Page 9 of When You're Alone

Amelia stood beside him, brow furrowed. "At least we know one thing: the presence of that poker chip in Sir Richard's mouth. We need to find out who might have had a grudge against him. Possibly over gambling debts, or an unpaid sum. If there's any secret betting ring going on, as Frederick alluded to, we'll need to follow that trail."

“Frederick hinted there might be after-midnight card games in one of the private rooms,” Finn recalled. “Even if the club’s official stance is ‘no betting allowed,’ we know how easily rules can be sidestepped behind closed doors. Especially if you're rich enough.”

Amelia paced a small circle around the stained rug, visually tracing the line of blood droplets as if it might reveal more answers. "Right. So, let’s figure out who else might have known about Sir Richard’s gambling habits. Did he owe someone? Was he collecting debts from others? Could it be blackmail gone wrong?”

Finn watched her, a glimmer of admiration in his eyes. In many ways, her structured thought process reminded him of an FBI colleague he’d once worked with—a man who’d taught him the importance of methodically checking each lead. But Amelia also brought her own brand of calm poise, gleaned from a decade in English policing. “We can start by speaking to Sir Richard’s next of kin,” he said, the idea solidifying as he spoke. “Get a sense of his personal life and any feuds or large debts. Also, old grudges. We don’t know yet if this was purely about money. It could mean something else.”

“I’m on board,” Amelia affirmed. “Let’s see: Widow? Children? Extended family? If we can find them, we might learn about his recent dealings. Possibly, they’ll confirm or deny whether he had gambling issues or money problems.”

Finn nodded. “We can also get in touch with his solicitor if he had one. Figures of Sir Richard’s status tend to have estate plans, and lawyers sometimes know more about a client’s behind-the-scenes concerns than the family does.”

“True,” Amelia agreed, checking her phone briefly. “We’ll also follow up with Theodore for more membership rosters. Or staff rosters, for that matter. The sign-in sheet might be gone, but we can still piece together tidbits from everyone’s shift schedules. Someone will remember who stayed late.”

They exchanged a final glance around the study. The once-posh setting seemed strangely hollow now: the plush chairs felt deserted, and the row of classic novels lining the shelves exuded a silent witness to the violence that had unfolded. The faint odorof cleaning solution hovered where forensic technicians had sanitized the area, struggling to mask the coppery scent of dried blood.

"Poor Sir Richard," Amelia murmured. "As much as we can guess about his murder being cold-blooded, I have to wonder if he saw it coming. Or if he thought he was safe in this place up until the very last moment."

Finn exhaled, a heaviness settling over him. “You always hope the victim didn't have time to know much about what was happening to them, but it's rarely that easy.”

With a single nod, Amelia moved to the door. She paused and glanced back, making sure the lights were still on and the windows locked. Then, together, they left the private study, stepping into the corridor’s hushed grandeur. The club’s silence felt thick as velvet, loaded with tensions from the staff’s anxiety and the building’s inherent secrecy. Sir Richard Doyle had been an esteemed member, and his death reverberated through these halls like a shock wave no one dared acknowledge too loudly.

As they headed for the nearest staircase, Finn kept his voice low. “We should do some digging to get his next of kin.” His mind was already spinning on the next steps: notifications, inquiries, official forms.

“Right. Let’s ask Theodore for that. He might know.” Amelia confirmed, stepping carefully down the plush-carpeted stairs. The hum of hushed conversation drifted from somewhere below. Maybe club employees were conferring, or the paparazzi were still trying to pry open cracks in the door. Either way, the next leg of their investigation would lead them out of this opulent but claustrophobic building.

CHAPTER FIVE

Finn felt the tires satisfyingly crunch along the narrow country road beneath them, framed on both sides by tall hedgerows mottled with the earliest signs of spring. The sky was a patchwork of pale clouds over faintly blue expanses, and faint sunlight glistened off puddles left behind by last week’s rain. In the passenger seat, pointed at a sign for a village called Fleawater, biting back a smile.

“‘Fleawater,’ huh?” Finn said from behind the wheel, as though reading her mind. He sounded amused, perhaps picturing some cutesy tourist stand hawking flea-themed souvenirs. “Charming name. Really sells the place.”

Amelia smirked. “I’m sure the local council can’t do much about centuries-old place names. But can you close your window? It’s not exactly warm out.”

“Sure thing,” Finn replied. He reached for the metal handle by his shoulder and rolled the window up. The mechanism squeaked in protest as it neared the top. Suddenly, the handle snapped free in his hand, leaving the window sealed shut, but the tool itself completely detached.

“Oops,” he muttered, freezing with the broken handle in his palm.

Amelia’s gaze darted his way. “What was that?”

“Eh… nothing,” Finn said, feigning nonchalance. He quickly tucked the handle into the side pocket of the door, hoping she wouldn’t notice. He cleared his throat, refocusing on the road.

She arched an eyebrow. “I won’t even ask.” But a hint of a grin tugged at her mouth. Finn knew his ride wasn’t practical, and he was forever trying to maintain the illusion that his vintage car—so dear to him—was perfectly fine, even though itpractically rattled at every bump and threatened a meltdown on longer rides.

They continued onward, passing a placid pond reflecting the silhouettes of bare-limbed willow trees. Beside the water stretched a gentle slope of farmland, its fence posts wobbling under a patchy growth of ivy. Eventually, the road narrowed further, and they turned onto a smaller lane where three cottages nestled in an idyllic row. Two of them had tidy gardens out front, while the third, in the middle, overlooked a broad meadow dotted with daffodil shoots.

Finn slowed to a stop, turning the engine off. He inhaled deeply through the half-open driver’s side window. “I’ve got to hand it to you Brits. Nobody does a meadow like this.”

Amelia shot him a sidelong look. “You mean we in the UK. Remember, I’m part Scottish. Not just English.”

With a grin, he replied, “Right, the feisty part I like the most.” She half-smiled at that, shaking her head. “So the middle cottage, that’s the place?”

“That’s what Sir Richard’s manager said,” Amelia confirmed. “His niece, Maggie Doyle, apparently lives here.”

They climbed out of the car. The early spring air nipped at their cheeks, carrying the faint scent of damp earth. A few daffodils poked their heads above the roadside, adding splashes of pale yellow among the greenery. Amelia pulled her coat tighter, and together they walked up a short gravel path leading to the middle cottage’s front door.

Finn took in the details: a simple whitewashed exterior, two windows on either side of the door, and a small porch flanked by potted plants. Despite the cheerful setting, a sense of gravity weighed on them both. They were here to notify someone about a murder—a messy business no matter how charming the venue.

Amelia knocked on the door. Moments later, they heard faint footsteps within. The door creaked open, revealing a woman inher thirties. She had her hair tied back in a messy bun, several loose strands escaping around her face. Specks of colorful paint blotched her blue overalls, one strap hanging loosely off her shoulder as though she’d paused mid-project. She blinked at the sight of them, brow furrowing in curiosity.

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