Amelia
Chapter Eleven
Amelia
O ur perfect date night became a crisis meeting in Pine Haven’s conference room. The demolition order on the mahogany table seemed to mock me, its official letterhead gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. My hands trembled as I traced the embossed seal, while Hunter’s measured footsteps echoed against the wood paneling as he paced. Claire’s laptop keys clicked rapidly, the sound oddly comforting in the tense silence.
“They can’t just demolish a historic property without cause,” Claire said, the blue glow of her screen reflecting in her determined eyes. “There are procedures, preservation laws—”
“Since when has Wheeler cared about laws?” my voice cracked. The coffee from our interrupted date sat cold and forgotten beside me, reminding me how quickly everything had unraveled. Hunter paused his pacing to squeeze my shoulder, his touch sending warmth through me despite everything. The faint scent of his cologne—pine and something spicy—reminded me of our walk through the gardens earlier, when everything had seemed perfect.
“We’ve got options,” he said, his thumb tracing gentle circles on my shoulder. “We just need to think strategically.”
I covered his hand with mine, drawing strength from his steady presence. The calluses on his palm spoke of someone who understood hard work, who didn’t just throw money at problems. “The festival starts tomorrow. Even if they have a demolition order, they can’t act while we have hundreds of guests on the property.”
“Actually,” Claire looked up, shadows under her eyes from hours of research, “they might count on that. Create a crisis, force an evacuation...”
“Make us look incompetent,” I finished, bile rising in my throat. “Prove Pine Haven is a public safety hazard.”
Hunter pulled out his phone. His jaw set in a way I was recognizing meant trouble. “I’m calling my lawyer. There has to be a way to file an emergency injunction.”
The conference room door creaked open, and Wheeler appeared like a ghost summoned by our fears. The overhead lights cast strange shadows across his face, making his smile look even more predatory than usual. My mother’s antique clock on the wall ticked loudly in the sudden silence, marking each precious second slipping away.
“Working late?” His loafers squeaked against the polished floor as he approached. “Dedication. I like that. Makes it almost a shame...”
“What do you want?” Hunter moved closer, and I caught the subtle scent of his aftershave mingled with coffee—familiar now, comforting.
Wheeler held up a thick manila envelope, its edges worn as if frequently handled. “Just delivering some light reading. Thought Ms. Horton might be interested in these old newspaper articles about her mother.”
My heart stuttered. The room suddenly felt too warm, too small. “What about my mother?”
“Oh, just some interesting connections.” Wheeler tapped the envelope against his palm, each soft pat like a countdown. “To certain development deals, suspicious property transfers...” He shrugged, suit jacket pulling tight across his shoulders. “Amazing what a creative reporter can piece together. Would be tragic if these reached the press, tarnishing her memory.”
I stood so quickly my chair slammed against the wall. “Don’t you dare—”
“Amelia.” Hunter’s hand caught mine, his steady pulse against my wrist anchoring me. “He’s bluffing.”
“Am I?” Wheeler’s smile widened, reminding me of shark documentaries I couldn’t watch as a child. “Maybe ask your father about the Miller property acquisition. The one right before his... unfortunate accident.”
The implication hit like a physical blow. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, suddenly too bright. They weren’t just threatening my mother’s reputation—they were trying to tie her to Mr. Miller’s death.
“Get out.” Hunter’s voice was deadly quiet, carrying the weight of his loss.
“Just trying to help.” Wheeler set the envelope on the table with exaggerated care. “Midnight, Ms. Horton. Sign over Pine Haven, or these go public. Oh, and that demolition order? Just insurance. Wouldn’t want any unfortunate accidents during your little festival.”
After he left, my legs gave out. Hunter caught me, easing me into a chair that still held warmth from my body. Under the harsh lights, the envelope seemed to pulse with malevolent energy.
“He’s lying,” Claire said fiercely, her laptop screen casting blue shadows across her face. “About your mother, about everything.”
“Doesn’t matter if he’s lying.” I stared at the envelope, imagining headlines, whispers, and my mother’s name dragged through the mud. “The damage to her reputation...”
“Hey.” Hunter kneeled before me, taking my hands in his. His hazel eyes caught the light. Flecks of gold were visible this close. “Look at me.”
I met his gaze reluctantly, finding strength in the quiet conviction there.
“Your mother left those letters for a reason,” he said softly, thumbs tracing gentle circles on my palms. “She knew this might happen. Knew they might try to use her against you.”
“But—”
“No buts.” The circles continued grounding me. “We have until midnight. That’s plenty of time to find what we need in her letters, turn their own game against them.”
“He’s right,” Claire added. Her keyboard clicked rapidly, the sound oddly comforting. “And I think I know where to start. That Miller property Wheeler mentioned? It’s not in any official records. But look at this.”
She turned her laptop, showing a satellite image from fifteen years ago. Where Crystal Ridge’s premier resort now stood, there used to be a smaller property, its shadow falling across familiar slopes.
“The Miller Lodge,” I breathed, memories surfacing like bubbles. “I remember Mom talking about it. Said it was a shame when it burned down...”
Hunter’s hands tightened on mine. “My father’s property. The one he refused to sell.”
“They ruled the fire accidental,” Claire read from an old news article. “But the insurance investigator who ruled it... Guess who he was related to?”
“Wheeler,” Hunter and I said together.
Hope flickered within me. “So if we can prove the connection...”
“We can show their pattern,” Hunter finished. “Your mother wasn’t involved in anything illegal. She was gathering evidence.”
I stood, new determination flowing through me. “We need to read those letters. Now.”
“I’ll help,” Claire offered, but I shook my head.
“No, I need you to keep digging. Find everything you can about Wheeler’s investigator relative and about that fire.”
“What about me?” Hunter asked softly.
I met his eyes, seeing all the support and caring there. “Stay with me?”
His smile warmed me to my toes. “Always.”
As we headed to my office to retrieve the letters, Claire called, “Hey lovebirds?”
We turned back.
“Just remember—making out can wait until after we save the resort.”
I blushed furiously, but Hunter just laughed and pulled me closer.
“No promises,” he said, dropping a kiss on my temple.
Despite everything, despite Wheeler’s threats and my mother’s reputation hanging by a thread, that small gesture filled me with courage.
We had five hours until midnight.
Time to prove what my mother knew all along—that some things are worth fighting for.
My mother’s letters trembled in my hands as Hunter and I sat in my office. The old desk lamp cast a warm glow over us as we carefully sorted through the yellowed pages.
“Look at this,” I said, smoothing out a letter dated just weeks before the Miller Lodge fire. “She wrote about a meeting between Wheeler’s uncle—the insurance investigator—and Crystal Ridge’s CEO.”
Hunter leaned closer, his warmth steadying my nerves. “‘Overheard discussion of property values after unfortunate accidents,’” he read aloud. “Your mother was documenting everything.”
“She knew they were dangerous,” I whispered. “But she kept gathering evidence, anyway.”
“Like mother, like daughter.” His voice held such admiration it made my heart flutter. “Brave, determined, unwilling to back down from a fight.”
Embarrassed by the praise, I ducked my head, but Hunter gently tilted my chin.
“Hey, I mean it.”
The tenderness in his eyes nearly undid me. Before I could respond, my phone buzzed with a text from Claire.
“She’s found something about the fire investigation,” I said, skimming. “Inconsistencies in the report. Places where evidence went missing.”
“Dad tried to fight it.” Hunter’s voice was quiet. “The insurance ruling. But without proof...”
I reached for his hand instinctively. “Is that when...”
“When he had his accident? Yeah.” He squeezed my fingers. “Two weeks later.”
A knock at the door made us both jump. Sophie stood there, looking anxious.
“Ms. Horton? Mr. Wheeler is back. He’s in the lobby with... with a news crew.”
My blood ran cold. “What?”
“They’re doing a piece on ‘historic properties in crisis’. He’s giving them a tour.”
Hunter was already on his feet. “He’s trying to control the narrative. Get footage of every flaw, every maintenance issue...”
“Making us look negligent,” I finished, standing too. “We have to stop him.”
“No.” Hunter caught my arm gently. “That’s what he wants. You confronting him on camera, looking defensive...”
“Then what do we do?”
A slow smile spread across his face. “We give them a better story.”
Twenty minutes later, I stood in the lobby watching Wheeler’s carefully orchestrated plan backfire. Instead of finding a crumbling resort, the news crew discovered local business owners setting up for tomorrow’s festival. Marie from the bakery chatted about Pine Haven’s decades-long support of local vendors. Tom from the sporting goods store showed off historic photos of the resort’s first ski season.
And there, in the middle of it all, was Hunter, charming the reporter with stories of Pine Haven’s community impact.
“It’s more than just a resort,” I heard him say. “It’s the heart of this town. A legacy of bringing people together.”
Wheeler’s face grew increasingly purple as the reporter’s focus shifted from structural issues to human interest.
“Ms. Horton!” The reporter spotted me. “Could you tell us about tomorrow’s festival?”
I stepped forward, feeling Wheeler’s glare. “Of course. We’re celebrating not just Pine Haven’s history, but its future. The way it brings together—”
“What about the demolition order?” Wheeler cut in smoothly.
A hush fell over the lobby. This was it—his trap.
But I was ready.
“You mean this order?” I held up the document. “The one signed by an inspector with documented conflicts of interest? Who’s currently under investigation by the state board?”
Wheeler’s smile faltered. “What investigation?”
“Oh, didn’t you know?” I smiled sweetly. “The state board is very interested in certain property deals. Especially ones involving tragic accidents and convenient insurance rulings.”
The reporter’s head snapped up. “Is there documentation of these allegations?”
“My mother kept very detailed records of everything.”
Wheeler’s face went from purple to white. “This interview is over.”
But the reporter was already turning back to me. “Ms. Horton, would you be willing to share those records?”
“Actually,” Hunter stepped to my side, his presence strengthening me, “we’re preparing a complete file for the state ethics board. I’m sure they’d be happy to share their findings once the investigation is complete.”
Wheeler backed toward the door. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed as he passed me.
“No,” I said firmly. “I won’t.”
After the news crew left, promising to return for the festival tomorrow, Hunter pulled me into a quiet corner.
“That was incredible,” he breathed. “You were incredible.”
“We’re not done yet,” I reminded him, though I couldn’t help smiling at his praise.
“No,” he agreed. “But Wheeler’s rattled. And you know what happens when people get rattled?”
“They make mistakes?”
His smile was proud. “Exactly.”
The adrenaline from confronting Wheeler wore off slowly as Hunter and I returned to my office. Claire waited with fresh coffee and a triumphant grin.
“That,” she declared, “was better than any Hallmark movie showdown I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s not over,” I sighed, sinking into my chair. “Wheeler won’t give up that easily.”
“No,” Hunter agreed, perching on the edge of my desk. “But now he knows we have actual evidence.”
“About that...” Claire’s expression turned serious. “I’ve been going through more of your mom’s letters. There’s something you both need to see.”
She handed me a letter dated just days before my mother’s death. My hands trembled as I read out loud:
“My dearest Michael and Amelia,
If you’re reading this, something has happened. The evidence I’ve gathered about Crystal Ridge, about Richard Miller’s death, about everything—it’s not just in these letters. There’s more hidden where they’d never think to look.
Remember the story I used to tell you about the wishing well? Some wishes need to be kept safe until the right moment.
All my love,
Mom”
“The wishing well?” Hunter asked.
“At the old picnic grounds,” I breathed. “Mom used to take me there. Said it was magical, that it kept secrets safe.”
“We need to—” Claire started, but my phone buzzed—Wheeler’s number.
I put it on speaker.
“That was quite a performance,” his voice dripped venom. “Your mother would have been proud. Right until the moment her car went off Pine Haven Road.”
My blood froze. Hunter’s hand found my shoulder, steadying me.
“What are you talking about?” My voice shook.
“Oh? Daddy never told you? How convenient that your mother and Richard Miller had accidents on the same stretch of road. Almost like... history repeating.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I? Check the accident reports. Same curve and the same type of brake failure. And now here you are, driving that road every day...” He paused meaningfully. “Would be tragic if—”
Hunter snatched the phone. “Touch her and I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Wheeler laughed. “Face it, Miller. You couldn’t protect your father. You can’t protect her. But I’m feeling generous. One hour to sign over Pine Haven or tomorrow’s papers runs a very interesting story about how Margaret Horton orchestrated Richard Miller’s death. Complete with forged documents proving she profited from Crystal Ridge’s takeover.”
The line went dead.
“First things first,” Claire said firmly, pulling out her laptop. “We need to document everything.”
“Already on it,” Hunter nodded, his hand still steady on my shoulder. “I’ve been recording all calls and saving screenshots of every threat. My security team has been sending everything to the FBI’s white-collar crimes division.”
I turned to him, surprised. “The FBI?”
“Started working with them after Janet McKinley’s death,” he explained. “Agent Sienna Blake has been building a case against Crystal Ridge for months. She’s particularly interested in the pattern of accidents and property acquisitions.”
Claire was already dialing. “Local police first, then I’ll conference call in Agent Blake. We need everything on record before we go anywhere near that well.”
Twenty minutes later, my office was full of law enforcement. Two local deputies took our statements while Agent Blake took part via video call, her sharp eyes taking in every detail.
“Wheeler’s threats are exactly what we needed,” she said, making notes. “Combined with the evidence you’ve already provided about the Miller Lodge fire and the falsified insurance reports, we’ve got enough for search warrants.”
“But you can’t move yet,” I realized. “Not without alerting them.”
“Exactly.” Agent Blake’s expression was grim. “Whatever’s in that wishing well, if your mother hid it there, it could be the missing piece we need. But Ms. Horton...” Her voice softened. “You need to be careful. These people have already proven they’re willing to kill.”
“I’ve got two plainclothes agents in town,” Deputy Roberts added. “They’ll maintain distance but keep eyes on you. And we’ll have patrols on Pine Haven Road all night.”
Hunter squeezed my hand. “My security team will coordinate with them.”
“Document everything at the well,” Agent Blake instructed. “Photos, video, exact location. And Ms. Horton? The second you have whatever your mother hid, you call me. Immediately.”
“What about the festival tomorrow?” Claire asked.
“Keep it running,” Agent Blake decided. “We’ll have undercover agents in the crowd. If Wheeler or Crystal Ridge tries anything public...”
“We’ll catch them in the act,” Deputy Roberts finished.
After law enforcement left, I felt both better and worse. Better knowing we weren’t facing this alone, worse knowing how serious the situation was.
“Hey.” Hunter turned me to face him. “This is good. We’re doing this right.”
“He’s right,” Claire agreed, already gearing up with flashlights and evidence bags provided by the deputies. “Now we need to find what your mother hid while the FBI builds their case.”
I nodded, drawing strength from their support and the knowledge that law enforcement was backing us.
“The deputies will be in position in ten minutes.” Hunter checked his phone. “Ready?”
I thought of my mother, of all she’d risked to gather evidence. Of how she’d protected the truth until someone could use it.
“Ready.”
As we headed out, another text came through. Not from Wheeler this time, but from an unknown number. The phone’s screen cast a sickly glow across my office. Claire’s sharp intake of breath broke the silence as the image loaded—my mother’s car, twisted metal gleaming in crime scene photos, pine branches scattered across the wreckage.
The message blurred as I read: Like mother, like daughter. Some wishes never come true, princess.
Hunter stepped closer, his shadow merging with mine on the wall. In the distance, Pine Haven’s ancient grandfather clock struck eleven, each chimes an echo of time running out. But as Hunter’s hand found mine, fingers intertwining with quiet strength, I felt something else too: hope, determination, and the certainty that my mother hadn’t fought alone.
Neither would I.
The grandfather clock’s final chime faded into silence.
One hour until midnight.
One hour to find what my mother had hidden all those years ago, and bring the truth into light at last.