Lines of Defense

Ch. 8

AMELIA HART

The moment I step through the front doors of the mansion, a wave of nostalgia hits me, though it's far from comforting. This place is a shrine to my childhood, yet it feels like I'm walking through a stranger's home. The family pictures hanging on the walls—photos of birthdays, graduations, even a few vacation snapshots—serve as a reminder of a time when I thought we were like any other family. But that was before I understood the cold reality of what it meant to a Hart. Before I realized that love in this house was conditional.

I pause, taking in the grand hall. The polished floors, the chandeliers, the thick carpets. It's all so... sterile. So empty, despite the memories captured in those frames. Despite the fact that I grew up here, this place feels foreign. I don't belong here anymore, if I ever really did.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of soft footsteps approaching. I turn and see Veronica, my father's wife—my stepmother. She's all warmth and softness, a stark contrast to everything else in this house. Her smile reaches her eyes, genuine in a way that always catches me off guard.

"Amelia, sweetheart," she greets softly. "Your father's in a bit of a mood today." She hesitates, her expression sympathetic. "Please, just listen to him. Don't argue, don't make any remarks. It'll only make things worse if you push him."

I manage a small, strained smile for her. "I'll try," I say, knowing full well that keeping quiet isn't exactly my strong suit when it comes to him.

She gives me a look that's both concerned and encouraging. "I'll make you something to take home when you're done," she offers, her hands reaching out to gently touch my arm. "Something warm. You look like you could use it."

I nod, grateful for her kindness, even if it doesn't quite reach the part of me that's already dreading what's coming. "Thanks, Veronica. I appreciate it."

She squeezes my arm lightly before turning away, leaving me to face the inevitable.

With a deep breath, I make my way to my father's study. The heavy wooden door feels like a barrier between me and a confrontation I've been avoiding for years. I knock twice, the sound echoing through the quiet hall, before pushing the door open.

He's standing by the window, his back to me, his hands clasped behind him. The room is dim, the curtains drawn against the early morning light. For a moment, I consider turning around and walking right back out. But then he speaks.

"Amelia," he says, his voice clipped, as though my presence is already an inconvenience. He doesn't turn around. "Sit."

I take a seat, gripping the hem of my jacket. He finally turns to face me, his expression as cold and unreadable as ever. His lips are pressed into a thin line, his eyes sharp. He wastes no time on pleasantries.

"I want you to drop the Freeman case."

It's a demand, not a request, and it hits me like a punch to the gut. Of all the things he could have said, I didn't expect this.

"What?" I say, trying to keep the shock out of my voice. "Why?"

"Havers assigned me to it," I continue, my confusion mounting. "And I want to know what happened to Stacie Freeman. I'm getting closer to the truth, and—"

"This has nothing to do with you," he cuts me off. "And I'm telling you to stay out of it."

I stare at him, struggling to comprehend what he's asking of me. "Dad, I can't just walk away. This is my job. It's my responsibility to see this case through."

His eyes narrow, his jaw tightening as though I've struck a nerve. "You know nothing, Amelia. You've spent your whole career embarrassing this family, getting involved in cases that don't concern you, and now you're about to make the same mistake again."