Page 4 of When You’re Forgotten (Finn Wright #10)

Finn guided the black sedan along the winding Welsh road, the gentle growl of the engine the only real sound in the still, early-afternoon air.

Far beyond the windshield sprawled a sea of green hills and farmlands, with rugged mountains peeking over the horizon.

Hills dotted with grazing sheep and lonely stone walls rolled past on either side, and every few miles, an ancient ruin or quaint village chapel broke the expanse.

The sky hung low in a tapestry of moody gray clouds, promising either a light shower or a brilliant break of sunshine—one could never be certain here.

He glanced over at Amelia, who was tapping her fingers against her seat in a restless cadence.

The bruise on her face had faded slightly with makeup, but it was still noticeable, and a bandage was wrapped neatly around her hand.

She leaned forward, as though itching to do something, anything.

Their eyes met, and she arched an eyebrow.

“So,” she said, in an offhand way. “Is it my turn to drive yet? I do know how to handle a car, you know.”

He smiled. “I know, but last I checked, you’ve taken a knock to the head. Probably not the best idea for you to be behind the wheel right now.”

She let out an exaggerated sigh. “It’d take a few more head knocks for me to get down to your IQ level, Finn.”

He mock-winced, placing a wounded hand over his heart. “Ouch. Well I have other numbers that are much more…impressive.”

She swatted his arm lightly. “Your mind is in the gutter. Stop while you’re behind.”

Grinning, he turned the wheel, avoiding a patch of loose gravel.

The countryside around them felt like a patchwork quilt of ever-shifting greens, dotted with ancient stone cottages and grazing animals.

Rain-soaked lanes wound around hills and through valleys.

In the distance, the sun broke through the clouds in a single golden ray, illuminating a distant peak.

If it weren’t for their weighty mission, Finn might have slowed to truly savor the serenity.

He took in Amelia’s quiet profile—she was staring at the road, her expression tense. After a moment, she spoke, almost timidly, “I need a break for a week or so. Even if McNeil reverses his decision. He will, won’t he? Don’t you think?”

Finn tightened his grip on the steering wheel, exhaling. “I was going to bring that up, actually. We both know Wendell Reed’s fixated on you, and that might not change. Even if McNeill reinstates you, maybe you’re better off out of it.”

She shot him a sharp sideways look. “So you don’t want me back on the task force? Great. Glad to know where you stand.”

“That’s not it.” He forced calm into his tone. “I’m worried about you, that’s all. McNeil might be right: it’s personal for you—”

“Since when did you care if something was personal?” she snapped. “You’re the one who refused to step back when Max Vilne came to the UK gunning for you last year. Remember how everyone told you to take a step back, and you wouldn’t?”

His cheeks colored at the memory, especially how she’d put herself on the line to protect him then. “Yes, but that was—”

She cut him off, voice curt. “Are you implying I’m somehow less capable than you?”

He dropped a hand from the wheel to squeeze her forearm gently. “No. If anything, I think you’re more capable. I just—it wouldn’t make losing you any easier.”

A taut silence filled the car. Amelia stared out the window, and Finn let the hush linger, hoping she sensed his genuine concern behind the awkward words. He wasn't great at articulating how much it gnawed at him to see that bruise on her face, to think of her in danger and getting hurt.

Before he could figure out a better way to express it, the car rumbled up to a pair of tall iron gates, painted black and ornate with delicate swirls.

A discreet sign affixed to the metal read Brynmor HALL.

Gravel crunched beneath the tires as Finn slowed, opening the small console by the driver’s seat to check the address.

This was it: the estate where James Penrose had been found dead under suspicious circumstances two days earlier.

“Looks like we’re here,” Finn murmured.

Amelia peered through the windshield. The gates were slightly ajar, enough to let the sedan pass.

He inched forward, guiding them through into a long, tree-lined driveway.

On either side of the drive stretched a vast lawn—a sea of manicured green that rivaled any he’d seen in grand English manors.

Ahead, Brynmor Hall loomed: sprawling and imposing, all aged stone, tall chimneys, and ivy creeping along the walls.

It dominated the landscape with an air of silent authority.

“Wow,” Amelia said under her breath. “It’s huge.”

“Must cost a fortune to keep somewhere like this running,” Finn added.

Finn parked near the front steps, where a semicircle of gravel formed something akin to a courtyard.

The sedan’s engine clicked off, leaving only the faint rustle of a mild breeze.

He caught sight of a woman descending the wide stone steps—a housekeeper, apparently.

She wore a conservative dark skirt, hair pinned neatly back.

As she came closer, Finn noticed her right hand trembling slightly.

Amelia reached for the door handle, but Finn got out first, circling around to open her door with a gallant flourish. She shot him a mock-smile that said, I’m still mad at you, but I’ll accept this courtesy. They both stepped forward as the housekeeper approached.

“Good afternoon,” the woman said, a faint quaver in her voice. “You must be from the police?”

Finn gave a nod, extending a hand. “Hello. Yes, we’re here from the Home Office, I believe the called ahead? I’m Finn Wright, and this is Inspector Amelia Winters,” he said. “We’re here to look into James Penrose’s sudden death.”

The housekeeper managed a small smile, though the tremor in her hand persisted.

“Ms. Margaret Hughes. I do hope we can be of service. Please, pardon my…” She glanced at her shaking hand.

“It’s a neurological tremor, you see. My doctor says it’s nothing to worry about.

” She lifted her left hand, which was perfectly still. “You see—no tremor there.”

Finn nodded understandingly, aware that she still looked rather tense. If the trembling was purely neurological, her nerves weren't being helped by the circumstances of a murder in the manor. "I'm sorry for your loss," he offered gently. "I imagine it's been difficult losing Mr. Penrose."

Mrs Hughes’s eyes flicked downward. “Yes, sir. Terrible business. I’ve worked here for thirty years now.” She squared her shoulders. “My husband used to be the butler for the family—he got me the job. Passed away some years ago not long after Wilkie Penrose, James’s older brother, unfortunately.”

Amelia’s expression softened. “I’m sorry to hear that. Must be very hard continuing on after losing him.”

Mrs Hughes pursed her lips with a tight nod.

“One does what one must. Even the old house, as it is creaking at the edges, she carries on so I will, too. The Penroses have stipulated that you should stay to sort out this mess. So let’s get you settled, yes?

” She turned, waving up the steps. “We’ve prepared rooms for you in the west wing. ”

At that moment, a young man emerged from the doorway behind her.

He was perhaps eighteen or nineteen, dressed in a neat but slightly ill-fitting servant’s uniform.

Scruffy blond hair flopped over his forehead, giving him a boyish, unkempt look that contrasted sharply with the polished facade of Brynmor Hall.

“Ah, Evan,” Mrs Hughes said. “Would you take the luggage from our guests, please? Show them inside.”

Evan hesitated, blinking at Finn. “Luggage, Sir?”

“Yes,” Finn replied, inclining his head toward the sedan. “It’s in the trunk.”

The boy looked at him as though he’d just spoken nonsense. Amelia let out a short laugh. “He means the boot,” she clarified, giving Finn a playful nudge.

“Oh! Right, the boot.” Evan jogged to the car’s rear, popped it open, and pulled out a single large suitcase. He swayed slightly under the weight, expression twisting in surprise. “Blimey, that’s heavy.”

Mrs Hughes raised an eyebrow, folding her arms primly. “Just the one suitcase? I assumed you’d want separate rooms. I’ve got them ready.”

Amelia exchanged a quick glance with Finn, then offered a polite smile. “We just put our things together to cut down on the load—thank you, Mrs Hughes. Separate rooms is quite all right.”

Mrs Hughes accepted the explanation with a slight purse of her lips, then watched as Evan, red-faced with effort, lugged the suitcase toward the steps. Meanwhile, Finn opened the back door of the sedan, retrieving a thick folder from the seat pocket. “Case files,” he explained softly to Amelia.

As the young man paused for breath near the top of the stairs, Finn turned to Mrs Hughes. “Mrs Hughes, do you happen to have any ideas about who might want Mr. Penrose dead? Anything from within the household you’ve noticed?”

She pressed her lips together. “I don’t try to think about such things. It’s not my place, and…” She shook her head, words caught in her throat.

A clatter drew their attention: Evan had nearly dropped the suitcase. Huffing, he exclaimed, “It’s gotta be the ghost, right? Everyone says the place is cursed.”

“Evan!” Mrs Hughes admonished in a sharp tone, turning on him. But before he could be properly scolded, Amelia fixed him with a curious gaze.

“What ghost?” she asked, tone light but inquisitive.

Evan shrugged. “The Penrose ancestors, of course. Folks say they haunt the halls. Some even say they come back to claim vengeance if the family line is dishonored. All that old nonsense—but I reckon there’s some truth.” He nodded knowingly.

Finn raised an eyebrow. “You believe in that?”

Mrs Hughes sniffed, cheeks pink with embarrassment. “He’s just a lad. Pays too much heed to stories. We’ve got enough tragedy without such superstitions.”

“Yet,” Amelia said softly, “you were about to hush him. So maybe you’ve heard something yourself?”

Reluctantly, Mrs Hughes glanced around, as though checking no one else was in earshot.

“A few nights before Mr. Penrose’s murder, I heard a…

shriek. Horrible, echoing through the corridors.

I can’t say it was a ghost, but the tales do tell that when a dire calamity is about to befall the Penrose family, something howls in the night. ”

Evan, his arms shaking under the suitcase’s weight, nodded vigorously. “See, I told you. I believe it. Don’t you?”

Finn eyed Amelia, his mouth quirking. He turned back to Evan. “I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my line of work. But…” He paused, letting the grin spread. “This might be a new level of weird for me.”

Amelia brushed a hand on Finn’s shoulder, stepping closer. “We’ll see,” she said quietly. “But I’m intrigued.”

The boy started to wrestle the suitcase up the final few stairs.

With a sigh, Finn placed the folder under one arm and extended his free hand.

“Here, let me—unless you’d like to trip up into another concussion, Amelia?

” He shot her a teasing glance, but she merely rolled her eyes.

Finn took the handle from Evan and hoisted it. “Lead the way.”

Evan darted ahead through the main doorway—massive, ornate doors that creaked on their hinges. Amelia glanced over her shoulder at Mrs Hughes. “Aren’t you coming with us?”

Mrs Hughes lifted her chin, trying to mask her anxiety. “I’ve things to attend to, Miss. I’ll let Evan show you the rooms. You’ll be comfortable there, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Amelia said gently, then stepped over the threshold, following Finn and the boy.

As soon as they were inside the grand foyer—a marvel of marble floors and lofty ceilings—Finn caught up with the boy, suitcase in tow. “So, Evan,” he ventured. “Do you really believe in these ghosts?”

Evan turned with wide eyes. “Yes, sir. You never experienced anything like that?”

Finn exchanged a quick glance with Amelia, who offered him a faint grin of anticipation. He exhaled, turning back to the boy. “Once… On a case with my partner here on a Scottish island, but I can never be sure.”

“Lead on, Evan,” Amelia said. “I’m sure the ghosts of Brynmor Hall will make us quite welcome.”