Page 4 of When You're Alone

“Possibly,” she mused, “but also the site of a murder that’s causing quite a stir. Sir Richard Doyle’s death isn’t just a random tragedy—he was knighted, rumored to have ties all over the place. This will be under a hell of a spotlight.”

The car rattled slightly as Finn slowed down near a grand square lined with centuries-old buildings. Ornate carvings decorated their facades: rosettes, gargoyles, and fluted columns all celebrating architectural prowess from another era. Silk banners, hung between second-floor windows, fluttered in a stiff breeze.

“Must be the place,” Amelia said, pointing toward a cluster of police tape and the two uniformed constables standing guard at one building’s entrance. The building itself soared several stories high, each floor featuring tall, arched windows. The stone facade was an off-white that had weathered with time, its pillars carved to resemble classical figures. Above the enormous double doors, a dignified bronze plaque read,The Monarch Club.

Finn eased the Corvette to the curb with minimal fuss—though the engine sputtered defiantly one last time as he turned the ignition off. “See?” he quipped. “Got us here in one piece, no unicycle needed.”

Amelia shook her head, stepping out onto the sidewalk. Immediately, she took in the sight of official vehicles, a swirl of curious onlookers, and the steady presence of uniformed officers. The square seemed like a place of notable affluence to Finn, but today it bristled with tension and unwanted publicity.

A familiar figure emerged from between two parked squad cars: Chief Constable Rob Collins, Amelia’s boss. Tall and in his thirties, deep dark black hair that lent him a certain gravitas,Rob navigated the scene like a general in the midst of a small war.

“Chief,” Amelia greeted, her tone polite and measured.

“Rob,” Finn added with an easy grin. Finn refused to call his old college buddy “chief”, even if he was under his supervision while working as a consulting detective.

Rob gave a brief smile, but the flicker of urgency in his eyes was unmistakable. “Glad you two could make it.” He gave a curt nod at the corvette behind them. “I see your restoration of that hunk of junk is going to plan. At least it’s stylish.”

“Style is one word for it,” Amelia said, half under her breath.

Finn just shrugged. “You wouldn’t begrudge me a classic, would you, Rob?”

Rob dismissed the topic with a wave of his hand. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry. Let me give you the short version before the press descends like vultures. Sir Richard Doyle—knighted, fairly well-connected—was found murdered in his private study inside here, The Monarch Club. This place is… exclusive. The membership list is a who’s who of Britain’s power players. MPs, dukes, magnates—you name it. They do not want this murder turning into a media spectacle.”

“Understandably,” Amelia said. “Though with a name like Sir Richard, that’s nearly impossible.”

“Right. Follow me. The club’s sealed off, but we’ve already got paparazzi lurking. Keep your heads down.” Rob jerked his chin at a small throng of photographers milling across the street.

They passed the two constables on duty, each offering a respectful nod as Rob, Finn, and Amelia strode toward the entrance. Just then, a camera flash popped from somewhere behind them, bright enough that Finn halted and turned with a playful flourish.

He struck an exaggerated pose, one hand on his hip, the other adjusting an imaginary tie. The paparazzi snapped another picture.

Amelia groaned, grabbing Finn’s elbow. “Stop hamming it up,” she hissed. “We’re not on a red carpet.”

He only grinned. “Might as well give them something to photograph.”

Eyes rolling, she urged him forward. The wooden doors, large and intricately carved, led into a grand foyer that seemed lifted from a different century. A polished marble floor reflected the overhead chandeliers, their crystals shimmering with each subtle movement of air. Gilded mirrors punctuated the walls, while tapestries depicting heraldic crests lent an archaic splendor.

Finn's eyebrows rose. "Majestic is an understatement," he murmured. Golden trim traced the edges of the moldings, the faint scent of lemon polish mixed with stale cigar smoke.

A man in his forties hurried up to them from across the lobby, wiping beads of sweat from his balding head with a monogrammed handkerchief. His tailored suit looked slightly rumpled, perhaps from pacing. The pallor of his cheeks and the worry lines on his brow marked him as a man under severe stress.

Rob inclined his head in greeting. “Finn, Amelia—this is Theodore Crawford, the manager of The Monarch Club. He’s the one who called it in once the body was discovered.”

Theodore nodded jerkily. “Yes, yes. I’m Theodore… can’t believe this happened.” He cast a nervous glance toward the doors, where more photographers pressed in search of a better angle. “Blasted paparazzi. Jackals, the lot of them. They’re only here because Sir Richard was so well-known.” His voice quivered. “I’m just relieved you two are here. I’ve heard… very good things about your work. I read about it in the newspapers.”

“Appreciate the confidence,” Amelia said. “But let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

“Please, this way.” Theodore pivoted, leading them down a corridor off the lobby. The decor continued its grand theme: plush carpeting, walls lined with ornate sconces that gave off a soft, warm glow. The corridor opened into a sweeping staircase that curved to the upper floors, its banisters carved with lion and griffin motifs.

As they climbed, Finn took in the hush that seemed to envelop each landing. The entire place exuded an aura of wealth, from the gold-leaf accents to the thick draperies that framed tall windows overlooking the square. On walls between the windows hung oil portraits of solemn-faced men—likely past club presidents or luminaries. Finn felt a mild awe. He’d spent time in upscale FBI offices and even the upper echelons of Washington’s power circles, but The Monarch had a level of quiet opulence that whispered,We have influence to spare.

Midway up, he paused, noticing the absence of any visible security cameras. “No cameras?” he asked. “Surprising for a club that caters to the most powerful in Britain.”

Theodore’s expression tensed. “A private gentleman's club should be precisely that—private. Our members value discretion above all else. Sir Richard’s request as well, among others.”

Finn exchanged a glance with Amelia, neither of them voicing what was obvious: lacking cameras meant a steeper challenge.

They reached a wide landing where a single constable stood guard before a door. The door itself was heavy mahogany, complemented by a brass plaque that simply read “Private Study—Sir Richard Doyle.” The policeman stepped aside for Rob, Finn, Amelia, and Theodore.

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