Page 34 of When You're Broken
“Maybe I was wrong.Maybe there is something to be said for fate.”
Tails or heads, life or death, a random mechanism for deciding his spree’s order.The unpredictability appealed to him, letting him relive that moment of absolute control.He flicked the coin in the air, letting the faint lantern light catch its dull edges.In the hush, the coin’s spin sounded crisp, dancing in the stale air.
Before it fell, he snatched it from the air, palm covering it.He savored the anticipation, a grin twitching at his lips.Then he peeked—heads.“Heads it is,” he murmured.For some reason, it felt right.
He rose, shutting off one of the lanterns.The surviving beam cast long shadows as he navigated the mall’s labyrinth toward a set of concrete stairs leading down to a sub-basement.This area had once housed maintenance equipment, perhaps.Now, it was Wendell’s little detention facility.The manager’s assistance in setting up certain aspects had been minimal but enough.And here, he kept one occupant locked behind old steel doors: Brendan Wilson, the precious brother of Amelia, the lever that could break her completely.
Wendell’s footsteps echoed on the cracked steps.The air grew musty, thick with the scent of old concrete and brackish water seepage.The sub-basement corridor branched, but Wendell followed the right-hand path, eventually arriving at a padlocked metal door.He unlocked it with a key from his jacket, slipped inside.
In the gloom, a single overhead fixture glowed weakly from a distant generator line, providing a flicker of illumination over the captive figure.Brendan Wilson.Tied to a metal chair, ankles and wrists bound, head drooping.He looked up at the sound of Wendell’s approach, eyes reflecting fear that flickered into a desperate kind of wariness.
Wendell stepped closer, letting the door swing shut behind him.The overhead light cast his silhouette across the floor, looming over Brendan.The captive’s voice came out raspy: “What’s happening?”
Wendell studied him for a moment, letting the question hang.He was aware Brendan’s body had grown weaker from days of captivity, but that flicker of defiance remained in his eyes—some intangible hope, perhaps.Wendell produced the coin from his pocket, rolling it across his knuckles.“It all came down to the coin again,” he said quietly.
Brendan’s expression tightened.“I didn’t pick a side,” he said, voice trembling.“You never gave me a choice.”
Wendell let out a small, humorless chuckle, flipping the coin once more in the air and catching it with a snap of his wrist.“Oh, but you did,” he replied in a near whisper, stepping closer.“You always did.”
The overhead light buzzed faintly, casting uneasy shadows on the damp walls.Brendan’s breath hitched.“Please… I— I can’t do anything for you.My sister… my parents… I swear, just let me go.”
Wendell crouched, bringing his face level with Brendan’s.He saw the captive shrink back against the chair.“It’s time.”
Those words were quiet, but final, reverberating in the stale air.Brendan’s eyes went wide; he tried to wrench his limbs, but the ropes bit into his wrists.“No, wait… wait—”
Wendell pulled a small syringe from a cloth bag on the floor, brandishing it like a serpent’s fang.A colorless fluid swirled inside.The perfect solution,he mused.He offered no explanation, no chance for further argument.With a quick pivot, he pushed aside the collar of Brendan’s shirt, jammed the needle into the captive’s neck, and depressed the plunger.
Brendan gasped, mouth forming a stunned “O,” then his eyelids fluttered.At first, his chest heaved, a ragged moan escaping his throat.Then his body’s tension slackened, arms going limp as though all muscle power had drained away.His eyes closed, head lolling.Stillness, absolute.
Wendell withdrew the syringe, dropping it onto the floor where it rolled away.For a few seconds, he watched Brendan’s slack face, the parted lips that gave no sign of consciousness.Whether the man was dead or deep in sedation was irrelevant to Wendell, for now.The important part was that he no longer struggled.
Cutting the ropes took only a few minutes with the short blade Wendell carried.The sharp twine parted from Brendan’s arms and ankles, leaving faint welts on his skin.Freed, the body slumped in the chair, useless.Wendell gently pulled Brendan forward, hooking an arm under his knees and around his back.Despite the man’s taller frame, weeks of stress and near-starvation had made him lighter than expected.
He hoisted the limp body over his shoulder in a rough carry, the dead weight pressing on Wendell’s spine.He turned, ignoring the faint protest from his own muscles, and started for the doorway.A grin crept across his face.
He flicked off the single overhead light with a free hand, leaving the sub-basement in near darkness.“I have a good place to end this,” Wendell thought, voice silent but triumphant.And with that, he carried Brendan’s body out into the darkness of the mall, grin unwavering.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Finn walked down the softly lit hallway of the Ashtonbury Hotel, an uncomfortable overnight bag slung over his shoulder.The carpeting underfoot was plush, woven in an intricate gold-and-burgundy pattern that managed to clash with the stark modern lines of the hallway’s walls.The corridor itself smelled faintly of lemon polish and stale coffee, as though hurried cleaning crews had tried to erase the last occupant’s presence.Outside, the night pressed in, darkness visible through the occasional window at the hallway’s end.
Amelia trudged beside him, her own small suitcase bumping along behind on squeaky wheels.She looked as though she wanted to disappear into the wallpaper—arms folded tightly across her chest, jaw set.He wished there were an easy remedy for the tension that radiated off her in invisible waves.This forced “protective custody” arrangement was meant to keep them safe, but it felt more like a sentence, especially for Amelia, whose brother’s life hung in the balance.
They reached the end of the corridor, where two uniformed constables stood guard at a door.Both officers straightened upon seeing Finn and Amelia approach.
“Evening, ma’am.Sir,” one of the constables said, tipping his head in polite acknowledgment.
Finn mustered a faint smile, though he doubted it reached his eyes.“Evening.”
Amelia just nodded curtly, her gaze flicking over the men.She offered no greeting beyond that, as if her patience for polite niceties had long since run dry.Finn reached for the door handle, but one of the officers stepped forward.
“Inspector Winters, Mr.Wright,” he said carefully.“We’ll be stationed right here for the night, in case you need anything.”
Amelia’s expression tightened.“Thank you,” she replied.“We’ll try not to be any trouble.”
Finn thanked the officers with a subdued nod and turned the key in the lock.The door clicked open into a standard business-hotel room—neutral beige walls, a small round table in the corner, two queen beds made with crisp white linens.A pair of bland landscape prints hung on the walls: silhouettes of trees against a sunset, or maybe a sunrise.They looked so generic it was impossible to tell.
He set his bag on the larger bed and stepped aside so Amelia could drag her suitcase inside.Then he shut the door behind them.A dull hush filled the room, broken only by the distant hum of air conditioning.
