Amelia found me at my home, her usual tenacity replaced by a weary resignation.
“My editor,” she began, sinking onto a parlor chair, “he says any further pursuit of Silas Lockhart will mean the end of my career. The libel suit threat is too great.”
Her newspaper had pulled her from the story. The legal pressure was immense, silencing even the most courageous of journalists. A wave of guilt washed over me. I had dragged this independent, morally driven woman into a battle she couldn’t win.
“Perhaps,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, “perhaps we should just let it go. We cannot fight him, Amelia. He is too powerful.”
The idea of backing down was a bitter pill, but the cost to others—to Thomas, to Amelia—felt unbearable.
Just then, Arthur limped into the parlor, his wooden leg tapping softly on the floor. He didn’t speak, but his eyes, usually so bright, held a quiet sadness. He carried a small wooden toy he’d carved, a miniature horse with only three legs.
He looked at me, then at Amelia, his little brow furrowed.
He understood. He knew.
Watching him, seeing the lingering shadow of that night in his young face, something hardened inside me. Giving up now would not protect us. It would only validate Silas’s cruelty, proving that wealth and power could extinguish truth.
“No,” I said, looking at Amelia, my resolve renewed. “We cannot. We will find another way.”
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