Page 55 of Saving it with My Best Friend's Brother

“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.

Chapter Fourteen

Hunter

The county board meeting had gone exactly as planned—Wheeler’s face when the press showed up was almost worth the stress of the past few days. Almost. But watching Michael’s hands shake as he texted his father afterward, seeing the guilt shadowing his eyes every time he looked at Amelia, made victory feel hollow. He looked like the teenager from old Pine Haven photos, trying to carry a weight too heavy for his shoulders.

“We should talk,” I said quietly to Michael as we left the courthouse. The fall breeze carried the scent of approaching snow, reminding me how quickly things could change in the mountains. “All of us.”

He nodded, tension visible in his jaw. “Marie’s? Back room’s private.”

“I’ll coordinate with security,” Agent Blake said, already moving to arrange protection. Her casual sweater is a careful choice for blending in with the lunch crowd.

Twenty minutes later, we sat in Marie’s cozy back room, where generations of Evergreen families had held private celebrations and difficult conversations. The warm scents of cinnamon and fresh bread wafted through the air, a jarring contrast to the heavy atmosphere. Copper mixing bowls gleamed on overhead racks, and family photos dotted the walls—including one of Amelia’s mother judging a pie contest. Amelia had gone to check on festival preparations with Claire, leaving Michael and me alone with cooling coffee and years of unspoken concerns.

“You’re going to get her killed,” he said finally, his fingers white-knuckled around his mug.

“I’m trying to keep her safe.”

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