Page 10 of When You're Alone

Amelia held up her police badge. “Maggie Doyle?”

“Yes, I’m Maggie,” the woman said, perplexed. Her gaze flicked from Amelia’s badge to Finn’s neutral expression.

“My name is Inspector Winters, Hertfordshire Constabulary. This is my colleague, Finn Wright, consulting for the Home Office,” Amelia said, each word carefully measured. “May we come in for a moment?”

Maggie stepped aside. “Sure. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting visitors.” She sounded cautious but not alarmed.

As they entered, Finn caught a whiff of turpentine—likely from paint—and the faint musty scent of old wood. The cottage’s living room was bright despite mismatched furniture. Against one wall stood large canvases, some leaning face-out, others covered by draped sheets. A battered coffee table supported jars of paintbrushes. A half-finished painting, partially concealed by a sheet, suggested ongoing artistic work.

Finn watched as Amelia studied the space quickly before facing Maggie. “We’re here about your uncle, Sir Richard Doyle. I’m sorry to inform you that… he passed away.”

Maggie’s lips parted, but no tears came. There was, instead, a pause of surprise, like someone registering a distant weather report. “Oh,” she said. After a beat, she added, “I—didn’t realize he was… ill.”

Finn exchanged a glance with Amelia. They hadn’t yet mentioned it was murder, but Maggie’s reaction was subdued. He wondered if the two had been on speaking terms.

“It wasn’t an illness,” Amelia explained gently. “He was killed. Murdered. I'm very sorry, I know it's not easy to hear.”

Maggie’s expression shifted subtly, tension in her jaw, but still no sign of overt grief. “I’m… sorry to hear that,” she said, voice subdued. She motioned toward a small, paint-splattered love seat. “Have a seat, if you want. I should… well, maybe you’d like some tea?”

Amelia shook her head. “We appreciate the offer, but we won’t impose. We do need to ask some questions, though.”

As Finn sat down, eyeing a stray paintbrush that poked from between the seat cushions, Amelia continued in a careful tone, “If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem very upset by the news.”

A small sigh slipped from Maggie’s lips. She moved a canvas aside and perched on the arm of a chair. “I suppose I’m not. Or at least not in the way you'd expect. Sir Richard was my uncle, sure, but we never truly connected. He fell out with my mother years ago—before I was even old enough to understand. Then my mother died when I was sixteen, and I heard not a word from him. Not a penny, either, and I was basically broke for a while."

Finn studied her body language—hands curled around her knees, shoulders stiff. A mixture of resentment, possibly. “You must have been angry about that sort of rift,” he said softly.

She let out a short, humorless laugh. “Rift implies there was something to break. We never had a relationship in the first place. He was a millionaire, or so I’m told, but he never offered help. I made my own way as an artist. This cottage? All me. No money from Uncle Rich. I guess that’s what the tabloids called him, right?” She shrugged.

Amelia nodded, seemingly accepting the matter-of-fact tone. “So it’s safe to say you two never reconciled?”

“No,” Maggie replied. “He wrote me one letter last year. That’s it.”

Finn’s eyebrows rose. “A letter? Do you remember what it said?”

Standing, Maggie wiped her palms on her overalls. “Actually, yes. Hang on.” She walked out of the living room, presumably to fetch the note.

While she was gone, Finn’s attention was drawn to the sheet-covered painting in the corner. He hesitated, then softly lifted the edge of the cloth. Beneath it, a half-finished caricature depicted a pig-like figure in a top hat and monocle, devouring wads of banknotes. Vivid brushstrokes swirled around it, a swirl of greens, browns, and angry reds. The big man's face was contorted, almost monstrous.

Amelia let out a low hiss. “Finn, that’s her private work.”

“Couldn’t resist,” he muttered, sheepishly lowering the sheet back. “But if I had to guess, that’s Uncle Rich. Pig with money. Free therapy on canvas.”

A faint grin swept across Amelia’s lips. “I’d guess she titled it ‘Uncle Dick.’” Her voice remained low, playful but cautious.

Footsteps in the hall signaled Maggie’s return. Finn hastily set the cloth in place, straightening up just as she re-entered, clutching a folded sheet of paper.

“Here,” she said, handing it to Amelia. “Dated July 2022. The only time he reached out since I was a kid.”

Amelia accepted it, scanning the brief lines. Finn leaned in and had a look while she read. Sir Richard apologized for not stepping in when Maggie and her mother needed help, mentioning he was “burdened by grief and… complicated financial troubles.” The letter vaguely referenced substantial gambling debts, claiming he had no means to assist anyone else for many years. “If it weren’t for my horrid gambling days, I could have been a better man.”

Those words sparked a series of thoughts in Finn’s mind.Gambling…The poker chip...

Maggie exhaled, arms crossed. “He wrote that he was sorry, that he wished he could’ve done something. But by then, it’d been so long, I just… I didn’t even respond.”

Finn’s gaze flicked over the scrawled signature. “It’s possible he was sincerely remorseful.”

“Maybe.” Maggie pursed her lips. “But there’s more to family than money, you know? A phone call. A single visit. A shoulder would’ve been enough. In the end, though, all he offered was regrets.” She let out a slow breath. “You can keep it if it helps. I’m not in the habit of preserving memories of him.”

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