Page 3 of When You're Broken
Finn’s grip on the wheel tightened.The memory of Wendell’s cruelty haunted them both.“He won’t succeed.We’ve already got a dedicated task force chasing him.We’ll be part of that, and we’ll make sure he doesn’t get away this time.”
“If McNeill doesn’t tie our hands,” she said, thinking of the taskforce lead, who wasn’t happy she was on it due to her personal involvement.
“It’ll be okay,” Finn said, softly.
Amelia’s eyes flickered with appreciation, though tears threatened at the corners.She turned her face, gazing out the window at fields rolling by.
“Do you have any tissues?”Amelia asked.
“Glove box,” Finn replied.
Amelia opened the glove box.It was stuffed with papers.Lifting some of them up to see if there was a packet of tissues inside, a book slid out and fell into Amelia’s hand.
She looked at it.“The Truth Behind Wendell Reed.”
“Ugh, yeah,” Finn said, sounding embarrassed.“I was checking around and found that book.It came out a couple of years ago, I think.I haven’t had time to dive into it yet.I wondered if there would be something in there that wasn’t in Wendell’s file.”
“I wouldn’t bother,” Amelia said.“It’s by Kelvin Street.”
“You know him?”Finn asked.
“Not directly,” Amelia answered.“But he’s an ex-cop who now peddles true crime books.Most of them are sensationalist and have strange theories without any basis in fact.”
“You never know, he might have some insight,” Finn said.
“I suppose you’re right,” she said, putting the book back into the glove box and finally grabbing a small packet of tissues.She wiped the tears from the corner of her eyes.“I do remember reading an expose he wrote for the Mail years ago, but I felt he made some details up about Wendell’s background.”
“Like what?”Finn asked.
“It wasn’t so much the details,” Amelia answered.“It was more that he was trying to lay the blame at her door rather than Wendell’s.Anyway...”
For a few minutes, neither of them spoke; the 80s synth filled the car with a surreal pep that contrasted with their heavy conversation.
As they neared the village where Brendan’s parents lived, the road narrowed, lined with tidy hedgerows and quaint signs pointing off towards nearby farmland.The hamlet soon came into view: a cluster of modest stone houses, a central green with a weathered war memorial, and a single-lane high street hosting a bakery, a small grocery, and a pub bearing a sign shaped like a fox.Morning sunlight turned the old stone walls into gold, and a faint breeze carried the smell of damp grass.
Finn slowed the Corvette, steering it past a short row of terraced cottages.The sat-nav beeped, indicating a turn onto a side street.Ahead, a modest townhouse stood tucked behind a low wrought-iron fence, a trim patch of garden in front.Red bricks, aged mortar, and white-framed windows gave it a cozy impression.Pink daisies and lavender thrived along the footpath.
“This is it,” Amelia said, checking the address.Her voice was subdued.“They said they’d be waiting.”
Finn pulled up to the curb.The engine’s rumble diminished as he switched off the ignition.“Ready?”
Amelia exhaled, nodded.“As I’ll ever be.”
They climbed out.Immediately, the village’s tranquility enveloped them: a distant crow cawed, and the hush carried the faint clang of someone working with a tool in a shed.Finn glanced at Amelia, who straightened her shoulders.Together, they walked up the short garden path to the door.Amelia rapped her knuckles lightly on the pale blue paint.
For a moment, nothing.Then footsteps, and the door swung inward.A woman in her late fifties, hair streaked gray, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, peered out.Her face had that stiffness of someone who hadn’t slept.She wore a plain cardigan, the collar wrinkled, as if she’d thrown it on hurriedly.Behind her, a man lingered in the hallway, arms folded.He looked similarly fraught, lines of worry etched across his brow.
“You must be Finn Wright and Amelia...Winters,” the woman said, voice trembling.“The detectives?We were told you’d be coming.”
Amelia managed a brief, tight smile.“Yes.We’re here about Brendan.”
The mention of their son's name made the woman's face tighten.She stepped aside, beckoning them into a small living room."I'm Meredith.Meredith Wilson.This is my husband, Gareth."Her voice quivered."Please, come in."
Finn followed Amelia inside.The living room was warm, walls painted a pastel green, shelves lined with framed photographs.The faint aroma of brewed tea floated through the air, and a crocheted blanket lay folded on the sofa.Yet the tension in the couple’s posture overshadowed any homeliness.They were obviously distraught.On a nearby coffee table, a half-empty mug shook slightly in Meredith’s trembling grip when she set it down.
Gareth Wilson nodded in greeting but said nothing at first, gesturing for Finn and Amelia to sit on the sofa.He took an armchair beside his wife.“We… we’re not used to this.We never thought our boy would vanish without a trace,” he said, voice subdued.“Thank you for coming all the way out here.”
Amelia cleared her throat gently.“We understand how difficult this must be.Can you walk us through the last time you saw Brendan?”
