Page 2 of When You're Alone

“I’m letting my nerves get to me,” he muttered. For all his wealth and status, he felt powerless under the weight of his own imagination. Each passing second, though, heightened the sense that something wasn’t right.

He was about to turn away when, in the corner of his eye, the drape appeared to bulge. A quick inhalation froze in his throat. The fabric that had been so still after Frederick’s visit now shifted abruptly, as though an unseen figure stood behind it.

In a burst of terror, Sir Richard pivoted to face the drape fully, determined to yank it aside and unmask whatever was lurking. His heart thundered, filling his ears with its urgent drumbeat. Summoning what courage he had, he lifted an unsteady hand.

But before he could pull the curtain away, something shot out from behind the velvet folds—a hand, gloved or otherwise cloaked in darkness. It latched onto his neck, strong fingers crushing his windpipe. He tried to gasp, tried to cry out, but an iron grip pressed across his mouth. In his stunned state, he barely registered the glint of a blade.

Then the knife found him, a surge of violent agony exploding in his torso. First a brutal stab to his chest, then another that cut deeper to his side, as if the assailant meant to carve away his very life. The silent study erupted in chaos: his glass overturned, shards scattering across the carpet, and the lamp wobbled precariously on the table.

The pain was unlike anything he’d felt before, a blazing heat and a paralyzing cold coursing simultaneously through his veins. He staggered backward, wrestling with the figure’s arms, but they moved with lethal coordination. Another jolt of pain pierced his neck, doubling him over. Blood surged at the corners of his vision.

He tumbled to the ground with a defeated cry, back colliding with the rug as he gasped for breath that would not come. His sight blurred, and in that haze of terror, he glimpsed the final, horrifying sight: droplets of his blood spattered across Eleanor’s portrait. The painting’s once-serene expression was tainted by a crimson smear that defiled her memory, a last violation that shattered his heart in a way the knife could not.

A ragged exhalation left his lips, all strength fleeing his limbs. He wanted to think of something profound—some last vestige oflife, some fleeting image of days gone by—but his mind spiraled down into darkness. His chest spasmed once, then fell still.

In the cold hush of midnight, Sir Richard Doyle’s world winked out forever, leaving only the drip-drip of blood and the silent watcher behind the velvet curtain, whose work was now complete. The Monarch Club’s grand study, so regal and sumptuous, had become a macabre tomb for one of its oldest members. And somewhere beyond the walls, London slumbered on, unaware that a killer had taken the first step in a scheme that would rattle the highest echelons of society.

CHAPTER ONE

Finn Wright stood by the narrow window of his rented cottage in Great Amwell, taking in the gentle signs that winter was finally loosening its grip. Tiny buds peeked through the ground; a delicate haze of green softened the distant hedgerows. He’d never imagined himself dwelling in the English countryside—especially not after the controversies he’d left behind in the United States—but here he was. And, to his surprise, he found himself enjoying the slow rhythms of rural life, at least when circumstances allowed.

This morning, he was determined to make breakfast for Amelia Winters, the brilliant English inspector who had become both his partner in investigation and, more recently, his partner in something far deeper. Standing at the kitchen counter, he whisked eggs in a ceramic bowl. The cottage kitchen was modest, with light-blue cabinets, an old-fashioned kettle perched on the stovetop, and a small wooden table that could barely seat four. It was far from the glossy open-concept kitchens he recalled from certain upscale American homes, but it felt right—cozy, comforting, and, for once, free from looming danger.

Finn, in his thirties, had light-blond hair that could never decide between neatness and disarray. He habitually brushed it back, only for it to spring forward when he focused on something else. Muscular and tall, people often mistook him for Scandinavian, and he often wore jeans and plain t-shirts these days—although in another life, he might have been spotted in FBI windbreakers or sharp suits. A faint scar along his left jaw served as a souvenir from one of his more harrowing cases back in the States. Though his posture remained upright and vigilant—habits formed through years of law enforcement—there was something different in his face now: less tension, less guilt. Hefelt, for the first time in years, that the baggage from his past was no longer crushing him.

He added chopped onions and peppers to a sizzling pan, savoring the satisfying hiss. This was a new routine for him: quiet mornings, a gentle sunrise, no immediate case calls—though he suspected such peace was always temporary. After a tumultuous period that involved hunting a dangerous criminal named Max Vilne across international lines, he had hoped for a sustained lull. Indeed, the lull had come for months. Yes, there had been other cases, other investigations, but nothing so dramatic. Finn yearned for a larger mystery to sink his teeth into.

He cracked a couple more eggs into the bowl, whisking them with practiced efficiency. The smell of browning vegetables filled the space, mingling with the faint tang of British tea—an art he was still learning to perfect. Meanwhile, outside the window, the sunlight grew stronger, giving the garden an almost golden hue. He poured the eggs into the pan, stirring them gently before letting the mixture settle into an omelet.

As the eggs firmed, Finn allowed himself a quick look around the kitchen. On the countertop lay a small pile of postcards and letters he hadn’t sorted yet. Many bore stamps from the United States—old friends, colleagues, or perhaps the occasional overdue bureaucratic notice from his days at the FBI. He sighed, turning his attention back to breakfast. His FBI past was a complicated tapestry of achievements, regrets, and controversies. He’d been embroiled in a scandal involving a hotel hostage rescue that ended in spectacular property damage. Eventually, his innocence and heroism were recognized, but the scrutiny had driven him from the States. Amelia liked to tease him about how “accidents” seemed to follow him, but he knew her jokes were laced with admiration. After all, it was that unwavering sense of responsibility that first led him to trackdown criminals like Vilne—people who would harm innocents if left unchecked.

After flipping the omelet onto a warm plate and adding a couple of lightly buttered toast slices, he arranged everything on a tray: the omelet, toast, a steaming mug of tea, and a small vase holding a single daffodil. Spring was arriving, after all—why not celebrate it in small ways? He lifted the tray and headed into the hallway.

The hallway mirror caught his eye, reflecting a slim man with a careful balance to his steps—always mindful, always ready for the unexpected. Finn paused, tray in hand, observing himself: the stress lines around his eyes seemed less pronounced, his posture more relaxed. For most of his adult life, he’d worn a perpetual worry on his face—a guardedness from witnessing too many horrors in both FBI operations and cross-border pursuits. Now, there was a quiet contentment in the mirror that almost startled him. A grin pulled at his lips, and he gave a small, awkward chuckle. Happiness, he thought, is a strange feeling to wear after so long in the shadows.

Carrying the tray upstairs, he stepped carefully on each creaking floorboard. The cottage was old, charming in its imperfections, and big enough for two. It belonged to his friend Rob's aunt, who was now happy to allow him to stay indefinitely, as long as he paid a decent rent. In recent months, it had become a sort of retreat for him and Amelia, a place to catch their breath after dealing with the kinds of criminals who left a trail of blood across cities and continents. He walked down the short landing toward the bedroom at the far end. The door was slightly ajar, letting in a shaft of morning light.

Inside, Amelia lay curled under the duvet. She was in her early thirties, an English inspector with the Metropolitan Police—sharp-minded and level-headed even under the direst of circumstances. Though her hair was a deep russet color, at thismoment, it fanned across the pillow in a messy tangle. Her skin held a slight natural freckling, usually subdued by professional attire and the hustle of investigative life. In slumber, her expression was unguarded, the burden of countless cases erased for a few precious hours.

Finn stood at the threshold, simply watching her for a moment. Amelia had endured her own tragedies: the death of her fiance, Mark, years prior had initially left her wary about deep connections. Yet somehow, across near-death encounters and frantic pursuits, she and Finn had found each other. The synergy of their detective work had forged a bond that eventually transcended professional respect, evolving into companionship—and love. Seeing her now, asleep and safe, he felt an acute warmth in his chest.

A muffled snore emanated from her. He bit back a laugh. Amelia was adamant she never snored, but here was the evidence, plain as day. Gently, he laid the tray on the small dresser by the door. Then he stepped over to the bed and touched her shoulder. She only burrowed deeper into the duvet, her breath a soft rumble.

“Amelia?” he whispered. No response. Leaning closer, he tried, “Rise and shine.”

Still nothing. He stifled a grin. “Fine,” he muttered, “you leave me no choice.” Raising his voice to a crisp, urgent tone, he called, “Max Vilne is here!”

She jerked upright instantly, eyes wide with alarm, scanning the room as though expecting an assailant to leap out from the wardrobe. “Where?” she demanded, her voice raspy from sleep.

Finn let out a mischievous chuckle. “Relax. He’s still very dead.”

Amelia blinked several times, gathering that it was a false alarm, then glared at him. “Very funny.” She slumped backagainst the pillows, one hand over her rapidly beating heart. “If I suffer a stress-induced stroke, I’ll blame you entirely.”

He raised his palms in surrender, though his grin remained. “Couldn’t help it,” he said. “But for the record, youweresnoring.”

Amelia pushed a messy strand of hair away from her face, her cheeks tinged with the slightest pink. “I do not snore.”

“If you’d like, I can record the sound next time.” Finn teased, stepping around the bed to retrieve the breakfast tray.

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