Page 60 of Down Knot Out (Pack Alphas of Misty Pines #3)

Chapter Forty-One

Nathaniel

A week after Sadie’s visit, I meet with Blake and Dominic in the garage office.

The faint sound of a movie drifts from the family room, where Quinn, Chloe, and Grady camped out after dinner.

I sit on the sectional, laptop balanced on my knees, a legal pad open and divided into categories for Materials, Labor, Subcontractors, and Incidents. Each heading has a sub-list, then sub-sub-lists, with arrows and asterisks covering the paper.

Dominic has claimed the spot on the floor next to the large, square coffee table, a ring of empty coffee cups forming a barrier around his computer.

He stares at the screen with the singular focus of someone who hasn’t gotten enough sleep in days.

His shirt is half untucked, hair loose from the braid, reading glasses balanced on his nose because he’s been awake since five and refuses to acknowledge how tired he is.

Blake paces, pausing every few laps to hover over my shoulder or nudge a sticky note with the side of his finger. Sometimes he lingers in the doorway, checking on our mate and our pup. He wears his hair pulled up into a tight knot, and the tattoos on his forearms ripple every time his muscles flex.

Emily arrives late, boots thudding up the wooden steps to the garage.

She shoulders inside carrying a box overflowing with manila folders, a bag of peanut butter pretzels and clementines swinging from her arm.

Dust streaks her jeans, and flecks of paint spatter her thighs, but her hands are scrubbed clean.

“Evening, gentlemen.” She sets her box down with a grunt. “Records from the city office, as requested. Also, protein for the Alphas, citrus for the brains.”

Dominic grins, teeth flashing, and peels a clementine with the speed of a magician. Blake grabs a fistful of pretzels, not even stopping to chew before he stalks back to the doorway.

Emily settles into one corner of the sofa, shakes out her hands, and cracks a can of sparkling water. “Where are we?”

I point to the second tab on my spreadsheet. “We matched the Redwater Holdings deposits to every incident. Even the minor stuff. Broken plumbing, missing shipments, all of it. There’s a lag of three to four days after each incident before the payout, but it’s consistent.”

Emily leans forward. “Show me.”

I drag my laptop across the table, the casing scarred with old sticker residue. “Here, see the Redwater account? Every time there’s a documented slowdown, someone gets a chunk wired in.”

Dominic leans to the side and points to the printout on the table beside his laptop. “And every slowdown happens on a day when this subcontractor, M. Abbott, is on shift.”

“Abbott?” Emily pulls out a city record, finds the right folder, and flips through the tabs, tapping a sheet with a callused finger. “He’s on the approved list, but he rotates between jobs. Never on the payroll for more than three months.”

Blake stands behind her, staring at the page as if it might bite. “That’s our guy.”

Emily studies the document. “He’s scheduled for two more site visits this week, both as the only supervisor on shift.”

I write Abbott’s name on the pad, draw a circle around it, then a square. “We need more than a circumstantial trail.”

Dominic slides his glasses to the top of his head, leans back, and stretches. “Set the bait by staging a delivery so we can see what he does.”

Blake latches onto the idea. “We give him a target and have cameras and witnesses ready to form a clean chain of evidence.”

I jot down the steps, mind spinning. “We need to coordinate with the suppliers. If the shipment’s late, Abbott will have an excuse. If it’s on time, we’ll see what he does to sabotage it.”

Emily’s attention fixes on me. “Who’s going to run point?”

Blake and Dominic both wait for my answer. I almost ask Blake to take it, but he reads my mind and shakes his head, as if daring me to try. I’m the project manager.

I clear my throat. “I’ll run point. Blake, you coordinate with the supplier. Dominic, build the timeline and prep the incident reports for the sheriff. Emily, handle the cams and security.”

She gives a crisp, single-motion salute. “You got it, boss. ”

The sense of purpose settles the restlessness inside me, the urge to unravel everything with my own hands. This is business, not a blood feud, and we’re going to play it by the book and bury Blake’s father in his own paperwork.

Blake moves closer, his bulk radiating warmth. “If he’s working for Redwater, do you think my dad gave him a fallback for if he gets caught?”

I scan the background check and the gaps in employment history. “Doubtful. He’s a scapegoat.”

Blake’s knuckles crack as he clenches his fists. “Then let’s give him a reason to turn.”

Dominic hums, a low vibration. “I’ll prep an immunity draft for the DA.”

Emily rips open the box of folders and starts arranging them by color and weight. She points at me with a bright green folder. “You might want to rest up before this all goes down.”

I check the clock. It’s past midnight, and the weight of the day pulls at my eyelids. I won’t sleep, but I can at least rest my eyes. “Good idea. Let’s do a walk-through of the plan at seven in the morning, before the crew arrives. If there are changes, we can discuss them over breakfast.”

The others start packing up, but Blake lingers. When the office empties, he takes the chair beside me and leans his head into his hands. For a while, we don’t speak, the only sound being the settling creaks of the Homestead.

Finally, he says, “He’s not going to stop, is he?”

I don’t try to sugarcoat it. “No. He won’t stop until we take everything from him.”

Blake’s hands shake, and I realize it’s not anger this time. It’s relief. He isn’t alone in this, and neither am I.

“You know what I hated most about him?” Blake lifts his head. “He always made me feel like I was the problem. No matter what I did, I was never enough. But now…”

He trails off, and I finish for him, “Now you have a pack. A real one.”

“Yeah, I do.” A tear rolls down his cheek that he doesn’t bother to wipe away.

I wrap my arm around him. “I’ve got your back.”

“I know.” He lets me bear his weight. “Let’s burn the bastard to the ground.”

The sky stretches clear and bright blue as I settle into the shadow behind Cabin Three. Most of the crew arrived with the first water taxi and scattered to their stations just like any other day. Cold morning air stings my nose, and I huddle deeper into my quilted jacket to wait.

Blake moves along the perimeter, pretending to double-check the plumb lines.

The stiffness of his stride gives him away, each step a little too quick to actually be working.

He’s the one most likely to lose his temper if things go sideways, and the tension in his shoulders says he’s already halfway there.

Emily crouches by the decking cache, adjusting the straps on the bundle of composite boards we staged last night. She wears her hard hat, reflective vest, and boots crusted with dried mud, every part the superintendent, starting her shift.

Dominic stays holed up in the shed with the monitors. He’s not a frequent worker on the job site unless someone needs help to pick paint colors or to adjust the wall configuration, but today he acts as our eyes, texting us updates while we wait.

Half an hour into the shift, Abbott appears at the far edge of the site, just past the toolshed, as if he’s been there all along.

Once we identified our culprit, we went back through the surveillance footage and confirmed he had been on site during every incident, but never during his scheduled shifts.

The crew checks in when they board the water taxi and checks out when they return.

No one tracks them in between. Abbott’s a familiar face, so as long as his name doesn’t raise a flag on the list, no one would think to question his presence.

He was clever enough to avoid being caught in the act, but not careful enough to keep his presence off the recordings.

The Beta male keeps his head down, clipboard in one hand, boots too clean for the mud left by the rain overnight.

He tosses a casual wave at Blake, who tips his chin as usual before turning back to his tape measure.

Abbott hesitates at the shed door, scanning the site to check for witnesses.

Then he unlocks it with a key he should only have when he’s scheduled to work and ducks inside.

When he comes out, he carries a pry bar and an industrial inspection lamp, the kind meant for crawlspaces or blackout zones, not a wired cabin with working lights.

We’re in landscaping now. No one needs demolition gear to verify materials.

I step forward, but Emily beats me to it, planting herself in his path, arms folded, boots square to the gravel. She doesn’t say a word, a don’t-mess-with-me look in her steel-gray eyes.

Abbott fidgets with the clipboard, then gives her his best smile. “You got the delivery confirmation?”

Emily doesn’t move. “You’re not scheduled to be the site manager this shift.”

He shrugs, his posture relaxed. “Picked up the overtime. Payroll cleared it yesterday.”

Emily’s face does not change. “You mind showing me the email? My phone was down.”

He checks his clipboard as if the answer might be written there. “I left my phone on the water taxi. But I can show you when the boat comes back?”

I step up, hands in pockets. “No need, Marcus. We already checked.”

He turns to face me, his genial expression gone. “Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” I say, “is that every time an incident happens on this site, you’re here. I’ve got the logs.”

Abbott stiffens. “You calling me a thief?”

Emily tilts her head. “I’m calling you a liar.”

Color rushes into his face, a vein twitching at his temple. “You’ve got nothing. Check the logs. I do my job.”

Of course, he can say that, because the logs will confirm he wasn’t here. And we’d been stupid enough not to cross-check who was on site with who was supposed to be .