Page 15 of When You're Alone

Amelia glanced at him, brow furrowed. “That’s plausible. The killer may be punishing them for something they said, or for secrets they might have revealed.”

Rob folded his arms. “And it’s the same style chip?”

Wednesday turned the chip in her forceps. “I’ve studied the original chip from Sir Richard’s autopsy. That one was an older make, from the 1970s—but I haven't been able to identify the exact make yet. This one… appears much the same. I can confirm once I’ve cleaned it and checked for markings.”

Finn exhaled. “So it’s definitely not a coincidence. The killer is sending a message with these chips, and the fact that they’re vintage might tie back to older gambling circles or some past event these men were all a part of.”

Nodding, Amelia stepped closer to the body, careful not to obstruct Wednesday’s work. She surveyed the victim’s face, the angle of his limbs. “Was Wardlow also on The Monarch’s board, by any chance?”

Rob consulted a small notepad. “According to the membership records, he’s a longtime member. Not on the board currently. But I recall overhearing he temporarily filled in last year for someone who was unwell.” He glanced at Finn and Amelia. “Might be relevant if this is about board decisions at the club, perhaps.”

Finn frowned. “If the killer’s targeting individuals tied to the club’s leadership or discipline, that puts other board members on the list. Or even temporary ones.”

Wednesday carefully placed the poker chip into a labeled evidence bag. “If that’s all from me, Inspector Winters, I need totransport Mr. Wardlow for a formal autopsy. I’ll let you know if I discover further anomalies.”

Amelia gave a quick nod. “Understood, Doctor Knott. Thank you.”

“Have a good day, Inspector.” Wednesday acknowledged Amelia alone, then turned away, passing the bag to a forensics tech. Finn got the distinct impression he’d been deliberately ignored again, which, in another context, might have amused him.

Once Wednesday left, Rob sighed. “Alright, so we have a second murder, presumably linked. The question is, who’s next?”

Finn pinched the bridge of his nose, sorting through the possibilities. “We need to find out if these men shared some other connection. Of all the members of the club, why these two?”

Amelia’s phone buzzed. She dug it from her pocket, squinted at the screen, and answered curtly. “Winters.” Rob and Finn exchanged a look, waiting for her reaction. She listened silently, and as the caller spoke, her face drained of color, leaving her complexion pale. Her eyes went slightly wide.

“Amelia?” Finn asked, stepping forward. “Is everything alright?”

She lowered the phone, expression drawn. “No,” she managed, but her voice was tight. Fear radiated off her in a way Finn rarely saw.

Rob’s forehead creased. “What’s happened?”

For a moment, Amelia looked torn, words forming then dissolving. Her breathing hitched. She didn’t offer an explanation, just stared off into the hallway, lips parted but silent. Finn felt a chill, the atmosphere in the corridor intensifying. Something grave had rattled Amelia deeply—beyond just another murder. He placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to anchor her.

She swallowed hard, still looking stricken. “I—” She swallowed again and pressed her lips together, eyes glistening with a sudden vulnerability. Then, with a stilted movement, she raised her phone again, stepping away from both men.

Finn and Rob exchanged anxious glances. He wanted to demand answers, to know who had called and what left Amelia so pale, but he also knew it wasn’t his place to push her in that moment. She needed a second to gather herself. The hush in the hallway felt suffocating, the presence of a second murder overshadowed by whatever news had just arrived on the phone.

He thought about the nightmarish vision he'd had earlier that morning—Amelia in danger, an unknown threat lurking behind curtains. Now, reality cast a similarly ominous shadow. All he could do was wait, heart pounding, for Amelia to reveal what had rocked her composure.

CHAPTER NINE

The night before…

Wendell Reed felt the uneven sway of the secure van as it rumbled through Glasgow city's dark, rain-swept streets. He sat chained at the wrists and ankles, each cuff connected by a short length of iron links bolted to the van’s metal floor. Every time the vehicle turned a corner, the chains clinked, the sound both jarring and oddly reassuring to him. It reminded him that, despite appearances, he still had a certain control over how this night would end.

The biting Scottish rain hammered the roof, a cold sleet slapping the windows. The city outside flashed in and out of view whenever the van passed beneath a streetlamp—brief snapshots of brick facades and closed shopfronts. Wendell let out a slow breath, watching it mist in the frigid interior. The guard riding alongside him was named Shankland, a man with heavy shoulders and a lined face that spoke of too many overnight shifts and too little patience.

For several minutes, neither spoke. The only noise was the downpour and the van’s tires sloshing through puddles. Finally, Shankland broke the silence. “Bloody Glasgow, eh?” he muttered, trying to sound conversational but edging into bitterness. “Weather can’t decide if it wants to be rain or ice.”

Wendell tilted his head, letting a small grin tug at his thin lips. “I thought you Scots prided yourselves on braving the cold. Not complaining about it.”

Shankland gave him a withering glare. “You’re lucky you’re gettin’ moved at all,” he said, ignoring Wendell’s jab. “Even a scumbag like you might find a bullet in your back if you stayed at Barlinnie High Security any longer.”

Wendell shifted in his seat, the chains rattling. He was in his early thirties, lean with a wiry physique, but beneath that wiry frame lay a coiled aggression that even the thickest walls never seemed to tame. "Oh, I don't doubt someone wants me dead. Probably a lot of someone, to be fair." He angled a glance at Shankland, letting the overhead lamp in the van illuminate his eyes. "But I figure they're moving me foryourprotection, not mine.”

Shankland snorted. “We’re not the ones who need protection from the likes of you.”

“Is that so?” Wendell murmured, his grin widening. “I have a certain effect on people, you know.” Outside, the night sky flashed with a bolt of lightning, illuminating the interior for half a second. In that moment, Wendell’s grin looked almost feral.

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