Page 10 of When You're Broken
Amelia snatched the manager’s arm and twisted it behind his back, forcing him face-down into a swirl of foam.The manager struggled, spitting curses, but he was half-blinded from the extinguisher discharge and reeling from the sudden assault.“Hold still!”Amelia snapped, breath ragged.She pinned his wrists together.
The manager let out a furious, choked cry, but his strength was sapped by confusion and exhaustion.Amelia found a pair of plastic restraint ties—likely scooped from a staff area or an emergency kit—and used them like makeshift cuffs.She tugged them tight, the manager grimacing.Meanwhile, Finn stumbled back, leaning on a damp patch of wall for support, lungs burning.
He was covered in white foam, streaking his jacket and face.Amelia turned, chest heaving, and for a heartbeat, they just locked eyes.Relief washed through him in a dizzying wave.She gave him a shaky grin that hovered between laughter and relief.Then, in the swirl of sirens and the manager’s thrashing, she fished out her phone from her pocket.She eyed Finn—soaked, breathing hard, foam spattered across his hair—and snapped a quick photo with a forced grin.
“Amelia!”Finn sputtered, still panting.“You’ve got to be kidding—”
She let out a short, breathless laugh.“For Rob,” she said, tucking her phone away.“He’ll love it.”
Finn half-laughed, half-groaned, pushing away from the wall, head spinning with leftover adrenaline.“I can’t believe… you circled back in.I thought you were calling for backup.”
“I did call for backup,” she said, scanning the corridor.“The local police should be on their way.Couldn’t just leave you to wrestle this psycho alone.”
His chest rose and fell, still fighting to regain composure.On the floor, the manager let out a defeated moan, foam dripping from his brow, arms secured behind his back.Amelia knelt, checking the manager’s pockets for any other weapons.She found none, though a phone turned up, locked behind a password.
The manager spat at them, rage twisting his features.“You have no idea… what you’re dealing with,” he rasped, voice raw.“He told me… you’d come.”
Finn wiped foam from his eyelashes, heart pounding.“I bet he did,” he murmured.“Wendell Reed.”
Hearing the name, the manager twisted, cursing.Amelia pressed a knee against his back, steady.“Stop struggling,” she ordered.
At that moment, the children's home’s main door banged open somewhere down the corridor.Muffled voices echoed: the local police responding to the alarm or staff reentering to see what was happening.The manager coughed, throwing them a baleful glare.Finn’s mouth tightened.
He bent down slightly, gazing at the man.“Why’d you do it?Why help Wendell Reed?”He half-expected the manager to rant or stay silent, but the man just scowled, tears of anger forming.
“You can’t stop him,” the manager hissed.“He promised me… He said if I took you out, my brother would be safe.That he’d release him.Now you’ve ruined everything.”
Finn exchanged a grim look with Amelia.So Wendell blackmailed him,he thought.That would explain the manager’s desperation, his shaking hands on the gun, the raw mania in his eyes.
Footsteps approached, and a uniformed officer peeked around the corridor, wide-eyed at the scene: foam-coated floor, random bullet holes, a subdued manager pinned under Amelia.The policeman raised his arms in confusion, speaking into his radio.“We have a suspect in custody… Shots fired… Looks like the staff evacuated.”
Amelia nodded at Finn to confirm they were fine, though battered.She relinquished the manager to the policeman, stepping back to let official procedure unfold.Finn took a few shallow breaths, foam dripping from the tips of his hair.
When the manager was handed over to a second officer, Amelia quietly leaned to Finn’s ear.“You all right?”
He managed a grin.“Soaked in extinguisher foam, a bullet nicked my calf, but I’ll survive.”He brushed a stray fleck from his jacket.“Let’s hope he talks.”
She nodded, eyes flicking to the manager, who was now being half-dragged by the police.“If Wendell is behind this, we’ll push him to tell us everything he knows about my brother’s abduction.”She hesitated, then lowered her voice.“Brendan...Every minute we waste, Wendell’s got more time to hide him.”
Finn’s breath came unevenly.His mind flashed to the memory of how Wendell had once boasted about punishing Amelia by hurting those close to her.Now he had her brother.The manager had nearly killed Finn, trying to isolate her.“We won’t let that happen,” he said, voice taut with determination.“We’ve beaten his stooge here, we’ll do it again for the bigger fish.”
Officers swiftly taped off the corridor, yelling instructions over the alarm’s continuing screech.Another policeman found the master control for the alarm and switched it off, plunging the children's home into a new hush.The manager stared blearily at them, heartbreak overshadowing his anger, as though realizing the cost of obeying Wendell.Finn locked eyes with Amelia, seeing the resolution in her gaze.This manager was about to be questioned thoroughly.
Amelia put a hand on Finn’s shoulder, guiding him away from the swirl of policeman activity.“Come on, we can let them handle the scene.”Her lips quirked in a subdued smile.“You need that foam wiped off, or you’ll look like the abominable snowman in all the official photos.”
Finn huffed a small laugh, running a palm over his sticky hair.“Thanks for the mental image.”She rummaged in a corner for a stray rag or towel.Nothing.He shrugged, standing stiffly, stifling a wince at the stinging cut on his leg.“I hope Stanley knows more than he’s letting on.”
Amelia exchanged a glance with Finn, then spoke quietly: “Right.Let’s find out what he knows about where Wendell is keeping Brendan.It’s our only lead.”
“Yeah,” Finn said.“And let’s hope he doesn’t have anyone else working for him out there.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Brendan Wilson flexed his aching shoulders, each movement drawing a dull stab of pain from the rope gnawing at his wrists.He’d lost track of how many hours had passed since Wendell last left.The overhead light remained a single, naked bulb, swinging gently whenever someone opened the lone basement door.Even that slight motion teased out fresh lances of discomfort in Brendan’s arms, forcing him to shift again in the metal chair.
A faint drip of water somewhere in the corner set the silence pulsing with tension.The basement smelled perpetually damp—like mildewed concrete—undercut by the acrid tang of old blood.It was the kind of stench that didn’t just cling to the air; it settled on his skin, threaded itself into every breath.At least the tape was off his mouth now, so he could manage real conversation.The other prisoner needed that conversation desperately.
The man seated next to Brendan, tied just as tightly to his own chair, was named James Peterson.He looked older than Brendan by a decade or so, with short graying hair matted to his scalp by sweat and congealed blood.James’s face had recently been battered: a crusted cut across his temple, bruises across his cheekbones, swelling around one eye.But after Wendell disappeared an hour ago, James’s tremors had shifted from shock to restless anxiety.He seemed desperate to speak—maybe just to cling to the last shred of humanity in this cellar.Brendan recognized that need.
