The accusation lands cleanly.
I do not react outwardly, though something inside me goes cold and precise. If he were innocent, he would challenge interpretation, not authenticity.
“I have original logs,” I say, pulling a stack of printed GPS records from my bag. “Time-stamped and recorded by satellite.”
Gideon takes one sheet and glances at it briefly before handing it back.
“Satellites can malfunction,” he says.
“Multiple times in identical patterns?” I ask evenly. “That seems unlikely.”
He looks at me then, eyes steady and calculating. For half a second, something sharp flickers there, something that feels less like doubt and more like irritation.
I do not say what I am thinking.You protest too specifically.Instead, I shift tactics.
“Independent verification is possible,” I say, lifting another folder. “These are the patrol shift rotations with red pen adjustments.”
I hold the folder out.
Gideon hesitates only a fraction before taking it, then passes it toward Brynn.
Brynn accepts the pages without comment and studies them carefully. The clearing goes quiet enough that I can hear wind moving through pine needles overhead.
She traces the highlighted areas with one finger, then glances at the corresponding map.
“These adjustments recur,” she says softly.
Lydia steps closer to look over her shoulder. “They cluster around the eastern corridor,” Lydia murmurs.
Marek leans in as well, expression tightening as he follows the pattern.
Ciaran says nothing, but his posture shifts subtly, weight balanced and ready.
Gideon remains composed, though his gaze flicks briefly toward the outer circle where younger wolves watch with sharpened attention.
Brynn looks up at me. “These markings are consistent,” she says. “The gaps are real.”
A ripple moves through the clearing.
It starts low, just a murmur, but it spreads quickly as wolves exchange looks. The sound is not loud, but it carries the weight of doubt settling into places that were previously certain.
Gideon straightens slightly. “Even if gaps exist, you have not proven who created them.”
“I have not,” I reply. “I have proven they are exploited.”
He holds my gaze.
“Exploited by someone who understands patrol timing intimately,” I continue.
Alden’s eyes brighten with what I can only describe as appreciation, but he does not interrupt.
Brynn returns the folder to Gideon, her expression unreadable.
“The patrol inconsistencies are verified,” she says. “The question of intent remains.”
Murmurs ripple again, louder this time.
I stand still, hands resting lightly on the board, and meet the gazes that land on me one by one. Some are skeptical. Some are wary. A few are thoughtful in ways that make me think they are recalculating loyalties.
