Page 18 of When You're Broken
“I can’t help it,” he replied softly.“And I can’t help thinking… maybe the best course would be to let the taskforce do the searching for Brendan, while you step away for your own safety.Possibly go to the States with me, until Wendell’s caught.”
Her eyes flew wide, shock turning to anger.“What?”She stood up abruptly, the fork clattering on her plate.“You want me to run away?Leave my brother’s fate to others?That’s not an option, and you know it.”
He stood too, hands spread in a calming gesture, though his heart pounded."That's not what I'm saying.I just—Wendell is fixated on you.We could have died at that children's home today.If we remove you from the equation, his leverage is gone.The task force could handle the search without you as a target.You'd be safe—"
She cut him off with a sharp scoff.“So your grand plan is to whisk me off to the US while the men in suits find my brother?No.Absolutely not.I can’t do that.You know I can’t.”
He felt frustration and fear twist inside him.“I know it’s not ideal, but this is your life we’re talking about.Wendell would kill you if he got the chance.McNeill keeps threatening to pull you from the taskforce.Maybe it’s best to bow out gracefully, get to safety—”
“I can’t believe you’d even suggest that,” she said, voice trembling with emotion.“You, of all people, who usually understands me.Why would you want me to abandon everything?My brother is out there, possibly being tortured.How do you think I could sleep at night if I ran away?”
He took a step closer, swallowing.“I don’t want to see you destroyed by Wendell’s mind games.Or by the heartbreak if—” He hesitated, not wanting to voice the worst possibility.“I just want you alive, Amelia.”
She shook her head, tension radiating through her.“I can’t do this.I’ve lost my appetite.”She shoved her plate aside, the half-finished meal abandoned.Her eyes glistened with tears that didn’t fall.“I thought you’d understand.”
“Amelia, I—”
But she turned, footsteps urgent as she left the small dining area.He heard her storm across the living room, then ascend the creaking stairs.The gentle slam of a bedroom door echoed overhead.
Finn let out a sigh, feeling the electric current of conflict still buzzing in his limbs.He stared at the empty chair, the half-eaten food, the gentle lamp glow.This was supposed to be a comforting dinner.Instead, it ended in a rift.He sank back down, dropping his face into his hands.The flickering tension in the air told him not to follow her, not yet.She needed space.
He replayed her words:She’s not going to run away.Of course she wasn’t.He felt foolish for even bringing it up so plainly.But how can I watch her tear herself apart while Wendell plays her emotions like a fiddle?
He gazed at the solitary plate of vegetables left on the table.For a long moment, he sat there, arms folded over his chest, eyes fixed on the flicker of the overhead light.The faint smell of thyme no longer felt homey—just a reminder of the moment they’d had, warming them for a second before it all fell apart.Outside, the wind rattled the window.A patrol car’s headlights swept the curtains, then vanished.
He forced himself up, methodically clearing the dishes.He scraped the leftovers into the bin, rinsed the plates, placing them on the drying rack with a heavy finality.Each small chore kept his mind from spiraling.We’ll fix this.He had to believe that.Maybe once they confronted Wendell directly.Maybe if they found a real lead on Brendan.
But the doubt lingered.McNeill might be right about one thing: this entire chase could break Amelia.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wendell paused at the center of the damp basement, leaning on his mop with an air of impatience.A single naked light bulb glared down, turning the bare concrete floors into dull gray.The faint stench of bleach and something metallic hung in the enclosed space—a reminder of James Peterson’s final breaths.Wendell’s gaze wandered over to the battered metal chair where James had been bound earlier in the day, blood streaks still glistening on the floor where Wendell had already scrubbed away the worst of it.He noticed an errant smear, sighed with mild annoyance, and pushed the mop head over it.Better to leave no lingering pools.Not because he was trying to avoid leaving evidence, his plan was that he would be long gone from that location by the time the police figured out where he had kept his prisoners.No, he just liked to run a clean and organized ship.
Turning to the other chair, he noticed Brendan slumped forward, the ropes still digging into his arms and chest.Brendan had passed out, perhaps from shock or exhaustion.Not quite as entertaining as I’d hoped,Wendell thought, stepping closer, letting the mop handle clatter to the floor.
He stared at Brendan for a moment—head lolling, hair plastered to a sweaty forehead.He’s in no state to amuse me now.The thrill of torment came from seeing fear and desperation in real-time, not from unconscious lumps.With a casual motion, Wendell raised his hand and delivered a sharp slap across Brendan’s cheek.
“Wake up,” he drawled, voice echoing off the clammy walls.
Brendan jerked upright with a startled gasp, eyes huge and delirious.For a second, confusion flashed across his face, then terror flared when he seemingly realized where he was.The blood spatters on the ground.The empty seat where James had been.
Wendell offered a lazy grin.“Don’t get too scared.I’m not killing you yet.Timing is everything, and your moment hasn’t arrived.”
Brendan swallowed hard, eyes darting to the mop and bucket as though searching for James’s remains.He flinched, voice trembling: “W-what do you want with me now?”
Wendell shrugged, pulling a stained rag from a small table and wiping the last smudges from his gloved hands.He rarely bothered removing the gloves while working down here.“I’d tell you, but I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.”He gave Brendan a mocking half-bow.“Suffice to say, you’re alive until I decide otherwise.Don’t give me a reason to push that timeline forward.”
Brendan’s face paled, breath coming too fast.Wendell felt a flicker of satisfaction—fear always had a distinct flavor in the eyes of the captive.With a flourish, he stepped toward a corner shelf, retrieving an old burlap sack.The coarse material reeked of mildew, but Wendell only wrinkled his nose at the stench briefly.
“Since I’m heading out,” he said, strolling back to Brendan, “I’d prefer you remain nice and docile.No attempts to free yourself, no yelling for nonexistent help.”
With that, he yanked the sack over Brendan’s head, ignoring the man’s muffled outcry.Rope against rope squeaked as Brendan struggled, but Wendell patted him almost soothingly on the shoulder.“Don’t bother.I’ve double-checked those knots.”
A hoarse cry from beneath the sack signaled Brendan’s panic, but Wendell simply let out a low laugh.He stepped away, retrieving his coat from a hook near the basement’s exit.“Be a good boy and behave,” he said.“Wouldn’t want any nasty accidents while I’m gone.”
Brendan’s screams emerged in muffled whimpers, but Wendell paid them no mind, ascending a short flight of concrete steps.At the top, a battered metal door groaned on its hinges.He stepped through, twisting the lock behind him.
A hallway stretched in dim half-light, dust swirling in the beams of an emergency lamp.The place had once been a maintenance corridor for a mall that people thronged, but now it was a ghostly labyrinth of closed storefronts, broken skylights, and shattered escalators.Wendell set a brisk pace along a deserted service hallway that smelled of stale air and old grease from fast-food stands that no longer existed.
