Page 17 of When You're Alone

Wendell let a faint smile curl his lips, and on them was two words he had memorized for a life time. Two words that needed tending to. Two words that would be his next target. And they were Amelia Winters.

CHAPTER TEN

Finn slid behind the wheel of his Corvette, casting a quick glance in the rearview mirror. Rob had squeezed into the back seat, his brow already furrowing as though he anticipated trouble. Amelia settled in the passenger seat, trying not to appear as shaken as she felt. The sun was still climbing in the late morning sky, painting the world in a pale, unsettled light.

No one spoke for a beat. Outside, uniformed officers continued to move around Geoffrey Wardlow’s stately home—photographing the front garden, taking statements from the neighbors. Finn’s gaze lingered on the black-and-yellow police tape fluttering near the door. Another life lost, connected to The Monarch Club. Another victim with a poker chip forcibly placed in his body. But the only thing on his mind now was why the Amelia's phone call had upset her so much.

Finally, Rob cleared his throat from the back seat. “Any chance this car got a thorough cleaning recently, Finn?”

Finn shifted the ignition key, but didn’t start the engine yet. “I had it detailed after I bought it,” he said, tapping the dashboard affectionately. “Why? You not a fan of the unique perfume of vintage upholstery?”

Rob snorted. “It smells like something died back here. Not saying it’s your fault, but—” He waved a hand in front of his nose. “Could stand an air freshener or two. Forensics would have a field day.”

Finn exchanged an amused look with Amelia. “I told you, the previous owner left it in a garage for ages. Some moisture damage, maybe a little bit of mold. Got rid of it all. A whiff of leftover mustiness is no big deal.”

“Uh-huh,” Rob muttered. “Sounds more like a coffin on wheels. Who was the previous owner—Dracula?”

Finn couldn’t help but grin. “Wow, real funny. You two are just not connoisseurs. Classic cars are lost on the likes of you. And you especially, Winters,” he teased, gently nudging her with his elbow. “All you see is a big red clunker that needs its windows replaced.”

Amelia didn’t respond with her usual quip, though. She stared out the windshield at the line of hedges that separated the property from the country lane. Her shoulders looked tense, jaw tight. Finn clocked this right away—her mind was a million miles from the banter. He glanced at her profile. Still shaken about Wendell Reed’s escape, no doubt.

With a turn of the ignition, he carefully eased the Corvette onto the gravel, reversing out onto the rural road. The tires crunched over loose stones. Rob wrestled with his seat belt, grumbling under his breath, but the tension in the air was too thick for jokes to truly land.

Once they were on a smoother stretch, Finn cleared his throat. "So, let's not dodge the obvious anymore. Amelia—tell us what happened with that phone call. What's going on?"

She exhaled, gaze pinned on the horizon. “It was about a criminal who has escaped while being transported.” Another pause, as if she were summoning the will to revisit old scars. “I guess I should start at the beginning. It was near the start of my career. Eight years ago, maybe a bit more. The press called him the Butcher of Lothian. He terrorized parts of Scotland for months—random attacks, brutal murders. I wasn’t assigned to the case. I was just… in the Met, doing regular constable work at the time. But I took a holiday up north to see some family near Glasgow.”

Rob shifted in the back seat, leaning forward. "I remember reading a footnote about it in your file that you assisted in capturing Wendell Reed, the butcher."

Amelia grimaced. “That’s the sanitized version. I was at a bar late one night, supposed to meet an old friend. I stepped outside for some air and saw a young woman walking alone on the pavement. A car pulled up, and a man got out, following her. Right away, I noticed he was moving in this predatory way—like he was sizing her up. Then it clicked: he matched some of the artist impressions of the Butcher that had been doing the rounds. I’d seen them on every newsstand. Something in his posture, his face… I just knew.”

Finn kept his focus on the road, though every part of him wanted to twist around and give her his undivided attention. “So you followed him?”

She nodded, swallowing. “The woman took a shortcut down a lane. He followed. I trailed him. I yelled—told him to stop. That I was police. He turned around, looked at me like I was something on the sole of his shoe. Then…” She trailed off, throat bobbing.

Rob made a low sound. “You got into a fight?”

Amelia’s voice dipped. “He slammed me to the ground before I could do anything. Pinned me by the throat. I couldn’t breathe. My vision was fading. Then the woman intervened—she must’ve grabbed something, a bottle or a heavy object, and struck him on the head. He turned on her.” A tremor flickered across Amelia’s voice. “By the time I managed to get to my feet, he’d… broken her neck. Just like that. Snapped it. I'll never forget her glassy eyes.”

Finn felt a chill roll down his spine. “Christ,” he murmured softly. He risked a glance at Amelia’s profile. She seemed determined not to let tears show, but her eyes looked distant, haunted by that memory.

She continued in a tight voice, “I saw a piece of brick on the ground. He had his back turned to me, so I swung. Knocked him out cold. After that, local police arrived. When they came to take him away, I remember him coming around and staring at me.Just staring. It felt like I was being watched by something evil. I know that sounds strange.”

“It isn’t at all,” Finn said, gently.

Silence reigned for a few heavy seconds. Even Rob, who could be brusque at times, wore an expression of subdued respect. “If he's escaped.. Did he hold a grudge?” Rob guessed.

Amelia nodded. “He never forgave me that I recognized him, purely by chance, on holiday. He told the press at his trial that he was ‘robbed of freedom by a random nobody who wasn’t even on duty.’ In his twisted view, I guess if it had been an official policeman from the manhunt, he’d accept it. But a constable on holiday, interfering in his spree—humiliated him. He wrote letters from prison, sometimes referencing me. The official stance was that he was harmless as long as he was behind bars.”

There was another silence that felt as empty as the grave.

“I was hardly involved in the court case,” Amelia said. “I was at court one day to take the stand and give my account of what had happened. When… When I was giving my account, he grinned widely and mouthed ‘you’re next’. It’s not often that I’ve been afraid in this job, but I was then.”

Finn felt almost sick. He couldn't believe the parallels between this and Max Vilne. They had spent months under the fear of him lurking out there, and now that was over and as they had settled into their romance together, Finn knew in his bones that he and Amelia were facing something worse. He could handle a killer coming for him, but one hell-bent on getting at Amelia… That was something he couldn't stomach.

Finn’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “But now he’s escaped.” It wasn’t a question. The reality hung between them, thick and ominous.

She nodded, pulling in a shaky breath. “Yes. I learned about it from that phone call earlier. Some official was trying to warn me that he’s out, in case he tries to contact or harm me. Theysaid it happened in Scotland, and that I shouldn't worry, but to stay vigilant.”

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