Page 15 of When You're Lost
“Good evening,” he said, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.“I understand you have news of a Stanley Spencer piece?”
The figure offered a raspy cough.Up close, Edmund saw that his neck was wrapped in a thin scarf, and a hat lay on his lap.What was visible of his hair was gray, almost white.His voice emerged low, as though weighed with age.“Yes… yes, sorry for the lateness, Mr.Garner.I… had no choice.Time is of the essence as I have a critical debt that must be paid.”Another cough shook him.“Lord Maguire indicated you might… be the buyer I need.”
Edmund circled around, stopping near the unlit fireplace so he could see the man's face.The visitor kept his face turned down."Lord Maguire was correct," Edmund said, trying to sound friendly."I have a keen interest in noteworthy art.Especially if it's undervalued."
The stranger nodded slowly.“Stanley Spencer… not fully authenticated, you see.There’s some… damage.Possibly a minor restoration required.”He let out a string of hoarse coughs.
“Ah,” Edmund said, his pulse quickening.If the painting was damaged, that meant a chance to argue down the price.“A pity.But perhaps fixable, yes?”He gestured vaguely at a sideboard where a decanter of brandy awaited.“Would you care for a drink?”
The man shook his head feebly, hand trembling over the chair’s armrest.“No… no, thank you.I’m not well enough for spirits.”
Edmund forced a sympathetic frown he didn’t feel.“Of course.”He turned his back, moving to the sideboard, pouring himself a small measure of brandy.With his face away from the old man, he allowed himself a triumphant grin.Damaged, un-authenticated… The man was clearly desperate for a sale.This could be a windfall.“I’ve always admired Spencer’s work,” Edmund said casually, swirling the amber liquid.“Might be a lovely addition to my personal collection—or for future sale at a tidy profit if I restore it.”
The old man coughed again.“Yes… I suspect you’d find it quite… profitable.”A reluctant laugh rattled from his lips.
Edmund, glass in hand, pivoted to face his guest.“Yes indeed, though if the piece is truly compromised, I may have to offer a modest sum.I trust you understand that.”He paused, letting the insinuation hang.“But let’s discuss specifics, shall—”
He stopped short.The man had begun to rise from the chair.At first, Edmund thought it was a labored attempt, but then, with startling swiftness, the figure straightened.The stooped posture vanished, replaced by an almost towering stance.The walking stick clattered to the floor, echoing off the walls.
Edmund’s heart lurched.“What…?”His voice faltered.
In one swift motion, the man’s hand flew up to his own face, tugging at the wrinkled skin along his jaw and cheeks.Layers of skin tore off in his hands, revealing a thinner, sharper face; eyes cold and piercing.
Edmund’s grip slackened on the brandy glass as fear shot up through his entire body, his mind not grasping what he had just seen.“What… What is this!?”
No reply came—only a predatory glare.Edmund saw the flash of steel, a hooked knife held tightly in the intruder’s hand.Horror clutched Edmund’s chest.This was no elderly seller, but a killer who’d used the guise of frailty to gain access.
“Oh God, Bremner—!”Edmund shouted reflexively, voice cracking.He doubted the butler would hear him.The thick walls, the hour, plus Edmund’s explicit dismissal of staff assistance… He was effectively alone.
The intruder lunged with shocking agility, closing the distance in an instant.Edmund scrambled sideways, brandy sloshing out of his glass, but the killer swung the blade in an arc.Pain exploded in Edmund’s abdomen, a hot, ripping sensation.He choked on his own scream, stumbling backward.
His mind reeled in disbelief.Blood soaked through his shirt, each heartbeat intensifying the pressure.The glass slipped from his hand, shattering on the rug.He heard a dull ring in his ears, overshadowing even the sound of the killer’s ragged breathing.
He staggered, one hand pressed to his wound.Crimson stained his palm.“No… p-please…” he gasped, voice barely audible.The killer’s eyes were fierce, unmerciful.
Lurching toward the door, Edmund made a final, desperate attempt to escape.But his legs weakened, folding beneath him.He crashed to his knees, agony flaring with every movement.The intruder stepped forward, overshadowing him like a dark specter.The knife gleamed, spattered with Edmund’s blood.
Trembling, Edmund looked across the room in a daze, his vision tunneling.Above the unlit fireplace, that wide space on the wall seemed to yawn at him—a reminder of the painting he’d planned to hang there, perhaps the splendid Spencer to impress his guests.How he would have loved to have unveiled it at lavish dinners…
A strangled breath escaped him, blood bubbling at his lips.His eyes dimmed, but he kept staring at that empty patch.
The intruder faded from Edmund’s failing sight, though he sensed the figure towering closer.Pain roared through him once more, then receded into cold numbness.His body collapsed onto the rug, arms splayed.He heard the soft drip of blood on the floor, felt the creeping chill spread through his limbs.Darkness surged, extinguishing the last spark of consciousness.
Then, Edmund Garner—the man who prided himself on cunning business deals—slid into oblivion, his blood oozing out across the floor like spilled paint.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Finn was on the train, seated in a half-empty carriage that rattled and swayed as it slowed to a halt.He was almost mesmerized by the gentle movement.Outside the window, the world looked strangely bright, every color sharper than real life.The carriage lights flickered.He rose from his seat, noticing how quiet it was—no chatter, no conductor’s voice.Then, with a soft hiss, the train stopped at a small rural station.
Peering out the glass, Finn saw Amelia standing on the platform.She was smiling at him, eyes warm, and she offered a gentle wave.The sight of her lifted his heart; everything in the dream felt painfully vivid.
He moved quickly to the doors and pressed the button to open them.Nothing happened.The button gave an unresponsive beep, but the doors stayed firmly shut.He jabbed it again, more urgently this time.Still nothing.Amelia was waving at him, looking as though she couldn’t hear his muffled calls.
“Amelia!”he shouted, pressing himself against the clear doors.“I can’t get out!”He slammed a fist on the window.She just kept smiling, beckoning him forward.
Suddenly, the bright dream light dimmed.Finn’s eyes flicked to the far end of the platform, where a tall figure emerged—a silhouette that he recognized with a jolt of terror: Wendell Reed, knife glinting in his hand.
“No…” Finn whispered, dread pounding in his chest.“Amelia, behind you!”He shouted again, frantically hammering on the door, but her face betrayed no awareness of the approaching threat.She waved again, as if to say,Is everything all right?
