Page 6 of When You're Forgotten

She cut him off, voice curt.“Are you implying I’m somehow less capable than you?”

He dropped a hand from the wheel to squeeze her forearm gently.“No.If anything, I think you’re more capable.I just—it wouldn’t make losing you any easier.”

A taut silence filled the car.Amelia stared out the window, and Finn let the hush linger, hoping she sensed his genuine concern behind the awkward words.He wasn't great at articulating how much it gnawed at him to see that bruise on her face, to think of her in danger and getting hurt.

Before he could figure out a better way to express it, the car rumbled up to a pair of tall iron gates, painted black and ornate with delicate swirls.A discreet sign affixed to the metal read Brynmor HALL.Gravel crunched beneath the tires as Finn slowed, opening the small console by the driver’s seat to check the address.This was it: the estate where James Penrose had been found dead under suspicious circumstances two days earlier.

“Looks like we’re here,” Finn murmured.

Amelia peered through the windshield.The gates were slightly ajar, enough to let the sedan pass.He inched forward, guiding them through into a long, tree-lined driveway.On either side of the drive stretched a vast lawn—a sea of manicured green that rivaled any he’d seen in grand English manors.Ahead, Brynmor Hall loomed: sprawling and imposing, all aged stone, tall chimneys, and ivy creeping along the walls.It dominated the landscape with an air of silent authority.

“Wow,” Amelia said under her breath.“It’s huge.”

“Must cost a fortune to keep somewhere like this running,” Finn added.

Finn parked near the front steps, where a semicircle of gravel formed something akin to a courtyard.The sedan’s engine clicked off, leaving only the faint rustle of a mild breeze.He caught sight of a woman descending the wide stone steps—a housekeeper, apparently.She wore a conservative dark skirt, hair pinned neatly back.As she came closer, Finn noticed her right hand trembling slightly.

Amelia reached for the door handle, but Finn got out first, circling around to open her door with a gallant flourish.She shot him a mock-smile that said, I’m still mad at you, but I’ll accept this courtesy.They both stepped forward as the housekeeper approached.

“Good afternoon,” the woman said, a faint quaver in her voice.“You must be from the police?”

Finn gave a nod, extending a hand.“Hello.Yes, we’re here from the Home Office, I believe the called ahead?I’m Finn Wright, and this is Inspector Amelia Winters,” he said.“We’re here to look into James Penrose’s sudden death.”

The housekeeper managed a small smile, though the tremor in her hand persisted.“Ms.Margaret Hughes.I do hope we can be of service.Please, pardon my…” She glanced at her shaking hand.“It’s a neurological tremor, you see.My doctor says it’s nothing to worry about.”She lifted her left hand, which was perfectly still.“You see—no tremor there.”

Finn nodded understandingly, aware that she still looked rather tense.If the trembling was purely neurological, her nerves weren't being helped by the circumstances of a murder in the manor."I'm sorry for your loss," he offered gently."I imagine it's been difficult losing Mr.Penrose."

Mrs Hughes’s eyes flicked downward.“Yes, sir.Terrible business.I’ve worked here for thirty years now.”She squared her shoulders.“My husband used to be the butler for the family—he got me the job.Passed away some years ago not long after Wilkie Penrose, James’s older brother, unfortunately.”

Amelia’s expression softened.“I’m sorry to hear that.Must be very hard continuing on after losing him.”

Mrs Hughes pursed her lips with a tight nod.“One does what one must.Even the old house, as it is creaking at the edges, she carries on so I will, too.The Penroses have stipulated that you should stay to sort out this mess.So let’s get you settled, yes?”She turned, waving up the steps.“We’ve prepared rooms for you in the west wing.”

At that moment, a young man emerged from the doorway behind her.He was perhaps eighteen or nineteen, dressed in a neat but slightly ill-fitting servant’s uniform.Scruffy blond hair flopped over his forehead, giving him a boyish, unkempt look that contrasted sharply with the polished facade of Brynmor Hall.

“Ah, Evan,” Mrs Hughes said.“Would you take the luggage from our guests, please?Show them inside.”

Evan hesitated, blinking at Finn.“Luggage, Sir?”

“Yes,” Finn replied, inclining his head toward the sedan.“It’s in the trunk.”

The boy looked at him as though he’d just spoken nonsense.Amelia let out a short laugh.“He means the boot,” she clarified, giving Finn a playful nudge.

“Oh!Right, the boot.”Evan jogged to the car’s rear, popped it open, and pulled out a single large suitcase.He swayed slightly under the weight, expression twisting in surprise.“Blimey, that’s heavy.”

Mrs Hughes raised an eyebrow, folding her arms primly.“Just the one suitcase?I assumed you’d want separate rooms.I’ve got them ready.”

Amelia exchanged a quick glance with Finn, then offered a polite smile.“We just put our things together to cut down on the load—thank you, Mrs Hughes.Separate rooms is quite all right.”

Mrs Hughes accepted the explanation with a slight purse of her lips, then watched as Evan, red-faced with effort, lugged the suitcase toward the steps.Meanwhile, Finn opened the back door of the sedan, retrieving a thick folder from the seat pocket.“Case files,” he explained softly to Amelia.

As the young man paused for breath near the top of the stairs, Finn turned to Mrs Hughes.“Mrs Hughes, do you happen to have any ideas about who might want Mr.Penrose dead?Anything from within the household you’ve noticed?”

She pressed her lips together.“I don’t try to think about such things.It’s not my place, and…” She shook her head, words caught in her throat.

A clatter drew their attention: Evan had nearly dropped the suitcase.Huffing, he exclaimed, “It’s gotta be the ghost, right?Everyone says the place is cursed.”

“Evan!”Mrs Hughes admonished in a sharp tone, turning on him.But before he could be properly scolded, Amelia fixed him with a curious gaze.

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