Page 11 of When You're Alone

Amelia carefully refolded the letter, slipping it into a small plastic evidence bag from her pocket. “We appreciate your cooperation. If anything else comes to mind—people he might’ve argued with, or details about his gambling—please call.”

Maggie merely nodded. She seemed drained, not from grief over Sir Richard’s death but from the mention of old hurts. “If that’s all—?”

“Can you tell us what your movements were in the last two days?” asked Finn.

“I was away in Liverpool, actually,” she answered. “I was meeting a potential new agent to represent me and spent an extra day there for sightseeing. I only got back a few hours ago. I stayed at the Winguard Hotel. I’m sure they will have CCTV?”

“We’ll look into it,” Amelia said.

“That’s all for now,” Finn said gently. “We’re sorry this is how you had to hear about your uncle.”

Maggie’s eyes flicked toward the covered painting in the corner, then back to the investigators. “I suppose it’s closure, in a way.”

With that, Amelia and Finn took their leave. Outside, the air felt cooler than before. The late afternoon sun slanted across the meadow, making the green shoots of daffodils glow. There wasa stillness to the rural surroundings that clashed oddly with the dark circumstances they were investigating.

Amelia glanced over the farmland, her hands in her coat pockets. “So Sir Richard had gambling debts, and he wrote to his niece about them. That lines up with the poker chip we found in his mouth. Possibly someone he owed money to?”

Finn stood beside her, exhaling. “Could be. Or maybe he was collecting on someone else’s debt, and that turned sour. Either way, the gambling angle’s consistent.”

She noticed a distant look in his eyes. “You seem distracted.”

A quick smile curved his lips. “Just imagining you running through this meadow in a short summer dress, hair loose, daisies in your arms. Is that too picturesque?”

Amelia huffed a laugh. “You really do have a one-track mind, Wright.”

He chuckled. “I like to hold onto the small joys in life.”

Finn noticed Her gaze sweeping across the rolling fields. The color of early spring spread unevenly, patches of new grass in some spots, remnants of dull winter brown in others.

“It’s getting dark soon,” Amelia said, noticing how the sun dipped toward a distant line of trees. “Let’s check the niece’s alibi and run through what we have so far. Then, we should head home and pick up the threads of this in the morning.”

“Home,” Finn echoed, turning toward the Corvette. He opened the passenger door for Amelia. “Does that mean you’re staying at my cottage again tonight?”

She slid into the seat, arching an eyebrow. “Sure, why not. Purely for convenience, of course—closer to the station than my place.”

Finn snorted softly, settling behind the wheel. “You keep telling yourself that, Winters.” He started the engine, which rumbled a complaint before settling into a steady, if noisy, idle.

A gentle hush fell between them as they pulled away from the row of cottages, heading back to the main road. The quiet felt companionable, each lost in thought: about Sir Richard’s checkered family history, about the letter that might illuminate a motive, about the swirling rumor of high-stakes card games behind the refined facade of The Monarch Club.

Soon they’d be back to formulating leads, analyzing forensic reports, and dealing with the unsubtle glare of paparazzi. But for this fleeting drive along the countryside, they allowed themselves a small measure of peace. Because as Finn always suspected, something would be just around the corner to break it.

CHAPTER SIX

“Who in the world would kill Sir Richard?” Geoffrey Wardlow murmured aloud, leaning back into the armchair’s embrace.

Geoffrey sat in his spacious townhouse on the outskirts of London, a half-finished glass of brandy in his hand. It was late—later than he usually stayed up on a weeknight—and yet sleep felt impossible. He was forty-five years old, with a black beard neatly trimmed around a strong jawline. His olive skin betrayed a Mediterranean heritage from his mother’s side; his father had been English through and through. Usually, Geoffrey carried himself with an air of calm confidence, the sort that came from moderate success in business and membership in exclusive circles like The Monarch Club. But tonight, that composure was in short supply.

His television displayed a rolling news report about Sir Richard Doyle’s shocking death. The reporter’s voice, low and measured, relayed the grim details: Sir Richard had been found stabbed in his private study, left to bleed out on the very floor where Geoffrey had stood with him only days before. The memory gave him a shiver, as though an icy draft had threaded its way through his comfortable living room.

From his vantage point on the wide leather armchair near the TV, Geoffrey reached for the remote and turned the volume down. The reporter’s words still drifted across the screen in captions:Stabbed at least three times… discovered too late for medical intervention… investigation ongoing.He tipped his brandy glass, swirling the amber liquid, trying to process the impossible news.

He’d known Sir Richard for years, albeit not as a close friend. They played chess on occasion—always in that very study, withits antique board set and a half-open window that let in the faint city air. Geoffrey closed his eyes, recalling the faint squeak of the club’s leather chairs, the soft scrape of chess pieces on polished wood, the murmured quips about the day’s affairs. Now, the same study had turned into a murder scene.

He traced his thumb along the rim of the glass, a habit whenever he was thinking. Most members of The Monarch Club had spoken favorably of Sir Richard—affable, charming, though perhaps strict in his duties as a board member. Then again, Geoffrey knew that the club’s board sometimes enforced strict standards. “Sometimes to the point of revoking membership,” he recalled, brow creasing.

Sir Richard had mentioned it a handful of times: if members brought the club into disrepute or caused some scandal, the board could revoke their membership. It was rarely done, but it could create enemies. Geoffrey sighed, imagining someone’s anger flaring to the point of murder.A disgruntled ex-member?he thought. It seemed plausible. Revenge was a powerful motive.

On the muted TV, footage of The Monarch’s grand entrance looped again, reporters jostling near the gates. Geoffrey found no comfort in the sight—only an unsettling sense that the club’s hush-hush world had been cracked open. He set his glass on a side table, the brandy left half-drunk.

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