Page 25 of The Sole Suspect

“Good man,” Blake replied with a dismissive wave. “Keep those vultures at bay until we’re ready to move.”

Brian nodded. “Of course, sir.” He excused himself with a brief professional smile and slipped out of the office.

Blake rose from behind his desk, perfectly composed in a navy pinstriped suit. “Mr. Sterling-Hart. Mr. Lee. What brings you here again?”

I strode across the plush carpet to Blake’s mahogany desk, my fingers white-knuckled around my phone. I thrust it inches from Blake’s perfectly composed face. The screen’s glow illuminatedhis features as his blue eyes scanned the incriminating messages. “Care to explain these texts?”

A slight smile curved Blake’s lips. “Ah. You’ve done your homework, but how do you know they were sent by me?”

I crossed my arms and stared him down. The leather armchair creaked as Blake settled back into it, his sandalwood and amber scent spiked, permeating the office. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, Millcrest’s Historical District sat like a miniature dollhouse, vulnerable and exposed.

“You hired teenagers to deface Councilwoman Fairfax’s campaign posters. I have proof right here that shows you orchestrated the whole thing.” It was a bluff. If he’d really used a burner, authorities likely couldn’t connect him to anything, but I hoped to deceive him into admitting his guilt.

Blake leaned back, spreading his arms across the leather chair like a king on his throne. His cologne filled my nostrils, sweet and cloying, but not unpleasant. It complemented his natural pheromones, probably intentionally so. “That’s quite an accusation. But those texts could be from anyone.”

Dominic’s footsteps echoed against the marble floor as he strode to Blake’s mahogany desk. The top drawer scraped open. I watched him dig through the drawer, scattering papers in his search. He held up a cheap flip phone as he stared at Blake.

“Et tu, Brute?” Blake chuckled, eyes dancing with amusement.

I watched the two alphas engage in a silent battle of wills. Blake’s smug smile faltered for a fraction of a second, then he gave in with a sigh. “4893.”

Dominic’s thumb flicked across the keypad, the screen casting a sickly green glow on his face as he started to read aloud. “Make sure to hit all between Third and Oak. Cash payment as discussed.”

“That could mean anything.” Blake drummed his perfectly manicured fingers on the armrest.

Dominic tossed the burner phone onto Blake’s desk. “Want to try again?”

“I suppose after all our late-night strategy sessions, I should’ve known you’d remember my hiding spots.”

I planted my hands on his desk and leaned forward. “So you admit it, then? You defaced Councilwoman Fairfax’s campaign posters?”

“And my own.” Blake’s practiced smile infuriated me. “Had to make it look convincing, didn’t I? But those messages won’t hold up anywhere. I have to admire your... thoroughness in investigating this matter though.”

He was right. Malcolm and Tommy would never admit he hired them because it would only get them in trouble and I knew I couldn’t count on Dominic either.

Not now. Not ever.

“Look, Leo.” Blake leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands. “My great-grandmother owned a flower shop on Cedar Street for thirty years. My grandfather told me stories about how he’d spent every summer helping her arrange bouquets and sweeping the wooden floors. I care about preserving Millcrest’s heritage.”

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

“The district’s dying. It may not seem like it now, but with the way things are going, it’s inevitable. The buildings need extensive repairs that small business owners can’t afford.” He pulled out a folder and slid it across his desk. “These are the district’s revenue numbers for the past five years.”

I grabbed the folder, fighting back my hesitation, and lifted the cover. The red numbers at the bottom of each page made my stomach clench. “How did you access these numbers?”

“I have my ways.” Blake shot a sideways look at Dominic.

“My plan includes restoration of the original facades. We’ll keep the architectural details, the wrought iron lampposts. But we’ll modernize the interiors, add amenities that’ll draw in customers.” Blake’s voice softened. “Sometimes preservation means adaptation.”

The worst part was, beneath my anger, I recognized the truth in his words. Just last week, Penny had mentioned his heating bills were killing him. And the crack in my own shop’s foundation wasn’t getting any smaller.

But I wouldn’t give Blake the satisfaction of knowing his logic had found its mark. I shoved the folder back across his desk.

“The posters are one thing,” I pressed, redirecting the conversation back to what brought us here. “What about Rosie’s Bakery? The other vandalism incidents?”

Something flickered in Blake’s eyes—genuine confusion. “I don’t know anything about that. The posters were just to rile up that sanctimonious battle-axe, Adelaide Fairfax. Property damage isn’t my style.”

I glanced at Dominic.