Page 57 of Saving it with My Best Friend's Brother

Her phone buzzed, breaking the moment. She read the message, her face paling.

“What is it?”

“Dad,” she said. “He... he wants to talk. He says he knows we found Mom’s evidence. That there’s something we don’t understand.”

I held her tighter, remembering Michael’s guilt, his father’s information control.

“Whatever it is,” I promised, “we face it together.”

***

The hospital corridor smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee as Agent Blake completed her security sweep. I studied Amelia’s profile in the harsh fluorescent light, trying to memorize every detail—the determined set of her jaw, the way she twisted her mother’s bracelet, the subtle tremble in her fingers she was trying to hide.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she breathed, her voice echoing slightly in the empty hallway.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re memorizing me in case something goes wrong.” Her eyes met mine, fear hiding behind bravery.

I caught her hand, bringing it to my lips, feeling her pulse flutter against my touch. “Nothing’s going to go wrong.”

“You don’t know that.” She turned to face me, her fingers cold in mine. “Whatever Dad and Michael are hiding... it must be bad. Terrible.”

“Hey.” I cupped her cheek, her skin warm against my palm. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Claire appeared around the corner, her heels clicking against the linoleum. Her usual energy was subdued, her tablet clutched like a shield. “Security sweep’s done. But you both need to see this first.”

The email on her screen cast a sickly blue glow across our faces:

Ask Daddy about the real estate deal. About why Margaret Horton really had those documents. Some secrets aren’t worth dying for–just ask Michael.

Amelia’s hand tightened in mine, her mother’s bracelet cool between our palms. “They’re trying to make us doubt everything.”

“That’s their game,” I agreed, drawing her closer. “Divide and conquer.”

“Well, it won’t work.” She squared her shoulders, chin lifting in that way that reminded me of her mother’s portrait in the town hall. “Not with us.”

Arthur’s hospital room was unnaturally quiet except for the steady beep of monitors. Michael stood by the window, snow falling softly behind him, while their father sat propped up inbed, looking smaller than I remembered, but his eyes were sharp as ever.

“Finally,” Arthur said, his voice stronger than his appearance suggested. “We need to talk. About your mother. About everything.”

“Then talk,” Amelia said firmly, her voice steady, though I felt her trembling against me.

Arthur looked at Michael, who nodded slightly, snowflakes creating shifting shadows across his face.

“The night your mother died,” Arthur began, his fingers plucking at the hospital blanket, “she wasn’t just gathering evidence against Crystal Ridge. She was...” He swallowed hard, the monitor’s beeping increasing slightly. “She was meeting someone. Someone who had proof about Richard Miller’s death.”

Emotion surged through me, memories of my father cutting sharp and sudden. “Who?”

“Wheeler’s uncle. The insurance investigator.” Arthur’s voice shook, age and guilt clear in every word. “He wanted to come clean, turn state’s evidence. Margaret was helping him.”

“But something went wrong,” Michael added quietly from his post by the window, his reflection ghostlike against the falling snow. “I followed Mom that night and saw her meet him. Then... then Crystal Ridge’s men showed up.”

Amelia’s grip on my hand was painful now, her mother’s bracelet pressing between our palms. “Did they... did they cause the accident?”

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