Page 5 of When You’re Forgotten (Finn Wright #10)

Finn followed Evan down a long corridor lit by antique wall sconces, the soles of his shoes scuffing softly against the polished wood floor.

The boy led them past a series of ornately framed paintings and an occasional window that let in slices of the Welsh afternoon light.

At last, Evan stopped before a modest wooden door, pushing it open to reveal a cozy bedroom with a high, timber-beamed ceiling.

A large bed sat in the middle, layered with a thick duvet and plush pillows.

To one side rested a small writing desk, and to the other stood a narrow armoire with an oval mirror on its door.

A flicker of the old fireplace in the corner gave the room a welcome warmth, and soft drapes lent a faint sense of privacy from the broad windows looking out onto the estate grounds.

“Here you are, sir,” Evan said, dropping Finn’s suitcase by the foot of the bed. “I, uh, hope this suits you.”

Finn gazed around appreciatively, inhaling the faint scent of aged wood and lavender polish. “It’s great, thank you,” he replied. “Looks like I’ll sleep well here.”

Amelia, peering over Finn’s shoulder, gave a small smile. “Cozy indeed,” she commented.

Evan nodded, smoothing out his uniform. “Then I’ll show Miss Winters to her room next.” He started toward the corridor, but Finn interjected, “That’s fine. We’ll be staying in the same—”

“I don’t know about that,” Amelia cut in, arching a playful brow at him. She turned to Evan. “I don’t think the housekeeper was too keen on that idea. We best do as our hosts wish. Lead on, Evan.”

Finn sighed, resigning himself to the arrangement.

He snatched his jacket off the suitcase and followed Amelia and Evan back into the corridor.

They walked a short distance—down a corner, past two more doors—until they reached another bedroom, this one located at the far end of the hall. Evan swung it open.

This space was significantly larger than Finn’s.

A grand four-poster bed stood in the center, draped in ivory linens.

A chaise lounge nestled by the tall windows, which offered a wide view of the estate’s rolling lawns.

An intricately woven rug covered the floor, depicting what looked like Celtic knots.

The overall effect was more spacious and just a touch more luxurious than Finn’s cozy nook.

Amelia set down her small carry-on bag, eyeing the tall windows. “I guess I get the scenic route,” she said, turning to Finn with mock triumph.

He gave the bed a once-over, then shook his head. “You get a bigger room, too. I see how this is.”

She half-laughed. “Don’t start. Anyway, it’s not that much bigger.”

“It’s at least twice the size of mine,” Finn pointed out, glancing around. Then his expression turned mildly concerned. “I don’t like that it’s so far away from my room. If you need me…”

Amelia rolled her eyes gently. “You’re being overprotective. I’ve survived falling through a floor, remember?”

Evan, hovering at the doorway, gave a sheepish grin. “Are you two married, by any chance?”

Amelia let out a brief laugh. “He wishes.”

Finn turned to Evan, though he wore a crooked smile. “She loves me, really.”

Amelia’s cheeks colored slightly, but she cleared her throat, shifting into a more businesslike tone. “Evan, could you show us where James Penrose was found? We’d like to see the room. The, uh… place of death.”

Evan’s previously bright expression dimmed. “Sure. It’s just… well, it’s a bit of a walk from here, in the older part of the house.”

“That’s fine,” Finn said. “Lead the way.”

They retraced their path down corridors that seemed increasingly antiquated—dustier paintings, older furniture, and occasional dark patches on the walls where tapestries once hung.

The lighting also changed, becoming more sparse, so that they relied on overhead bulbs that flickered under old wiring.

They entered a pristine study, and then Evan stopped at a thick wooden door reinforced with metal edges.

“This is the panic room entrance,” he explained softly. “Where… well, where we found Mr. Penrose.”

Finn noted how the corridor around them felt narrower and more enclosed, the floorboards creaking as if seldom trodden.

He remembered the summary in the case files describing how James was found inside this panic room—never to emerge.

The door, lying open like a gaping maw, revealed a small vestibule, the actual reinforced room behind it.

Amelia stepped closer. “Don’t worry, Evan,” she said. “The body’s long gone. We’re just here to check the scene.”

Evan swallowed. “It’s not that,” he mumbled. “I’m… I’m more afraid of what might linger. Y’know, people say that the spirit of anyone who dies like that—” He cut himself off, seeming to regret his words.

Finn offered a reassuring nod. “We’ll be fine. Go ahead, if you need to get back to your chores.”

“Yeah, I—I’ll leave you to it,” Evan murmured, backing away. “You can just come find me if you need anything.” With that, he turned and quickly retreated down the corridor.

Finn and Amelia stood there in silence for a moment, taking in the heavy hush.

The door itself looked battered but functional.

Inside the panic room, the single light fixture cast a stark glow over the steel walls.

It was small, intended only for temporary refuge.

The floor was empty, no visible stains or chalk outlines, but a subtle sense of dread lingered in the still air.

Opening the case file, Finn flipped through a few pages. “So, the official report says James Penrose was discovered lying on the floor, with the panic door wide open. Preliminary forensics suggested no immediate sign of external injury.”

Amelia rested a palm against the cold metal wall. “Any autopsy results yet?”

He shook his head. “Not complete. Preliminary notes say it appeared to be a massive heart attack. Which makes sense, except there were some odd details. For instance, although the body was found in the middle of the panic room, there was evidence of a struggle elsewhere down the hallway. And the paramedics described the angle of his fall as if he’d been thrown or knocked over. ”

She exhaled. “So maybe a confrontation triggered a heart attack? Or there was foul play.”

Finn snorted wryly. “Or maybe a ghost jumped out at him. We are hearing about Penrose ancestors haunting the place.”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “The only thing scaring people away right is your sense of humor, Finn.”

With a grin, he closed the file partially. “But seriously—if the cause of death was a heart attack, why treat it like homicide?”

She pursed her lips. “Could be the Home Office wants to be thorough. Plus, if you read in the report, there was that figure caught skulking around outside on the estate’s very few security feeds.”

Finn nodded. "The grounds have limited cameras, but enough to see someone prowling not long before James died.

Then inside, evidence of a scuffle. So… maybe an attacker confronted James, forced him to run here, and that triggered a lethal heart attack.

Or maybe they physically hurt him, and there are no obvious signs yet. "

Amelia’s gaze swept around the compact space. “It’s possible. We should keep our minds open. The Home Office basically hands us any case where a high-profile individual dies under murky circumstances. In my opinion, they do it so they can say they’ve covered all bases. Even if it’s not murder.”

Finn tapped the file. “Best to treat it as one until proven otherwise.”

Just then, footsteps approached. They turned to see a woman entering the corridor—tall, slender, with dark hair twisted into a neat chignon.

She wore a well-fitted black dress and carried herself with a calm elegance that spoke of wealth and breeding.

Her eyes, however, looked tired, rimmed with worry.

“Good afternoon,” she said, voice tight. “You are with the police, aren’t you? I’m Catherine Penrose—James’s sister.”

Finn straightened, closing the file. “We’re sorry for your loss. I’m consulting detective Finn Wright, and this is Inspector Amelia Winters. We’ve been asked to investigate your brother’s death.”

Catherine gave a short nod. “Yes, Mrs Hughes said you arrived. We appreciate any answers you can give us, though… I’m not entirely sure there’s a murderer to be found. I do wonder if this was a simple heart attack. I hate to even consider that someone felt they had to murder him.”

Amelia stepped forward. “We’d still like to ask a few questions about James leading up to that night.”

Catherine folded her arms, gaze drifting over the panic room. “Go on.”

“Did your brother have any enemies? Anyone who might want to hurt him?” Finn asked gently.

She shook her head, mouth drawn. “Not that I know of. James was always very composed, almost distant. Lately, though, he grew… tense. I don’t deal with family business much, so I’m not certain what was the cause. He was anxious in a way I’d never seen.”

Amelia exchanged a look with Finn. “Was he worried about money? Enough that it could cause a heart attack?”

Catherine exhaled, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt.

“Potentially. He did speak of selling off assets, or letting go some staff. The estate and house are very expensive to run. Then, bizarrely, he sent all of the servants and others away the night he died. Including Mrs Hughes. He said it was just for the evening, that it was a trifling matter, but… well, you saw how that ended.”

Finn frowned. “Do you think James expected trouble that night?”

Catherine’s eyes flickered with a weary sorrow. “It’s possible. Or maybe he just wanted privacy. I do wonder if something or someone spooked him.”

Amelia glanced at the metal walls of the panic room. “Did he ever mention being followed, or threatened?”

Catherine considered. “No direct threats, at least not that he told me. But he was definitely secretive these last few weeks.”

Finn nodded, scribbling a quick note in the file’s margin. “Where are James’s wife and children now?”

Catherine’s lips thinned. “They’ll be arriving within the hour. They were still in Devon when this happened. They’re—devastated, of course.”

He cast a quick look at Amelia. “We should speak to Mrs Penrose, see if she has any insight into who might have meant James harm. Or if she noticed any suspicious behavior.”

Catherine lowered her gaze. “Please do. She might know more than I do.”

A hush fell over the corridor. Finn and Amelia exchanged a determined look.

They had more pieces to gather—family perspectives, staff observations, forensic details.

If James Penrose’s death was murder, they needed to uncover that motive.

And if it was something simpler—a heart attack brought on by fear— they owed it to the family to confirm.

“Would it be possible to have a room where we can set up our laptops and a few things we might need?” Amelia asked.

“Of course,” Catherine replied. “I’ll have Evan direct you to one of our sitting rooms that isn’t often used.”

“Thank you,” Finn said quietly. “We appreciate your help, Ms. Penrose.”

She dipped her head. “Anything you need, you can ask me or Mrs Hughes.” With that, she turned and left, her footsteps echoing down the ancient hallway.

Finn watched her go, mind spinning with questions. Amelia’s brow knitted, presumably matching his thoughts.

Finally, he pulled the door of the panic room shut, slipping the file under his arm. “Should we get properly unpacked and go meet the family?”

Amelia nodded, but a small frown tugged at her lips. “Yeah. Let’s see if they suspect something that Catherine doesn’t.”

Side by side, they headed back along the corridor. Outside, a sudden gust of Welsh wind rattled the old windows, but the house stood firm, for now.