The cabin is warm—heated to a comfortable temperature by the gas fireplace downstairs and excellent insulation—so I don't bother getting fully dressed yet.
I walk past one of the bedrooms—the one on the left with the door slightly ajar—and see Grayson already asleep. He's sprawled across the king bed on his back, one arm thrown over his head, breathing deep and even. There's a book resting on his bare chest, rising and falling with each breath.
He falls asleep reading. Always has. I'd find him passed out with whatever paperback he'd brought, book still open to the page he was reading.
I walk quietly into the room, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet.
The bedside lamp is still on, casting warm golden light across Grayson's peaceful face.
I pick up the book carefully, trying not to wake him. It's one of the three cozy romance novels he'd bought at the bookstore where he’d first met Reverie—this one has an illustrated covershowing a decorated Christmas tree and two people standing close under mistletoe.
He and Reverie were talking about this one over dinner. Something about it having twenty-four short stories in a countdown format—one for each day of December leading up to Christmas. They were planning to start reading it early so they could create content together for her social media. Book reviews or reading vlogs or whatever influencers do.
I like that they can help her with this new endeavor.
That we're all finding ways to support her dreams and ambitions. That she has people in her corner now instead of people holding her back.
Though deep down, beneath the satisfaction and warmth, there's worry gnawing at my gut like a persistent parasite.
The dark side of social media.
The jealousy that comes with it. The harassment. The stalkers. The people who think they're entitled to access just because someone shares their life online. I've seen it in my line of work—the cases that go wrong, the fans that become obsessive, the danger that lurks behind anonymous profiles.
I grab a sticky note from the nightstand—Grayson always keeps supplies nearby—and mark his page before closing the book and setting it on the table.
Then I grab the folded blanket from the chair in the corner and drape it over him carefully, covering him halfway. Not all the way—he runs cold at night and tends to wake up if he's too warm, preferring to adjust the blankets himself rather than having them piled on top of him.
Unlike Nash who would rather sleep completely naked year-round because he's always running hot. Summer, winter, doesn't matter—he overheats the second blankets touch him.
I turn off the bedside lamp and close the door quietly behind me as I leave Grayson's room.
Next I check on Nash.
His room is on the right side of the hallway, door cracked open enough that I can see inside without pushing it further or announcing my presence.
He's sitting at the elegant wooden desk near the large window that overlooks the dark forest, hunched over his sleek laptop with his face illuminated by the harsh blue-white screen glow. There's a ceramic mug in his hand—I can smell the coffee from here even through the partially closed door, strong and dark and bitter. He takes a long sip without looking away from whatever he's reading, his blue eyes moving rapidly back and forth as he scrolls through what looks like dense text.
He's deep in research mode. Full investigative mode. Probably embarked on some complicated rabbit hole of cross-referenced information that will keep him up for hours, following digital breadcrumbs wherever they lead. And I know exactly what—or more accurately, who—he's researching without having to ask or disturb his concentration.
Reverie's old pack.
Those bastards who treated her like unpaid labor instead of a cherished centerpiece or their pack member.
We've discussed what Nash has uncovered so far in his preliminary investigation. Only two of the four pack members are using their actual real legal names—Kael Winters and Jasper Thorne. The other two names associated with Reverie's old pack situation and living arrangement are aliases. Fake identities. Carefully constructed personas that don't match any legitimate public records.
Which means there's a very specific reason they've been keeping such meticulously maintained alibis for years. People don't create and maintain false identities without significant motivation.
It also raises serious questions about the money situation. They were consistently using Reverie's earnings from her various odd jobs around Oakridge, making her pay for her own basic necessities and clothing, treating her like an unpaid household manager and emotional support animal. So where was their money? What were they actually doing with their own finances? Were they laundering it through seemingly legitimate business fronts? Were they involved in something illegal that required hidden identities and complex financial structures to avoid detection?
The business they supposedly run together—Thorne-Winters Capital Management—has virtually no online presence beyond a basic website with vague descriptions of 'investment services' and 'wealth management.'
No client testimonials. No detailed service offerings. No regulatory filings that I can find. It's a shell.
A front for something else.
I don't disturb Nash now.
He's in the zone, completely focused, probably cross-referencing multiple databases simultaneously and following digital trails through public records and financial disclosures and social media archives.
