Page 33 of When You're Alone

At last, she stood from her chair, stretching the stiffness from her shoulders. “I’m going to keep digging for a bit, see if any other major players at The Monarch had suspicious financial transactions around March 2003. You’ll likely head home soon?”

"Probably, yeah. I'll coordinate with the night desk, see if we can get a small team prepped in case Finn needs backup on short notice," Rob said. Then he paused, studying her face. "What about you, Winters? Are you going to be okay staying here alone? I know this Wendell Reed escaping business is a worry."

She managed a smile that tried to convey more calm than she felt. “I’ll be fine. I prefer to keep busy. And if Wendell Reed is out there somewhere with a grudge, I doubt he’ll come waltzing into HQ to get me.”

Rob’s expression shadowed briefly at the mention of Wendell Reed, the escaped killer who had once nearly strangled Amelia. “Right. I wouldn’t put anything past him, but the station is secure.”

"I know." She paused, pursing her lips. "Let's just say I'd like to solve these Monarch murders before that psycho tries anything. One crisis at a time, right?"

He patted her shoulder, then moved to the door. “Keep me posted. If you find any more patterns, I want to know. Good luck, Winters.”

“Good night, Chief.”

Once he left, Amelia resumed her seat, staring at the overlapping timelines on the whiteboard. She grabbed her coffee but felt her head spin a little. She needed to take a break, perhaps even call it a night. Amelia shut the laptop, her reflection briefly visible in the dark screen—a mix of tired eyes and grim determination. She paused, looking at the board one more time, specifically at the date reference:March 11th, 2003.That single line of text seemed to shimmer with importance. She could practically hear Finn’s voice speculating about clandestine card rooms, how these men might have bragged about the day they scored big. A near-literal jackpot that spelled their doom years later.

At last, she turned off the desk lamp, letting the overhead fluorescents remain as her guiding light. She collected her half-empty coffee cup, intending to toss it on her way out, then spoke in a low tone to no one:

“I hope you know what you're doing, Finn.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The last amber traces of lamplight seemed to pool around the carved mahogany desk, staining its surface with warm shadows that writhed in the shifting glow. The desk occupied the center of a private study deep within the Monarch Club, a room generally set aside for only the highest echelon of members. Tonight, however, that space belonged exclusively to one person—a murderer. Every movement in the quiet air felt delicately poised on a knife’s edge, as if the entire club were holding its breath. Outside these walls, the hush of late-night London reigned. Inside, an even deeper quiet stretched between tapestries and shelves of antique tomes, disturbed only by the faint crackle of a fireplace in some distant lounge.

A single banker’s lamp cast a narrow cone of illumination over the desk, leaving the rest of the study in soft shadow. Leather-bound books lined the walls, their spines glinting with gold lettering. Heavy burgundy drapes at the windows shut out the night sky, ensuring no prying eyes could peer in. The rest of the Monarch Club had been darkened to a low murmur of activity—some members roamed corridors or partook in the late bar, but here, no flicker of movement or sound interrupted the killer’s private ritual.

The killer sat in a high-backed chair of cracked leather, posture unnervingly composed. In the warm puddle of lamplight, gloved fingertips traced idle circles on the desk’s surface, savoring the texture of polished wood. This place was a sanctuary of sorts, a borrowed domain within an institution that took pride in secrecy. And secrecy was precisely what the killer required for the night’s work.

A faint tick-tock from an unseen clock on the wall punctuated each breath the killer drew. Every so often, footsteps drifted inthe hallway beyond the closed door—club employees on quiet errands, or perhaps a restless gambler seeking a new distraction. None ventured into this sanctum; they knew better than to invade any locked study in the Monarch Club after hours.

Within the killer's chest, an anticipation pulsed—a dark thrill that had only intensified with each life taken. Two murders so far, each more exhilarating than the last. In the killer's mind, the rationale behind those acts was steadfast, a conviction that didn't waver even in the stillness of these walls. Tonight promised an even greater opportunity if everything went according to plan.

The study’s drawer creaked softly as the killer slid it open. Inside were two objects. The first was a knife, sheathed in a simple leather scabbard. The second, a small glass vial with a tight-fitting cork, its contents a colorless liquid. The killer rested a gloved palm on the desk’s edge, eyes gliding from one item to the other. The overhead lamp lent a subdued gleam to the knife’s handle.

Reaching for the blade, the killer lifted it carefully, drawing it free of its worn leather scabbard. The steel possessed a faint sheen that reflected the lamplight with a dull glimmer, but to the killer’s critical eye, the edge needed refinement. Methodically, the killer settled the knife upon a small black whetstone already waiting on the desk. Then, in measured strokes, began to sharpen the blade—back and forth, back and forth, in a repeated, almost meditative rhythm.

A hollow scrape accompanied each pass of metal against stone. To an onlooker, it might have seemed no more than a mundane chore, but to the killer, every movement vibrated with purpose. Sharpening a blade was akin to a sacred rite: it stripped away doubt, honed focus, and readied the mind for what was to come. Tiny sparks glinted in the low light each time the steelkissed the whetstone, dancing briefly before winking out in the gloom.

The killer paused, lifted the blade, and ran a fingertip along the newly sharpened edge. Even with a gloved hand, there was enough sensitivity to detect the keen razor quality. Satisfied, the killer nodded once, replaced the whetstone in the drawer, and cradled the knife. Its lethal promise sent a ripple of dark satisfaction through the killer’s thoughts. A gun might kill efficiently from a distance, but steel demanded intimacy—proximity to pulse and breath. That closeness made each kill more personal, more deeply savored.

The killer closed their eyes, letting the memory of previous kills wash through their mind. Sir Richard Doyle had been the first to die. The killer knew how to access Sir Richard’s private study late at night in a way few did. The hush in those corridors had been absolute, only broken by the muffled rattles of distant poker games and hushed conversations behind closed doors. Sir Richard, that night, was alone with his grief, or so he believed. He hadn’t noticed the shadow behind the curtain near the window. There had been a trembling excitement as the killer crouched in the darkness, heart pounding in time with the echo of Sir Richard’s footsteps on the carpet.

Sir Richard had moved closer to the window, perhaps drawn by the faint glow of a streetlamp outside. A single step too close. Then, like a coiled spring, the killer had launched out, pressing the blade through cloth and flesh. The astonishment in Sir Richard’s eyes still burned brightly in the killer’s mind. The old man’s blood carried a deep, metallic tang that perfumed the air, stirring unexpected sensations of heady triumph. The killer vividly recalled leaning in, inhaling the warmth of that blood as it spilled onto the thick carpet. Only then did the killer understand why some found it intoxicating—the raw smell of life unraveling in a final moment.

It had been a fleeting high, made sharper by the knowledge of total control, and the final revenge. Sir Richard’s last gasps, the tremors that wracked his body, belonged entirely to the killer. No power, no wealth could save him in that instant. And afterward, the killer had pressed a vintage poker chip into his mouth—an emblem of the final wager. The moment ended the legacy of a man who once stood near the seats of power. And the killer had reveled in it.

Now, recalling that night, the killer opened their eyes with a shudder of pleasure. The hush that followed Sir Richard’s demise had lingered in the study, a silent tomb. But the killer’s work was far from finished. The second kill had come soon after: Geoffrey Wardlow. Different setting—Wardlow’s home. Different method—one brutal strike to the head. The killer reflected on that memory as well, recalling how the forced entry had startled Wardlow’s dog, how the man tried to defend himself at the last moment. None of it mattered. Embedding the blade in Wardlow’s skull had produced a sound that resonated through the killer’s bones—a dull crunch, and then a sense of finality, a savage punctuation to a carefully orchestrated sentence. The dog’s barking was inconsequential; the killer left no witnesses who could speak out in human tongue.

That second death had brought further satisfaction, a confirmation that the killer’s plan proceeded as intended. So many years of biding time, so many nights spent rehearsing the moment in imagination. Wardlow’s startled expression still replayed behind closed eyelids. He never suspected it would all end on his own hallway floor, blood pooling on polished wood. But he deserved that end for what he'd done, for what they'd all done.

The killer drew a slow breath, pulling away from those recollections. Dwelling on them was a pleasure, but it risked an unhealthy distraction. There was new work to be done—someone else would die tonight. The killer’s gloved hand set the knife on the desk’s polished surface and reached for the second object in the open drawer: the vial of poison. It appeared deceptively harmless, almost like water, swirling with each tilt of the wrist. But the killer knew better. A single drop could incapacitate or kill, depending on dosage and the victim’s constitution. Unlike a blade, poison was impersonal—distant. Yet it had its purpose.

Lifting the vial to the lamplight, the killer watched tiny bubbles form where the fluid lapped at the glass. This was a contingency, an insurance policy. The plan always favored the intimacy of a knife, a direct confrontation, but the killer was too careful to ignore other means. Should the club be placed on even higher alert after tonight, it might be unwise to slip a knife past the vigilant eyes of staff or police. Poison could be hidden in plain sight—a drop in a drink, a dab on a glass rim. Before the victim realized anything was amiss, it would be too late.

A subdued clang reverberated, indicating the clock on the far wall had marked the half hour. Eleven-thirty. The killer lifted a gaze in that direction. Barely half an hour to midnight. That knowledge sparked an eager flutter in the killer’s pulse: the knowledge that a poker game—a real one—would begin soon. Members of certain rank and inclination would gather behind locked doors to stake fortunes on the turn of a card. It was the perfect hunting ground for someone who walked in the shadows. Already, the killer could sense footsteps beyond the corridor, a murmur of voices as club servants prepared the clandestine table. In that swirl of high stakes, debts could be settled in more ways than one.

The killer set down the vial and closed the desk drawer with a quiet click, leaving only the knife and a cluster of small objects resting on the desk. Four poker chips, identical to the ones placed upon each lifeless body so far, gleamed in the lamplight.Their vintage design and distinctive color had once been part of a private set, used for an infamous game that took place in these halls long ago. The killer picked one up, rolling its smooth edge between thumb and forefinger. So much significance in a small disk of clay composite. It was a symbol of retribution, a reminder of a night that had changed everything.

Setting the single chip aside, the killer lifted all three and held them cupped in a palm. The next victims deserved the same calling card. There were four specific people left who deserved to suffer the same fate as Sir Richard Doyle and Geoffrey Wardlow. If the killer’s luck and skill aligned, tonight’s clandestine game could provide an opportunity to strike them in one fell swoop. The very thought made the killer’s breath quicken with anticipation.

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