Page 99 of Knot the Last Chapter

No more roaring wind or rattling glass. Just the soft hush of sea air slipping through the half-open window, cool against the skin. Outside, the storm has finally passed, leaving a world slicked with rain and washed clean. But the storm inside me? That one has taken longer to calm.

Now, we stand in the library, beneath the clue carved into the ceiling, right above a heavy oak cabinet built directly into the wall. There are books in there, like most other things in the library, now piles beside it as we gaze at the back.

“The crown was pointing down instead of up,” she explains as we look at the keyhole at the back. We’d never noticed it in the dark shadows of the cabinet. “So I thought maybe the simplest answer made the most sense.”

We all grin like idiots, pleased to finally be solving the mystery, and happier still that we’re doing it thanks to her. She was the piece we were missing all along.

Lila stands beside me, barefoot on the old floorboards, her fingers tightening around the hem of her borrowed hoodie. Hercheeks are flushed, curls wild around her face, and she’s still glowing from the rush of discovery. Corwyn is just behind her, arms crossed, trying to look casual but clearly vibrating with excitement. Rhys is on her other side, shoulder brushing hers, that quiet pride in his expression that says he’s already decided whatever they find is less valuable than how happy she looks.

And me? I’m holding the key.

Funny, how something so small can feel so heavy. Like the weight of every chapter that led us here. The people. The heartbreak. The changes. The hope.

My fingers curl around the old brass, and for a second, I’m not standing in a century-old library with the woman I love and my two brothers. I’m fourteen again, sitting at the edge of Rhys’ family’s kitchen table, hungry and scared and silent. I’d spent three days in a foster house before that—the kind where locks clicked too often and eyes were always watching. I thought I’d end up back in the system. I thought nothing would ever feel safe.

But Rhys' mother gave me hot soup and a firm look. Told me they had an extra room. That if I wanted it, it was mine. No pressure. Just a place to stay. That night, Rhys came to my room with a deck of cards and said, “You like poker?”

He dealt the worst hand in history but talked so much shit you'd think he had a royal flush. I laughed so hard I forgot how scared I was.

He became my brother that night.

Then came Corwyn.

Two years later, Rhys brought him home after a school event, said he needed a place to crash for the weekend. The weekend became a month. Then two. He never said much at first. He was lanky and sharp-eyed, always with a book in hand, always watching. But he laughed at my jokes. Shared his music. Beat usboth at every mystery game we played, even when we made up rules on the spot.

It was Rhys' grandfather who made it official. “He eats enough of our bread,” he said. “Might as well keep him.”

We were three.

The years passed. We built this life. This home. We grew into the roles we were given—Rhys the anchor, Corwyn the mind, me the fists and fire.

But even in the comfort, something was missing. A space we didn’t talk about. A fourth piece. A bond we couldn’t name, but all felt.

And then came Lila.

She blew in with the storm, with her sharp wit and softer eyes, with her stubborn streak and that ache in her voice when she said she’d stopped writing once. Because of me.

And somehow, I got a second chance.

I look at her now, and I feel it in my chest—that missing piece, that magnetic pull that makes everything else fall into place. It was always her. The fourth thread. The voice we didn’t know we were waiting for.

I clear my throat and offer her the key.

“This is your mystery,” I say. “You should be the one to open it.”

She takes it slowly, her fingers brushing mine, warm and steady. Her gaze lingers on me for a moment. “Thanks for not keeping it for yourself.”

I smirk. “What, and miss seeing your reaction? Not a chance.”

She kneels in the cabinet, fitting the key into the lock. It turns with a groan—old metal reluctant to give up its secrets. There’s a click. The panel slides forward, and a faint breath of cool air escapes.

Inside is a velvet-lined cavity.

And nestled there, side by side in tight rows, are gold bars.

Real ones. Dull with age, but unmistakable. Dozens of them.

The silence is broken by Corwyn. “Holy shit.”

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