Page 40 of When You're Alone

For an awful heartbeat, Finn found himself paralyzed, arms trembling around Jeremy’s body.He was so terrified… now it’s too late.His mind spun:We lost him, and with him, any chance to learn the full truth about Terrance Mansfield or who the killer might be.

A clang echoed in the distance—perhaps the murderer fleeing through some side exit. Finn lifted his gaze, scanning the gloom. No sign of movement.They’re gone.He felt numb. Forcing himself to let Jeremy's body rest gently on the floor, he rose unsteadily. Anger warred with despair inside him. Doubt and regret clawed at his nerves. If only he'd been faster or had a weapon…

Blood stained his hands and shirt. He exhaled, tasting metal on his tongue. Staying longer in the basement, unarmed and alone, made little sense. The killer knew these passageways—or at least seemed comfortable disappearing into them. Finn wasn’t about to hunt aimlessly in the pitch dark.We need to lock down the building,he thought.We can’t let them slip away.

“Sorry, Jeremy,” he whispered, voice echoing in the deathly hush. “I’ll make sure we catch whoever did this.”

Snatching up his flashlight, he retraced his steps, ignoring the shards of glass and trickling wine. Every corner felt menacing now. Faint illusions of Max Vilne resurfaced—memories of that fateful chase in the underground tunnels. Except Max was dead, and this was a different enemy, just as lethal. Would there always be a madman in the darkness? Gritting his teeth, Finn pressed onward, returning to the winding corridor.

The stone stairs leading up beckoned like a lifeline. He ascended two at a time, blinking when he reached the top, the relative brightness of the corridor making him squint. The whisper of activity on the main floors drifted in—civilized, refined, a world away from the violence below.

Finn staggered against a wall, breath ragged.Keep it together. They must not leave the club.With each heartbeat, he felt the basement’s chilling atmosphere cling to him like a second skin. But he squared his shoulders. He had to warn Amelia, Rob, everyone. The killer had struck again and was still inside the building.

Trying not to think of Jeremy's final, terrified stare, Finn started down the hallway. "Amelia, can you hear me now?" he asked. "Lock down the building. The killer is here..."

“Finn,” Amelia said sternly. “We're coming.”

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Finn stood under the subdued glow of the Monarch Club’s lobby chandelier, staring at his bloodied hands as he wiped them with a towel Rob had found somewhere. Each dab of cloth against his skin felt surreal, as if this moment existed outside time. Jeremy Ford’s death lingered in his mind—he could still hear the man’s last ragged breath echoing in that cold, hidden cellar.

“It happened so fast,” Finn whispered, voice tight with guilt. “He… died in my arms. I should’ve moved faster.”

Amelia reached out and gently covered one of his hands with hers. A moment of shared grief passed between them, and she squeezed his fingers softly in reassurance. “We can’t save everyone, Finn. You did what you could.”

Rob, standing just to their side, surveyed the scene grimly. In the background, a group of anxious club members clustered, murmuring in half-panicked tones. Uniformed officers guarded the main doors, while additional staff hovered at the edges of the lobby, wide-eyed. The club’s opulence—its marble floors, plush rugs, and gleaming vases—felt hollow under the weight of what had happened.

Rob looked at Finn. “We’ve secured the building. No one gets in or out. If the murderer’s still here, we’ll find him.”

Finn nodded, disposing of the bloodstained towel. His eyes darted across the room, landing on Lady Pembroke. She stood a short distance away, arms folded over her emerald gown, watching him with an air of open suspicion. Gone was her earlier playful demeanor; now, her face was etched with tension.

He approached her, heart heavy from the night’s events. She straightened, chin high, and said, “Mr. Foster, I suppose a new introduction is in order?”

Finn exhaled slowly. “Yes—about that. My real name is Finn Wright. I’m a consulting detective working with the Home Office, looking into these… murders.”

A flicker of hurt danced across her features. “I see.”

Amelia stepped up beside him. “Inspector Amelia Winters, Metropolitan Police. I’m sorry about the ruse, Lady Pembroke, but we needed discretion. People’s lives depend on it.”

Lady Pembroke turned her gaze away for a moment, collecting herself. “It’s all such a mess,” she whispered. Her composure wavered as she caught sight of Finn’s stained cuff. “And poor Jeremy. I can’t believe he’s—” She swallowed, pressing her lips together.

Amelia, her voice measured, asked, “We understand the recent deaths might tie back to a midnight game that took place on March tenth, 2003. Jeremy mentioned it.”

Finn glanced sideways at Lady Pembroke, adding softly, “He also alluded that Marcus Pembroke was there. That he…” He hesitated, uncertain how to bring up the rumor. “That he took his own life sometime later.”

Lady Pembroke’s eyes misted. She pressed a hand to her brow, as though holding back tears. “Marcus was there, yes. He was part of the… conspiracy. They all planned to fleece Terrance Mansfield—poor fool never saw it coming. After Terrance vanished, Marcus was consumed by guilt.” Her voice broke on the last word, and she took a shaky breath before continuing. “He tried to find Terrance, to make amends, but the man had disappeared. And the not knowing, the weight of what he’d done, ate at Marcus until he…” She let the words trail off, the implication clear.

Amelia's expression softened. "I'm sorry. But then, why do you still gamble at these secret games? Doesn’t it… hurt, after what happened to your husband?”

A flash of defiance lit Lady Pembroke’s eyes. “I do it out of petty revenge, Inspector. Whenever I win, I donate the proceeds to a charity Marcus loved. It’s a small thing, but it’s my way of honoring him—and making sure his name doesn’t fade into a footnote of guilt.”

Finn nodded in understanding, though the heaviness in his chest remained. “And Terrance Mansfield—have you ever heard whispers that he returned to the club, maybe seeking vengeance?”

Her lips curved into a sad, humorless smile. “Over the years, there have been ghost stories—a phantom wandering the halls, the spirit of Mansfield. People teased each other about it. I never took it seriously. Now… I wonder if he truly has been lurking around like some Phantom of the Opera.”

A commotion disrupted them. At the lobby doors, a cluster of irritated club members confronted two officers. Their voices rose, echoing across the ornate space.

"We're Members of Parliament!" one man declared. "We have important duties—this lockdown is illegal!"

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