Amelia
Chapter Thirteen
Amelia
D awn found me standing before a packed town hall. The familiar creak of wooden chairs and murmur of concerned voices filled the space where I’d attended countless community meetings as a child. Now, FBI agents tried their best to blend with locals, though their too-stiff posture gave them away. Hunter stood at the back, his presence steady as a mountain. When our eyes met, his slight nod gave me the courage to face the crowd.
“Last night’s vandalism wasn’t just an attack on Pine Haven,” I began. “It was an attack on all of us. On everything we’ve built together.”
“Then let us help,” Marie called out. Flour still dusted her apron—she’d been up since four, stress-baking for the community. “We’ve already got volunteers ready.”
Agent Blake stepped forward, her casual sweater a careful choice for blending in. “While we appreciate the community’s support, safety has to be our priority. We believe—”
“That the people who did this might try again,” I finished diplomatically, catching her eye. The morning light through the town hall’s stained glass windows cast colored shadows across worried faces. “We need to be smart about how we proceed.”
Tom Parker stood, his weathered hands bearing decades of working Evergreen’s security. “Smart doesn’t mean alone, Amelia. My boys have been running security in this town since before you were born. Let us work with the authorities.”
The room filled with murmurs of agreement, the sound like an embrace. I watched Agent Blake’s subtle nod—we’d vetted Tom’s security team overnight, finding them as solid as the mountains.
“Alright,” I smiled, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders. “Let’s talk logistics.”
The next hour transformed into something I never expected—a master class in community organization. Marie directed volunteers from behind a table laden with still-warm cinnamon rolls, their sweet scent mingling with coffee and early morning mountain air. The local hardware store’s pickup trucks, loaded with supplies, formed a convoy in the parking lot. Every few minutes, another familiar face arrived, each bringing something to contribute.
Through it all, Hunter worked the room with quiet efficiency, helping Agent Blake’s team vet volunteers while making it seem like a casual conversation. His deep voice carried occasionally across the chamber, reminding me of Dad’s at similar meetings years ago. Occasionally, his eyes would find mine across the crowd, sending silent support that warmed me more than my cooling coffee.
The brass wall clock chimed nine as Claire pulled me aside, her expression unusually serious.
“We need to talk,” she whispered, gesturing to a quiet corner of the chamber. “About Crystal Ridge’s offer.”
I noticed Hunter positioned himself nearby—close enough to watch for threats, but far enough to give us privacy. The morning sun through the tall windows caught his profile, highlighting the tension in his jaw.
“Agent Blake thinks I should take it,” Claire said without preamble, her fingers nervously tapping her ever-present tablet.
“What? No—”
“As an informant.” Her smile held none of its usual mischief. “They’re getting desperate, making mistakes. Having someone on the inside...”
“It’s too dangerous.” My voice caught, remembering Mom’s letters about operating from the inside.
Before I could argue further, the heavy wooden doors crashed open. The sound echoed off pine-paneled walls like a gunshot, making several FBI agents reach instinctively for weapons. My heart stopped.
Michael stood in the doorway, backlit by the morning sun, looking thunderous. His suit was rumpled from travel, his tie askew. He must have driven straight through from DC.
“Would someone,” he said too quietly, reminding me painfully of Dad’s rare moments of anger, “like to explain why I had to hear about death threats against my sister from a DC news report?”
Hunter moved toward us, automatically angling to shield me, but I shook my head slightly. This was my battle.
“Because,” I said clearly, drawing strength from the familiar scent of pine and paper that permeated the old town hall, “I’ve been a little busy coordinating with the FBI’s investigation into Crystal Ridge Development’s history of criminal property acquisition.”
That stopped him short, his briefcase hitting the hardwood with a thud. “The FBI?”
“Perhaps we should talk privately, Mr. Horton,” Agent Blake suggested. “The town hall has a conference room we can use.”
The next half hour transformed Michael from an angry brother to a focused attorney as we gathered in the small conference room down the hall from the main chamber. Though the room was now used for town council meetings, old photographs of past mayors and significant town events still lined the walls. Michael paced the worn carpet path as Agent Blake brought him up to speed.
“So the evidence from the well,” he clarified, running a hand through his messy hair, “proves Crystal Ridge’s involvement in Hunter’s Dad’s accident and the Miller Lodge fire?”
“And more.” Agent Blake spread photos across the conference table, each one a piece of Mom’s carefully gathered proof. “Your mother was thorough.”
I watched Michael absorb this and saw the moment his anger shifted to something darker. His eyes kept darting to Hunter, who stood quietly by the town hall’s east-facing window, tension visible on his shoulders.
When Agent Blake finished her briefing, Michael pulled me toward the wall of historical photos. “So,” he said carefully, voice low. “You and Hunter...”
“Are none of your business?” But I couldn’t help glancing at one of the old town celebration photos, remembering how Mom always said you could see a person’s true character in how they treated others during a crisis.
“It became my business when he put you in danger.”
“He didn’t put me in danger,” I snapped, heat rising in my cheeks. “He’s been helping protect me. The FBI trusts him.”
“The FBI didn’t grow up watching him break hearts across three counties.”
“No.” I stepped back, bumping into one of the old conference chairs. “You don’t get to do this. Not now. Hunter has been here, fighting beside me, risking everything—”
“That’s what I’m worried about.” Michael’s voice softened, carrying echoes of the brother who used to chase away playground bullies. “What happens when the fight’s over? When Pine Haven is safe? Will he still be here?”
The question hit harder than Wheeler’s threats, settling cold in my stomach. Before I could respond, Hunter approached, his footsteps quiet on the conference room carpet.
“Everything okay here?”
“Fine,” Michael said coldly. “Just catching up with my sister. Hunter, got a minute? Think we need to talk.”
“Michael—” I started, smelling trouble as clearly as approaching snow.
“It’s okay.” Hunter squeezed my hand, his touch warm and steady. “Your brother and I are overdue for a conversation.”
As they walked into the hall, Claire appeared with her laptop, the screen casting a blue light on her worried face. “Amelia? We have a problem. Someone anonymously emailed every local news outlet about your mother’s supposed connection to the Miller Lodge fire.”
I tried focusing on Claire’s laptop screen, but my eyes kept drifting to the corridor where Hunter and Michael had disappeared. The sound of raised voices carried faintly through the old town hall walls. Agent Blake touched my arm, her expression understanding but firm.
“Focus, Ms. Horton,” she said. “The men can handle themselves. This needs your attention.”
She was right. The anonymous email blast filled the screen, crafted to look like an investigative exposé. Doctored photographs showed Mom with Crystal Ridge executives—but I caught details they’d missed. The flowering bush behind her in one photo hadn’t been planted until after her death. Her favorite bracelet, which I now wore, appeared on the wrong wrist.
“We can’t let them do this,” I said, the metal of Mom’s bracelet cool against my skin as my hands clenched. “Not to her memory.”
“We won’t.” Claire’s fingers flew across the keyboard, her usual playful tone replaced by fierce determination. “I have proof that someone manipulated these photos. And look—” she pointed to a metadata tag, triumph in her voice, “—they made mistakes in their rush. These files originated from Wheeler’s office computer.”
“Can we use that?” I asked Agent Blake, hope flickering.
She smiled grimly. “Already sent to our tech team. Wheeler’s getting sloppy.”
The town hall had mostly emptied, leaving small groups organizing festival security and repairs. Marie approached, carrying fresh coffee with the same expression her grandmother had while leading town council meetings.
“Whatever’s in those emails,” she said firmly, pressing a warm mug into my hands, “we all knew your mother. Margaret Horton chased my Tommy out of her garden straight into seminary school.” Her voice caught. “That woman had more integrity in her little finger than Wheeler’s entire family tree.”
As if summoned by Marie’s faith, my phone buzzed with messages. Townspeople shared memories of Mom’s quiet kindness—helping with medical bills, fighting for school funding, and starting the scholarship program. Each message felt like a shield against Wheeler’s lies.
“See?” Claire squeezed my shoulder. “They can’t destroy what people know in their hearts.”
A crash from the corridor made us all jump. Agent Blake’s hand went to her weapon, but I was already moving toward the sound, Mom’s bracelet catching the morning light filtering through the town hall’s windows.
I found Hunter and Michael in what had clearly been a heated discussion. A knocked-over chair explained the noise. Both men looked more frustrated than violent, though Michael’s tie was askew and Hunter’s usually perfect hair showed signs of agitated hands running through it.
“If you two are finished,” I said sharply, channeling Mom’s best mediator voice, “we have actual problems to deal with.”
“Amelia—” they both started.
“No.” I held up my hand, the bracelet glinting. “Michael, I love you, but you don’t get to question my choices. And Hunter?” I softened slightly, seeing the genuine concern in his eyes. “Thank you for being willing to have this conversation with my brother, but right now, I need you both focused on keeping the festival safe.”
They had the grace to look ashamed.
“Now,” I continued the weight of Mom’s bracelet grounding me. “Wheeler just tried to destroy Mom’s reputation. Are you two done posturing so you can help me fight back?”
Michael’s expression shifted from protective brother to determined lawyer, a transformation I’d seen at countless town meetings. “They went after Mom?”
“Show me,” Hunter said simultaneously, his hand finding mine. The gentle pressure of his fingers spoke volumes about support and solidarity.
Back in the main chamber, we gathered around Claire’s laptop. Michael’s legal training proved invaluable as he spotted weaknesses in Wheeler’s fabricated evidence, his pen tapping against the table in a familiar rhythm. Hunter worked his phone quietly, and his media contacts were already helping counter the false narrative.
“We should hold a press conference,” Claire suggested, her laptop displaying trending social media support. “Get ahead of the story.”
“Better idea,” Michael said slowly, his eyes finding a town photo where Mom stood proudly at her environmental foundation launch. “Remember Mom’s environmental foundation? The scholarship fund for local kids?”
“The one she started right before she died,” I nodded, remembering how she’d beamed, announcing the first recipient in this chamber.
“What if we announce an expansion? Honor her real legacy while they’re trying to tarnish it?”
“I’ll fund it,” Hunter said immediately. “Through my firm.”
I turned to him, surprised by the emotion in his voice. “Hunter, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” His eyes held mine, intense with understanding. “Your mother was trying to stop Crystal Ridge. To prevent what happened to my father from happening to others. Let me help honor that.”
The tenderness in his voice made me forget we weren’t alone, reminding me of how Mom used to say that true partnerships were built on shared values. Michael cleared his throat.
“Maybe,” he said grudgingly, watching our joined hands, “I was wrong about some things.”
Hunter’s smile was genuine. “Only some?”
Before Michael could respond, Agent Blake approached rapidly, and her casual demeanor dropped.
“We’ve got movement,” she said. “Wheeler just called an emergency meeting of the county board. He’s trying to shut down the festival on safety grounds.”
“Can he do that?” Claire asked, already pulling up county regulations.
“Not if we stop him,” I said firmly, drawing strength from Hunter’s presence beside me, Michael’s protective stance, and the community’s support. “When’s the meeting?”
“One hour.”
The old town hall clock chimed—its familiar sound echoing through the chamber. I straightened, feeling Mom’s strength in my bones.
“Then let’s end this,” I said. “Once and for all.”
But as we gathered our evidence and prepared to leave, a final email arrived. The soft ping seemed to echo in the sudden quiet:
Brave words, princess. But ask yourself—who’s watching the resort while you’re playing hero at the county board? Some things are more precious than reputations.
Check the old ski lift.
My blood ran cold at the mention of the ski lift. Mom’s letters had mentioned it—something about maintenance records and inspection bribes from years ago. The same lift where Dad had his first job as a teenager.
“It’s a trap,” Hunter said immediately, his hand on my shoulder as he read over it.
“Obviously,” Agent Blake agreed. “But we can’t ignore it. Those lifts are part of tomorrow’s festival attractions.”
“Split up,” Michael suggested, lawyer-brain working. “Some of us go to the board meeting, others check the ski lift.”
“No,” Hunter and I said simultaneously, the memory of Mom’s warnings about divided forces sharp in my mind.
“They want us separated,” I explained. “Divided.”
Claire was already coordinating with security teams, her fingers flying across her tablet. “What if we give them what they want? Make them think we’re splitting up?”
The plan formed quickly, energy humming through the town hall chamber like before a storm. Agent Blake’s team would make a visible show of dividing forces, while local deputies—ones we knew weren’t compromised—would quietly secure the ski lift area. Meanwhile, we’d present a united front at the board meeting.
“One more thing,” I said, Mom’s strategic mind flowing through me. “Call every local news outlet. If Wheeler wants to play dirty with Mom’s reputation, let’s see how he handles public scrutiny.”
Tom Parker brought us the final threat, his face ashen as we stepped outside the town hall into the crisp mountain air. Every vehicle in the parking lot had identical cream-colored envelopes on their windshields.
Inside was a photo that stole my breath—Mom’s car, twisted metal gleaming in crime scene lights, pine branches scattered across the wreckage. I remembered that night with painful clarity: Michael’s frantic call, Dad’s broken voice, and the smell of crushed pine needles at the accident scene.
The message beneath the photo made my blood freeze:
History repeats unless you learn from it. Last chance, princess. End the festival, sign over Pine Haven, or tomorrow’s accident won’t be staged.
PS - Ask your brother what really happened that night. Some secrets stay in the family.
I turned to Michael, who had gone pale, his freckles standing stark against his skin. “What is he talking about?”
“I...” he swallowed hard, his hand clutching the envelope like a lifeline. “I was there that night. When Mom... I saw something. Someone. But Dad made me promise never to tell.”
Hunter moved closer, his hand steady on my back as my world tilted. The scent of his cologne—pine and spice—anchored me as childhood memories suddenly shifted, and gained new shadows.
“Tell me,” I whispered.
“Not here,” Agent Blake cut in sharply. “Wheeler’s watching. We handle the board meeting first, then deal with family revelations.”
But as we moved to our vehicles in the town hall lot, I caught Michael texting, his hands shaking so badly he had to retype twice. The message I glimpsed made my heart stop:
They know. About that night. About what we did. Call me.
The recipient’s name was Dad.
The morning sun suddenly felt cold on my skin, and Mom’s bracelet weighed heavy on my wrist. In the distance, the town hall’s clock tower struck the hour, each chime another secret rising from the past.