After the shock had subsided from the brick breaking the window, Ridge was seething. He moved around the room with sharp, deliberate motions, his tension crackling in the air like static. I packed my things quickly, my hands trembling as I shoved clothes and essentials into my bag. Every sound—the zip of my bag, the creak of the floor—felt amplified in the oppressive silence.

"We need to call Campbell," I said into the dim bedroom, lit faintly by the orange glow of the streetlamp outside.

"Sam, I know," he said, his voice hard, clipped. "We'll go to Frank's and call her there."

"And I want to tell her everything," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. "I'm not hiding anything anymore. This is getting worse, and I trust you, Ridge—I do—but I think it's time she knows about my mum, Casey Malone, and the notes."

Ridge froze mid-step, his hand hovering over the zip of his bag. His sharp eyes met mine, shadows flickering across his face. His jaw tightened before he spoke.

"If that's what you want to do." His voice was measured, but there was an edge to it, like he was trying to hold something back.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked, stepping closer. The space between us felt heavy, thick with unspoken fears.

"Nothing," he said quickly, yanking the zip closed with a sharp, almost aggressive tug.

"No, Ridge, go on. What is it?" I pressed, my voice rising. My pulse quickened as I watched his expression darken. "You've been stopping me from telling Campbell, saying it's the best thing to do, but I don't think it is anymore."

His shoulders slumped slightly as he turned to me, his voice quieter but still tense. 

"I just want you to be safe. That's it, Sam. I just don't trust the police."

Amber's laugh echoed in my memory, but it felt faint, like it was slipping away from me. I couldn't stop thinking about her—her voice, her stubbornness, the way she always managed to make everything feel lighter. But now, it felt like I was losing her, piece by piece, to something I couldn't name. "But Campbell's not like that."

Ridge's jaw tightened, his fingers flexing around the strap of his bag like he was trying to crush it. His eyes flicked to mine, and for a moment, I saw something flash there—doubt, frustration, fear. "Maybe she is," he said after a long pause, his voice low. "But the system she works for? It's built to fail people like us."

I reached out, my fingers brushing his hand. The bag slid out of his grasp, and he finally looked at me. "I know you've got your reasons," I said, keeping my voice steady. "But Amber needs me, and we've held back stuff that could help find her. We can't keep doing this."

Ridge's sharp eyes locked on mine. For a moment, neither of us spoke. His jaw shifted, the tension radiating off him in waves. Then, slowly, he nodded, exhaling through his nose. "We tell Campbell. Everything," he said, his voice tight.

"Good," I said quietly, stepping back. "Let's go."

Ridge zipped his bag in one swift motion, slung it over his shoulder, and led the way to the door. His movements were sharp, almost robotic, but I didn't push him further. He was already giving more than he wanted to. He grabbed my bag from me without a word and led the way out of the apartment.

The cold night air hit me like a slap. The street was silent, the faint hum of distant traffic the only sound. Ridge's face was illuminated by the streetlamp's glow, casting sharp shadows that made him look almost unrecognisable for a moment—harder, more closed off.

We got into the car, and I called Campbell. My voice shook as I asked her to meet us at Frank Malone's pub in Moulding Springs. She sounded confused, then concerned, but agreed. She said it would take her at least an hour.

The car ride was suffocatingly quiet. The tyres hummed against the road, the rhythm doing nothing to ease the knot in my stomach. A car passed us, its headlights slicing through the dark and illuminating the interior of our car for a fleeting moment. Ridge squinted against the glare, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror. His fingers flexed on the wheel, and his jaw tightened slightly, but he said nothing.

I couldn't stop my thoughts from spiralling. Amber was out there somewhere—alone, scared, or worse. Every second that passed felt like a step closer to losing her entirely. My mind flicked to a memory of us laughing, Amber's hand wrapped around mine as she pulled me through a crowd. That stubborn, unshakable determination in her eyes. And now? I didn't know where she was, and it killed me.

"Are you sure about this?" Ridge asked into the silence.

"We should've told her from the start," I said firmly.

Ridge's grip on the wheel tightened, his knuckles paling as his tension radiated off him. He exhaled slowly, the sound loud in the stillness.

"I think Campbell will take what we tell her and run with it. Whether that helps us or hurts us... I don't know. That's the part I don't trust."

"I get it," I said after a moment. "I do. But Amber doesn't have time for us to keep second-guessing this. We'll tell her everything—exactly how it is. No hiding, no holding back. If she has questions, we answer them. Then she can do what she wants with it, and we do what we need to do."

Ridge removed his hand from the gear stick, his fingers brushing gently against my cheek. The gesture was unexpected, softening the tension between us. I turned my face toward his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. The warmth steadied me, even as the weight of everything pressed down on my chest.

"You're right," Ridge said finally, his voice quieter now. "We tell her everything. No more holding back. But after that... we keep control of what we can."

I nodded, meeting his eyes. "We will."

He pulled his hand away reluctantly, gripping the steering wheel again as the car rumbled softly in idle. The flicker of vulnerability in his eyes vanished, replaced by the steely determination I'd come to rely on.

The pub came into view like a beacon in the dark. Ridge parked at the back, and we stepped into the cold night. The silence felt heavier now, like the air itself was conspiring to keep secrets.

Frank opened the door almost immediately, his sharp eyes scanning me first. His gaze moved deliberately, checking for any signs of injury. His shoulders relaxed slightly when he seemed satisfied that I was unharmed, though the tension in his expression lingered.

"You better come in," he said, stepping aside, his voice rough but low.

Ridge nodded curtly. "We'll explain upstairs."

Frank turned without another word, leading us up a narrow staircase. The soft carpet muffled our steps as the flat at the top came into view. The place was clean but lived-in, with scuffed wooden floors and a leather sofa that had clearly seen years of use. A couple of football trophies sat on a shelf near the telly, and a faint smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air, blending with the lingering scent of beer.

"Sit," Frank said, shrugging out of his bomber jacket and tossing it onto a chair. "Tea, coffee, or something stronger?"

"Something stronger," Ridge and I said in unison.

Frank muttered under his breath as he disappeared briefly, returning with a bottle of red wine, a bottle of vodka, and a bottle of whiskey. He set them down on the table with a solid thud.

"Didn't know what you fancied," he said, grabbing a couple of glasses from a nearby cupboard.

He dropped into an armchair across from us, rubbing a hand over his face, the lines of worry etched deeply into his features. His usual bravado seemed slightly dimmed, replaced by something rawer.

"Now, are you two going to fill me in on what the fuck has been happening, or do I have to sit here in silence?" His voice carried a sharpness, but his eyes flicked between us with unmistakable concern. He glanced at Ridge, who had tensed again, before turning to me. "I know what I said this morning, and I'm really trying to be patient here, Sam. But if you're in danger again, I want to know. I deserve to know. You may not think you're my daughter, and that's fine. But if you are, then you're the only family I have left, and I want to help protect you."