Page 9 of When You're Lost

She shook her head.“No.”

“All right.Then… let me explain something, if I may.”He took a breath.“When you’re used to this—when you see gore and violence at levels that make most people ill—some of us crack jokes.Firefighters, paramedics, soldiers do it, too.It’s not to minimize the horror; it’s a shield.Helps them keep functioning, helps them stay sane.”

Eleanor’s lips pressed together.“I’m well-versed in human psychology.But fine.You don’t need to keep justifying it to me.”

He nodded, a bit relieved she hadn’t skewered him with another cutting remark.“So we can move on from that, yeah?”He drummed his fingers on the wheel.“Because if we’re working this case together, I want us on the same page.It does the victim—and her family—no favors if we’re butting heads.”

She looked down at her lap, then lifted her chin, meeting his gaze for half a second.“Agreed on that count, at least.”

A slight tension eased in Finn’s shoulders.He decided to shift the mood.“So… you like old rock and roll?”

She blinked.“I don’t… mind it.”

Finn grinned, rummaging in the glove compartment.“Excellent.I’ve got a tape somewhere.Give me a second.”The car wobbled slightly on the lane, and Eleanor tensed.

“I would prefer you keep your eyes on the road.”

With a chuckle, he quickly snatched a battered cassette from the compartment and slid it into the ancient stereo.“This Corvette was built before CDs were a thing.Or at least before they became mainstream.She’s a classic, but it’s not always smooth sailing.”

He jabbed the stereo’s button.A scratchy riff of guitar blasted from the speakers, some classic rock tune nearly drowning out the engine’s hum.Finn turned the volume down a notch to be courteous.“Getting her to pass emissions was a nightmare, I’ll admit.But she’s got a soul, you know?”

Eleanor folded her arms.“She might have a soul, but I’d rather not end up dead because you’re fiddling with tapes.”

Finn patted the dashboard.“This baby will take us far.I promise.”He flashed a confident grin.

“Into a ditch, maybe,” Eleanor muttered.But she settled back, allowing the guitar solo to fill the silence.Whatever tension they’d had, at least it seemed to rest now in a truce of sorts.

For the next hour, they navigated the tangled London streets, heading toward the Blackthorn Gallery where Victoria Palmer had apparently been working just before her murder.Finn concentrated on the road, tapping his foot occasionally to the music.Eleanor gazed out the passenger window, silent.He noted the furrow of her brow, guessing she was lost in thought about the case—maybe the painting references at the crime scene.

Eventually, the traffic thickened as they neared a busy commercial district.Sizable buildings rose on either side, old brick facades interspersed with modern steel structures.A line of cabs sat at a curb, waiting for fares.Finn steered the Corvette onto a smaller side street, where the sign for the Blackthorn Gallery caught his eye.He eased the car along until he found a parking space.

The gallery sat in a Victorian-era brick building.Large, arched windows dominated the front, displaying tasteful posters of upcoming exhibitions.A carved sign reading BLACKTHORN GALLERY hung above the elegant double doors, each door inset with frosted glass panels.Potted plants flanked the entrance, though one looked wilted, as if neglected.Overall, it gave an air of quiet prestige, the sort of place that might host private showings for wealthy collectors.

“Well, here we are.”Finn pulled the key from the ignition, letting the engine sputter to a stop.The music clicked off abruptly.He patted the steering wheel.“Thanks for the ride, old girl.”

Eleanor raised an eyebrow but said nothing, pushing open the door.Finn climbed out on his side, taking a moment to survey the street: a few pedestrians strolled by, a delivery truck idled near a loading bay, and a low murmur of city hustle formed a backdrop.He caught up to Eleanor as she reached the gallery’s front steps.

“So this is where Victoria Palmer last worked, right?”he said.“Authenticating some painting a few days ago.”

Eleanor nodded.“That’s what Rob said, and it’s in the files we have.She was finishing up an analysis for the gallery.Let’s see who we can talk to.”

They passed through the glass doors into a small foyer.To their right, a sleek reception desk stood beneath a hanging modern chandelier.The interior contrasted with the classic building exterior—spotlights illuminated abstract sculptures, while a large painting of a swirling galaxy took up most of one wall.A sign directed visitors to various exhibition rooms.

A young woman with pinned-up hair and a crisp blouse—likely in her late twenties—stepped forward, looking curiously at Finn and Eleanor.“Welcome to the Blackthorn Gallery.Can I help you?”Her tone was polite but guarded.

Finn cleared his throat.“I’m Finn Wright, a consultant with the Home Office.This is Doctor Matthews.We’re here about Victoria Palmer.She was here recently… We have some news about her.”

The woman’s expression tightened, something close to alarm flickering in her eyes.“Mary Whitmore,” she introduced herself briefly, voice dipping.“I’m Mr.Blackthorn's personal assistant.”

Eleanor glanced around the open space beyond Mary’s shoulder—display stands showcasing paintings and sculptures.Finn noticed the tension in Mary’s posture.He didn’t want to deliver the news harshly, but they needed honesty.“Miss Whitmore,” he said gently, “I’m afraid Victoria Palmer has been killed.”

Mary’s gasp was audible, and her face lost color.“Killed?That’s… That’s horrible.I had no idea.”

Finn studied her reaction, noting the genuine shock.But there was also an undercurrent of something else—apprehension, maybe.“We know Victoria was here a few days ago, authenticating a piece.We’d like to talk to anyone who interacted with her then.Maybe she mentioned something important about her work.”

Mary hesitated, eyes darting toward the corridor leading deeper into the gallery.“Well,” she began slowly, “Victoria mostly spoke to Mr.Blackthorn and I.It was strictly about the painting she was examining.There wasn’t… anything else, to my knowledge.”

Eleanor stepped in.“We’d still like to hear specifics of those conversations.And we’d like to speak with Harrison Blackthorn, too.”

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