Page 82 of Left Cold, Wolf Owned
The table absorbs that.
"That was fast," Nora observes, sharp and flat.
"He was on his phone before the door closed," I assert. "That's how Dawson works. The moment he realized yesterday wasn't going the way he planned, he was already building the next version." I look around the table. "He's obsessed with controlling his public image. Which means he's probably already gone on air. And it means it's time to finally use the files I've been sitting on."
Logan opens the lodge laptop without another word and does a quick search of Dawson’s latest appearances.
The clip surfaces within two minutes—recorded last night, a brief statement outside the resort, Dawson in a fresh jacket with the composed concern fully restored, speaking to a reporter with the practiced ease like he’s done this before and will do it again.
Dawson:"I can confirm that Harper has been located. However, I have serious concerns about her well-being and the circumstances she's been found in. The dangerous individuals she's been living with have isolated her from her family, from her support network, from anyone who might help her make clear-headed decisions. What I've seen is consistent with manipulation and coercive control, and I'm working with local authorities to ensure her safety and her return."
Nobody at the table speaks for a moment.
Then Nora produces something that isn't quite a word.
"He recorded that as soon as he reached the resort. Probably already had a crew waiting for him," I confirm, keeping my voice level. "He lost the ground in the clearing, got in the car, and had a statement ready before he reached the resort." I feel the cold, flat anger settling into something more useful—the same thing I felt the first time I watched him on Lila's laptop, which had sent me straight to the pack office to start building a document. "He's been one step ahead in the press since I left because I've been staying quiet." I pause. "I'm done staying quiet."
Logan doesn’t break eye contact for a long moment.
Then: "What do you need?"
"A journalist," I announce. "Someone local, someone who already knows Dawson's name. Someone with enough background that they don't need me to explain who he is before they understand what I'm giving them."
Garrett straightens slightly from his position near the wall. "I know someone," he states in the economy-of-words way he delivers everything important. "She covered Dawson's land acquisitions for the regional paper about a year ago. Story got killed before it ran." He pauses. "She's been waiting for a reason to come back to it."
I look at him. "Can you get me her contact?"
"Already pulling it up," he confirms, reaching for his phone.
While Garrett finds the contact, I open the evidence file on my phone—the timeline document, the annotated interview clips, the screenshot file organized by date, and the financial records. During the engagement, Dawson had included me in several business correspondence threads he'd later tried to quietly remove me from—the kind of administrative oversight that happens when someone gets comfortable and stops being careful. Those threads contained enough about his company's acquisition practices, his political donor relationships, and the way contracts were structured to make any journalist whocovered regional development sit up straight. Everything I built in the pack office, everything I've been sitting on, everything that has been waiting for exactly this moment.
The compose window opens on the lodge laptop, relying on the hardwired ethernet connection since my phone is still a useless brick on this mountain, and I start writing.
The email takes twenty minutes and is the most carefully constructed thing I've produced since the major donor proposals I used to build—the same balance of factual precision and narrative clarity, the same instinct for letting the evidence speak rather than the person presenting it. I attach everything. I write the cover note last, three sentences, and no editorializing.
"Read it before I send it," I instruct Logan, turning the laptop toward him.
He reads every word. Doesn't rush it.
"Send it," he says.
I send it.
I watch the confirmation appear, then wait. Nora has everyone's coffee refilled before the conversation has moved on, which is very Nora. Mateo and Logan are already discussing the next steps. Lila is writing something in her notebook that I choose not to interrupt.
Forty minutes later, a reply appears.
The journalist's name is Renata, and her three follow-up questions are sharp enough to confirm she has been sitting on her own version of this story for approximately fourteen months and has been waiting for someone to give her the piece she was missing.
I answer all three and feel something settle into place.
Then Logan takes the laptop and reviews the exchange with Mateo, and the two of them spend twenty minutes discussing the timeline of likely publication against the timeline of what Dawson might do next. I sit across the table and listen andcontribute when I have something useful to add, which is more often than not, and at some point I look around the table and realize that this is simply what this looks like—the pack working a problem together, with me at the center of it not as the problem but as the person who knows it best.
"He's going to escalate when the story breaks," Mateo asserts to the table. "The police report was his opening move. If the narrative starts shifting in the press, he'll feel the walls, and he'll push."
"Then we're ready for the push," Logan states. "Patrols stay at full alert. Cameras stay on continuous monitoring. Garrett, I want the bridge sensors checked again tonight."
Garrett nods. Already handled or already in process—with Garrett, it's always one or the other.
