Page 34 of When You're Alone

As these prospects played out in the killer’s mind, a hiss of satisfaction escaped parted lips. The plan was elegantly simple: slip into the midnight poker gathering, join the unsuspecting players who’d once taken so much for granted, and then choose the perfect moment to strike. The club was large, the staff easily distracted by the swirl of high-end amusements. With the right approach, it might even be possible to force them all into one space and deliver a fatal blow to each. Or, if caution dictated otherwise, at least dispatch one more target and vanish into the labyrinth of corridors before anyone could sound an alarm.

Sensing the rising pulse, the killer placed the four chips carefully on the desk, ensuring not to chip or mar their edges. Next, the knife was returned to its scabbard, with an almost reverential care. The handle poked out from within, beckoning to be used again. For a brief moment, the killer considered drawing it once more—reliving the surge of adrenaline that came with brandishing cold steel so close to the face of a victim. But no. That moment would come soon enough, at midnight, or shortly thereafter.

Somewhere down the corridor, voices rose momentarily, then subsided. The killer’s gaze darted to the door, but the footsteps passed without slowing. These hushed preparations for the upcoming game continued. Waiters would be fetching brandy, port, and other refinements to keep the gamblers comfortable through the night. Chairs would be arranged, chips stacked, rules quietly reiterated to new participants. In a half hour, the hush of cards shuffling and the tension of fortunes at stake would fill the hidden room behind the library—a place the killer knew well.

Locking eyes on the four poker chips once more, the killer thought of all that had transpired “that night.” The night that bonded a handful of individuals and set this entire deadly sequence in motion. Sir Richard, Geoffrey Wardlow, and the ones who yet lived—they had been there, complacent in an event that demanded consequences. Now, justice—or something akin to justice—unfolded blade by blade. The killer had spent years plotting this, growing more certain with each day. Pain had turned to cold resolve, and when the time was right, the killer had claimed the first victim’s life. Then the second. And soon, the rest would join them.

Almost unconsciously, the killer’s lips parted around a faint whisper: “Those who were there that night will meet their end.”

The words hung in the air, soft yet potent. They contained no regret, no indecision—just unwavering conviction. While the motive behind that vow remained unspoken, its lethal certainty reverberated through the study as if spoken by a chorus of ghosts.

A final check: The clock’s minute hand edged ever closer to the hour. A swift glance around the private study confirmed no stray evidence had been left behind. The killer slid open the desk drawer just enough to deposit the poison vial. It clinked lightly against the wood as it settled in place, easy to retrieve if futureconditions required a quieter method. The drawer was eased shut, careful to avoid the slightest squeak.

Rising from the high-backed chair, the killer took the scabbard in one hand, tucking it into the folds of a coat that hung on a nearby stand. The four poker chips sat neatly in a small velvet pouch, slipped into an inside pocket. Their presence was reassuring, like hidden aces up a sleeve.

Outside, the corridor remained silent, but the killer could sense, as if through finely tuned instincts, that the club was stirring for the midnight gathering. A glance at the clock revealed five more minutes had passed—it was now 11:35. The next half hour would determine how many lives might be snuffed out before dawn. Perhaps only one more tonight. Perhaps more, if luck favored boldness.

Holding the coat’s lapels closed, the killer extinguished the lamp on the desk. Darkness rushed in, save for a faint silver spill of moonlight bleeding around the heavy curtains. In this moment of near blackness, the killer paused, savoring the heightened awareness. Blood thundered in the killer’s veins. The memory of past kills thrummed in unison with the promise of future death. The hush was exhilarating, a prelude to violence that would soon stain The Monarch Club’s lavish walls with fresh tragedy.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Finn stepped into the Monarch Club's marble-floored lobby close to midnight, his posture radiating a cool confidence, carrying a leather briefcase in hand. He wore a tailored midnight-blue suit that gleamed under the subdued overhead lamps, the cut hugging his frame in quiet elegance. Polished black shoes clicked on the shining tiles, and a single gold cuff link glinted at his left wrist—just enough flourish to suggest wealth without screaming it. His fake black mustache looked as real as any other. Hidden in his ear away from prying eyes sat an earpiece connected to Amelia Winters and his investigative support outside. He gave it a gentle press, making sure it was secure. It was his only lifeline, and he hoped he wouldn't have to fall back on it.

The hush inside the lobby underscored the lateness of the hour. Soft shadows draped the decorative potted palms and curved settees, while the large, ornate clock behind the reception desk ticked almost accusingly at the silent corridors. He could sense the sleeping opulence of the place: most members had long departed or retreated into private rooms, leaving only a skeleton staff to roam these grand halls.

A figure emerged from behind a polished column: Theodore Crawford, the Monarch Club’s manager. His brow creased slightly, and his anxious expression lifted only a fraction when he recognized Finn—or rather, “Devlin Foster,” the identity Finn was using. Theodore alone knew the truth of Finn’s background as a consulting detective investigating the murders that haunted this historic establishment.

“Mr. Devlin Foster,” Theodore said in a quiet, urgent voice, bowing slightly. “I wasn’t expecting you so late. It’s nearly midnight.”

Finn offered the man a confident half-smile. “I prefer to arrive when the night’s at its most interesting, Theodore. Lady Pembroke asked me to show up at five to midnight.” He checked his watch and slipped easily into the polished American accent he was using for cover. “I’m running a few minutes behind schedule. I don't like to keep a lady waiting.”

Theodore nodded but couldn’t hide the worry etched on his features. “I see. I hope you haven’t come for… certain activities. With all that’s happened lately—the murders—I’m afraid more secrets might surface tonight. I don’t want the Club shut down, Mr. Foster.”

Finn placed a reassuring hand on Theodore’s shoulder. “Let’s keep those secrets out of view, then. Remember, I’m not the police. I’m a consultant more than anything, and I'm just here to investigate the murders—if nothing else pops up tonight, there’s no need for alarm.”

The manager exhaled, tension in the set of his shoulders easing slightly. “Thank you. I’ll leave you to it, then. Please, proceed. And… be cautious.”

“I always am,” Finn answered, dropping his hand. He flicked another glance at his watch: 11:55. “Wish me luck, Theodore.”

Finn headed deeper into the Monarch Club, passing through a side corridor where tapestries of old hunting scenes and pastoral landscapes adorned the walls. The lighting grew softer as he navigated toward the library. Occasionally, he spotted a waiter ghosting silently past, or glimpsed movement behind closed doors, but the place was largely at rest. The faint clink of glassware and distant, muted conversation indicated a small group of night owls still enjoyed the Club’s amenities.

He reached the library, a spacious hall with book-lined walls extending up to a frescoed ceiling. Only a few reading lamps glowed here, rendering the corners thick with shadow. In a poolof gentle light, Lady Pembroke stood by a wide oak table, her back partially turned to the entrance.

She wore a flowing silk nightgown in rich emerald green, the fabric shimmering with each subtle shift of her posture. The contrast between her attire and the scholarly ambiance of the library struck Finn. She radiated confidence, as though the Monarch Club was her personal domain.

At his approach, she turned, and a slow smile graced her lips. “Devlin Foster,” she murmured. “I was beginning to suspect you’d left me waiting… and I hate waiting.”

He dipped his head with a gallant air. "My apologies, my lady. I could never live with myself if I stood up to someone as captivating as you."

A hiss of static crackled in Finn’s earpiece, and Amelia’s voice whispered,“Don’t get too familiar.”He concealed any reaction, raising an eyebrow at Lady Pembroke instead.

She smiled knowingly. “You brought money?” A gesture toward the slim briefcase in his left hand betrayed her anticipation.

Finn patted the case. “A solid stash, enough to keep things interesting.”

“Excellent,” she purred. “Follow me.”

At the far end of the library, the ornate wooden door with delicate carvings stood tightly closed. Finn looked at it, hiding his anticipation. This was it. He was going to finally discover what lay behind it.

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