The basement wasn’t exactly off-limits, but it wasn’t somewhere a guest usually wandered either. It housed Tony and Nico’s computer systems, the pack’s archives, and records.
“Did he get inside?” I asked.
“No,” Nico said. “I stopped him before that. He seemed embarrassed about it.”
A beat of silence passed.
“Like I said,” Nico added, “might’ve been nothing. Just thought you’d want to know.”
For a second, anger had flared hot in my chest. Not at Mason, but at Nico, which made zero sense.
My first instinct had been to defend Mason. To say Nico must’ve misunderstood and to brush the whole thing off like it was ridiculous.
But the words never left my mouth. Instead, I forced the reaction down.
“Thanks for telling me,” I said, ending the call.
Now, hours later, the conversation still sat heavy in my chest. Because I didn’t know what to do with it.
It painted Mason in a bad light. There was no way around that, but every instinct I had still rejected the idea that he was someone who’d been playing us all along
“Is something on your mind?” Mason’s voice pulled me back to the present.
I glanced at him briefly before returning my focus to the road. He was watching me carefully. I shook my head once.
“Just a few things running around up here,” I said.
He studied me another moment before looking forward again.
“You must be really worried about the missing shifters, huh?” Mason asked.
I couldn’t ignore the regret and guilt in his voice. Did Mason have something to feel guilty about? Or was I just hearing things because of what Nico told me?
“Sometimes Cooper sends our team out to track missing people,” I said after a moment. “Tourists. Hikers who wandered off the trail. Locals who got lost in the woods.”
I shifted gears as the truck picked up speed, merging onto Highway 12.
“Most of the time it’s nothing serious. Someone twists an ankle or loses their bearings.”
I glanced at him again.
“This case is different,” I added.
Mason’s shoulders stiffened.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“For what?” I asked.
“For bringing trouble to your pack.” His words landed heavier than he probably intended.
“You didn’t create this,” I said. “Someone else did.”
I just hoped we were driving toward them. The highway stretched ahead in a long ribbon of pavement, cutting through the forest.
After another ten minutes, I slowed the truck and signaled before turning onto a smaller side road. Then another. The paved asphalt gave way to cracked concrete, then finally gravel.
There it was: the old service road.
