Chapter 9: A Pack of Four Hundred

I went into the study alone at ten o'clock.

Ronan stayed in the hall with his two wolves, leaning on the wall beside the door.

That was our agreement, and he kept it without being reminded.

The room had not changed.

Same dark desk, same screen full of territory accounts, same framed photograph of the old Alpha on the wall behind Slade's chair.

This was the doorway where I had told him I wanted out, and he had told me to stop making a scene.

Slade stood at the window with his back to me.

"Close the door."

"No."

He turned.

He looked worse than he had in the field.

His eyes were bloodshot, and he had not shaved.

"The door stays open," I said. "I want your people to hear every word."

He looked past me at the hall, where two clerks were pretending to adjust a painting.

He let it go.

"You brought the letter."

I took it out of my jacket and laid it flat on the desk.

He read it standing up.

I watched his lips move over the last line.

"Donor on site," he said. "Immediate."

"Your finance director crossed it out so hard she tore the paper."

"She says the donor withdrew."

"Then why write a phone number next to it?"

He looked at the number.

Without a word, he took out his phone and dialed it.

He put it on speaker and set it on the desk between us.

It rang three times.

Then a woman's recorded voice said, brightly, "You've reached Peyton Goelet's private line. Leave a message."

The room was very quiet.

Slade did not move.

He stared at the phone and did not pick it up.

"That's her second phone," I said. "The one she doesn't use for pack business."

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