Page 53 of Saving it with My Best Friend's Brother

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.

---