Page 153 of Down Knot Out
I wrap my arm around him. “I’ve got your back.”
“I know.” He lets me bear his weight. “Let’s burn the bastard to the ground.”
The sky stretches clear and bright blue as I settle into the shadow behind Cabin Three. Most of the crew arrived with the first water taxi and scattered to their stations just like any other day. Coldmorning air stings my nose, and I huddle deeper into my quilted jacket to wait.
Blake moves along the perimeter, pretending to double-check the plumb lines. The stiffness of his stride gives him away, each step a little too quick to actually be working. He’s the one most likely to lose his temper if things go sideways, and the tension in his shoulders says he’s already halfway there.
Emily crouches by the decking cache, adjusting the straps on the bundle of composite boards we staged last night. She wears her hard hat, reflective vest, and boots crusted with dried mud, every part the superintendent, starting her shift.
Dominic stays holed up in the shed with the monitors. He’s not a frequent worker on the job site unless someone needs help to pick paint colors or to adjust the wall configuration, but today he acts as our eyes, texting us updates while we wait.
Half an hour into the shift, Abbott appears at the far edge of the site, just past the toolshed, as if he’s been there all along.
Once we identified our culprit, we went back through the surveillance footage and confirmed he had been on site during every incident, but never during his scheduled shifts. The crew checks in when they board the water taxi and checks outwhen they return. No one tracks them in between. Abbott’s a familiar face, so as long as his name doesn’t raise a flag on the list, no one would think to question his presence.
He was clever enough to avoid being caught in the act, but not careful enough to keep his presence off the recordings.
The Beta male keeps his head down, clipboard in one hand, boots too clean for the mud left by the rain overnight.
He tosses a casual wave at Blake, who tips his chin as usual before turning back to his tape measure.
Abbott hesitates at the shed door, scanning the site to check for witnesses. Then he unlocks it with a key he should only have when he’s scheduled to work and ducks inside. When he comes out, he carries a pry bar and an industrial inspection lamp, the kind meant for crawlspaces or blackout zones, not a wired cabin with working lights. We’re in landscaping now. No one needs demolition gear to verify materials.
I step forward, but Emily beats me to it, planting herself in his path, arms folded, boots square to the gravel. She doesn’t say a word, a don’t-mess-with-me look in her steel-gray eyes.
Abbott fidgets with the clipboard, then givesher his best smile. “You got the delivery confirmation?”
Emily doesn’t move. “You’re not scheduled to be the site manager this shift.”
He shrugs, his posture relaxed. “Picked up the overtime. Payroll cleared it yesterday.”
Emily’s face does not change. “You mind showing me the email? My phone was down.”
He checks his clipboard as if the answer might be written there. “I left my phone on the water taxi. But I can show you when the boat comes back?”
I step up, hands in pockets. “No need, Marcus. We already checked.”
He turns to face me, his genial expression gone. “Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem,” I say, “is that every time an incident happens on this site, you’re here. I’ve got the logs.”
Abbott stiffens. “You calling me a thief?”
Emily tilts her head. “I’m calling you a liar.”
Color rushes into his face, a vein twitching at his temple. “You’ve got nothing. Check the logs. I do my job.”
Of course, he can say that, because the logs will confirm he wasn’t here. And we’d been stupid enough not to cross-check who was on site with who wassupposed to be.
Blake steps up behind him without a sound, the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to reveal his muscular, tattooed forearms. Abbott flinches, stumbling half a step as his eyes dart to Blake’s large fists.
I pull the printout from my back pocket, unfold it, and hold it up for Abbott to read. “Redwater Holdings. Your name, your routing number, and every payment since you started. All timed to incidents on this site. You want to tell us what’s going on?”
His mouth opens, but only a dry, rasping sound comes out.
Emily holds up her phone, thumb over the record button. “If you want to try to clear this up, now’s your shot.”
Abbott tries for bravado, but the sweat beading on his hairline gives him away. “This is all circumstantial. You can’t pin it on me.”
