Page 14 of When You're Alone

They continued down a twisting lane that cut through low rolling hills. Sparse copses of trees dotted the horizon. The early spring blossoms couldn’t quite disguise bare branches, and the land looked caught between seasons—patches of bright green mingling with the dull browns of winter. Finally, the lane widened before a row of well-kept hedges, behind which stood a handsome townhouse that looked oddly out of place in this more rural setting.

“They said this was Wardlow’s place,” Finn muttered, scanning the instructions on his phone. “Hard to believe a big shot from The Monarch Club would live so far from the city.”

Amelia glanced up at the sizable structure: a classic stone facade, tall windows, and an imposing front door. Police tape fluttered in the breeze, cordoning off part of the driveway,and several official vehicles crowded the small yard. Uniformed constables moved about in purposeful arcs, their reflective vests catching the morning light.

Finn parked on a patch of gravel near the side, switching off the engine. The Corvette gave a final, stubborn cough before settling into silence. He popped his door open and stretched as he got out. A slice of sunlight revealed dust swirling off the car’s roof, but Finn felt the chill in his lungs, the lingering sting of winter.

"Could pass for a small mansion," he remarked, taking in the townhouse's sturdy architecture. It was at least three stories high, with chimneys peeking above a slate-tiled roof. Ivy climbed one corner while a row of daffodils lined the path leading to the entrance. Clearly, someone had taken pains to keep it aesthetically pleasing.

Amelia shut her door and surveyed the scene. “Police presence is thick. I wonder if the press have already caught on.”

Rob emerged from the open doorway, a phone in hand. He spotted Finn and Amelia, waved them over, and stepped aside to let another officer pass.

“Morning,” Rob greeted, his expression grave. “Glad you got here fast.”

Finn joined him on the path, the gravel crunching underfoot. “We left the second we got your message. What’ve we got?”

Rob exhaled, shifting his weight. “Victim’s name is Geoffrey Wardlow. Middle-aged, well-off, powerful businessman—also a Monarch Club member.”

Amelia’s gaze snapped to Rob. “So it’s definitely connected?”

“Likely,” Rob admitted. “I wouldn’t jump to conclusions, but the parallels are too striking to ignore.”

Finn adjusted the collar of his jacket against the breeze. “Same M.O.?”

Rob gestured for them to follow him inside. “Not identical, but close. A single strike to the head with a large knife. Different approach from Sir Richard, but still a brutal stabbing. We’re trying to verify if anything else lines up.”

As they climbed a short flight of steps to the front door, Finn asked, “Did the killer leave a poker chip in the victim’s mouth too?” He thought of Sir Richard’s body, the chipped token lodged between his lips like a twisted calling card.

Rob shook his head. “We’re not sure yet. Doctor Wednesday Knott is in there,” he said, pointing down the hallway. “She’s examining the body as we speak.”

They stepped into a spacious entry hall with high ceilings and polished floorboards. Light streamed from tall windows on their right, illuminating a staircase that curled to the next level. The decor suggested wealth without ostentation: framed paintings of landscapes, a glossy sideboard bearing a small antique clock. However, the sense of tragedy overshadowed the home’s charm. Police tape cut off part of the corridor, and a constable stood guard, nodding solemnly at their approach.

“This way,” Rob instructed, leading them left into a room that opened onto a hallway near the rear of the house. At the threshold, Finn spotted Wednesday Knott kneeling beside a slumped figure on the floor, her blond hair tied in a bun and her face largely obscured by a mask. A pair of blue-gloved hands moved meticulously over the victim’s clothing.

“Right,” Rob said quietly, stepping aside so Finn and Amelia could see. “Geoffrey Wardlow was found early this morning when local police responded to a welfare call from a neighbor who heard barking. The front door was open.”

The hallway was wide, with a runner rug that ended right where the body lay. A pool of dark, congealed blood stained the floor. The victim’s black beard looked incongruously neat forsomeone who’d just faced a savage attack. Finn felt a surge of pity. Another life cut short.

Wednesday, Knott glanced up. "Give me a minute, please." Her voice, though muffled by her mask, carried authority. She was rummaging near the wound, her brow furrowed. Finn noticed she had a small evidence bag at the ready.

Amelia, Rob, and Finn stood back. For a moment, the hush was broken only by the subdued chatter of other forensic staff in nearby rooms and the occasional camera flash from the official photographer. Finn saw the victim’s olive skin had paled, lips parted as though he’d been about to speak.

Wednesday suddenly paused, frowning. She extracted something from the corpse’s neck region with a pair of forceps. Finn leaned forward, curiosity piqued. This might be the key to linking the murders.

Wednesday turned, spotting Finn’s movement. Her gaze narrowed behind her glasses. “Mr. Wright,” she said tightly, “I need a bit of space to do my job.”

Rob smirked. “Finally, someone said it.”

Amelia shot Finn a half-smile, as if to sayYou deserved that.

Undeterred, Finn kept a respectful distance, but he peered carefully when Wednesday rose to her feet. She held a bloodied poker chip in one gloved hand, the pattern partially smeared but recognizable. Amelia’s expression darkened, and Rob let out a low whistle.

"Was it in his mouth again?" Finn asked. But from the angle, Wednesday extracted it, maybe not.

Wednesday shook her head. “No. The killer made an incision in the throat and placed it deeper inside, near the larynx—essentially near his voice box It’s quite a strange placement. Possibly done postmortem or at the moment of death. We’ll need further analysis.”

Finn’s pulse kicked up a notch. “Sir Richard had one lodged in his mouth,” he muttered, thinking aloud. “Now Wardlow has one near his voice box… Could be symbolic. Something about silencing them, or referencing their words.”

---