Page 16 of When You're Lost

Wendell came closer, each step slow, menacing.Finn felt panic seize him.He yanked at the door’s edge, trying to wedge his fingers between the seals.“Open up, damn it!”He could see Wendell was just a foot or two behind her.

Amelia continued to wave cheerfully, still oblivious.

Finn screamed, “Amelia, run!Turn around!”But the glass muffled his voice, and it was as though she existed in a bubble separate from his frantic warnings.His hands clenched on the metal door frame until his knuckles whitened, but it refused to budge.

Then Wendell struck.He lunged forward, driving the blade into Amelia’s back.Her expression changed in an instant—shock and pain flickered across her features, and Finn let out a hoarse cry that tore his throat.The world seemed to shudder, everything going dark at the edges.

“No!”he screamed.

Finn jolted upright in bed, chest tight, breath ragged.Darkness swathed the room, broken by a soft glow from his digital alarm clock.He clawed at the sheets, trying to steady himself.For several seconds, all he could hear was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“It was just a dream,” he muttered, fighting to reel in the panic.Yet it felt so real, his mind replaying the image of Amelia’s wave, Wendell’s knife.

The alarm clock showed 6:00 AM.Finn exhaled, raking a hand over his sweat-damp hair.He turned to the empty space beside him in the bed.On nights like these, he wished more than ever that Amelia were with him.But the covers were undisturbed on her side.

He grabbed his phone from the bedside table.A single message notification glowed:

“Sorry, crashed back at mine as was exhausted.Will call you later.Had quite a day.Love you.A.x”

His tension eased marginally.She was safe.She hadn't come over last night after her work finished with the task force.He let his shoulders sag, relief flooding him enough that his pounding heart began to slow."She's all right," he told himself."She's fine."

He lowered himself back against the pillows, closing his eyes, hoping for a few more minutes’ rest.But the phone rang, abrupt and sharp in the predawn hush.Finn groaned, fumbled for the device, and answered.“Oh, what now?”he mumbled under his breath, then spoke into the receiver: “Yeah?”

Rob's familiar voice crackled through “Finn, you better get here.There’s been another murder.”

Finn went rigid, the last threads of grogginess burning away.“Another one?You’re certain it’s the same killer?”

“Not certain yet,” Rob replied quickly, “but it looks staged again.Meet me at Thornfield Manor.I’ll text you the address.We need you on site.Eleanor is already on her way.”

A fresh knot of worry coiled in Finn’s gut.“All right.I’ll head out in ten.”

“Thanks, mate.”The line clicked off.

Finn set the phone aside, staring at the dim ceiling.Another murder.Another possible reference to the killer who had posed Victoria Palmer’s body in that grotesque imitation of a famous painting.He forced himself out of bed, ignoring the dull ache in his limbs and the lingering dread from his nightmare.Danger haunted Amelia in his dreams, but reality proved it might be lurking for anyone else, too.And if this new victim connected to the same case he was working on, the killer was stepping up the pace.

***

By the time Finn arrived at Thornfield Manor, the sun had broken over a low ridge of hills, painting the stone facade in pale morning light.Several squad cars and an unmarked vehicle sat parked near the main gate, uniformed constables milling about.He recognized the tension in their faces—the usual hush after a violent crime.A short nod from one officer allowed him through, and he parked behind Rob’s car.

He stepped across the gravel drive, noting the grandeur of the estate: tall windows, sprawling gardens.But crime scene tape fluttered around the front door, and the atmosphere felt heavy and quiet.Inside, the foyer was opulent—marble floors, a sweeping staircase, and walls laden with large paintings in ornate frames.The hush pressed on Finn like a weight.

Voices drifted from a corridor on the left.Finn followed them until he reached a wide doorway leading into a study.Inside, he spotted Rob and Eleanor near the center of the room.On the floor between them lay the body: a man in an expensive-looking suit, blood staining his abdomen where a deep slash left his insides exposed like chopped liver.Finn shuddered at the sight.Forensics team members were already taking photos and bagging evidence.

Rob turned at the sound of Finn’s footsteps.“Glad you’re here,” he said, voice subdued.

Finn swallowed the knot in his throat and joined them, eyes on the corpse.“What do we have?”he asked quietly.“Is this connected to Victoria Palmer?”

Eleanor, her posture precise and her face set with grim composure, inclined her head.“We think so.The victim is Edmund Garner, an art collector.He was found with multiple injuries, but the staging looks reminiscent of another painting.We just discovered certain… details.”

Finn glanced around the lavish study—rich wood paneling, a massive mahogany desk, and a smoldering fireplace with no actual flame.“He was a collector, you say?”

“Yes,” Rob confirmed.“A man named Bremner, the victim's butler, discovered him this morning.He must have been killed last night.No forced entry—someone apparently came in with his permission.”

“Who?”Finn asked.

"We're waiting to question the butler further about that," Rob said."But it was supposedly an elderly man."

Finn’s gaze lowered to a patch of white powder near the body.“What’s that on the floor?”He knelt, studying the chalky substance as a forensic tech carefully brushed it into a sample bag.

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