live out here? She’s given me a list of all the people working on the estate. You weren’t on it.”

Edwin sank onto a stool by the fireplace, picking up a jug from the floor.

“Because I’m not working on the estate, strictly speaking.

Officially got let go a while back. The Penroses don’t pay me because they don’t have the cash it appears.

I just… remain in the area.” He offered Finn the jug with a wry tilt of his head.

“Moonshine, in case you’re thirsty. Or is that too folksy for a big city detective? ”

Finn considered it, then took the jug with a polite nod. He raised it but only sipped a tiny measure— the pungent flavor burned his throat with surprising intensity. “That’s strong.”

Edwin chuckled softly. “Right, city boy.”

“Actually, I’m from a small town in Florida,” Finn said. “Spent a lot of time in the swamps there as a kid. My uncle used to make something that tasted just like this.”

“The farther you go, the closer to home you are,” Edwin said, cryptically.

Finn set the jug aside, leaning forward. “So you were dismissed. Because the estate was failing financially? That’s what you said?”

Edwin’s expression turned bitter. “Yes. The Hall couldn’t afford me, so said James. But Catherine actually had a soft spot for me—she urged him to keep me on. Sometime later, James forced me out anyway. Reckoned I was stirring up superstitions or something about Wilkie’s death.”

Finn remembered how Catherine’s kindness was noted by others. “So you ended up in these woods. A man’s got to live somewhere, I suppose?”

“Exactly,” Edwin said. He rested an elbow on his knee, eyes shadowed by the flickering lantern.

“My family’s from this area for generations.

I’m more at home among these trees than the brick walls of that Hall.

And I had reasons to stay close— Catherine didn’t want me to vanish.

She’d let me rummage for supplies in one of the old sheds.

Now… well, she’s gone.” His voice turned somber.

Something like regret flickered across Finn’s mind. “I’m sorry for your loss. We don’t have the autopsy yet, but it seems likely Catherine was murdered.”

Edwin took a breath, voice raw. “I know. Heard about it. She was the last decent Penrose in that line.”

Finn studied his weathered face. The man’s bitterness indicated a deeper story. “Speaking of Wilkie—Hobbs told us you found the body in the cellar, inside a wardrobe. That’s quite a horrifying image.”

A shadow crossed Edwin’s features. “Yes, it was. Wilkie’s face was wide-eyed, stiff, like he’d seen the devil himself.

I knew it was a heart attack caused by fear, but the official records just wrote it off as a medical oddity.

James never forgave me for telling Wilkie tales of the old estate’s curse.

He thought it caused problems for the man. ”

Finn’s ears perked. “The curse?”

Sighing, Edwin rose and opened a small chest by the fireplace, rummaging until he found a rolled piece of parchment.

"I'm seriously into folklore. I recorded bits of the estate's history, scribbles about the Penrose ancestors.

There's a story that the ghosts of their lineage kill any descendant who brings disrepute on the family name—by terrifying them to death.

Wilkie vaguely knew about it, so I filled in the details.

He seemed different after that. The man had an imaginative mind, and it spooked him something fierce.

I also think it might have been more than superstition that got him.

Some places have things in them that you wouldn't want to run into. "

Finn felt a chill prickle the back of his neck. “So you think Wilkie’s death was caused by some supernatural fright?”