room went completely silent. I think most of us stopped breathing. Even Paul Blackwell looked shocked, his wrinkled hands clutching the arms of his chair like he might fall over without it. He’d known we would accuse Malone of treason, but evidently hadn’t foreseen the blatant implication of murder.
Calvin Malone rose, brown eyes blazing. He leaned with both palms flat on the table, glaring at my father as if bold eye contact would be enough to intimidate him. “Are you saying there was something suspicious about my son’s death?”
My father stood firm, unruffled. “I’m stating facts. The conclusions you draw are your own.”
“Brett died during a training accident.” Milo Mitchell leaned forward in his chair, but was obviously unwilling to draw any more attention to himself by standing. “His death has been very hard on his family, and it is reprehensible of you to slander the dead, Greg.”
“I’m not slandering him, Milo.” My father returned his gaze boldly, and Mitchell looked away. “I have immense respect for Brett Malone. It takes a great deal of courage to stand up for what’s right, especially when that means standing against one’s own father.”
“Brett had nothing to fear from me!” Malone roared from across the table, and I couldn’t resist a tiny grin of satisfaction at seeing him lose his temper. Especially when Alex flinched on my right. He sat so stiff and tense that I was half convinced he’d explode if I poked him.
“And he had no plans to defect,” the Appalachian Alpha continued, softer now, but with no less vehemence. “Unless you have some evidence suggesting otherwise, I strongly suggest that you let my son rest in peace and move on with the more relevant parts of this discussion. Assuming there are any.”
Malone started to sit, then froze when my father turned toward the far end of the room, where Marc, Jace, and I sat interspersed with the Appalachian enforcers. “In fact, I do have some rather suggestive evidence.” My father smiled at me briefly, then nodded at Marc.
Marc stood and reached into the inside pocket of his coat as he crossed the room. All eyes were on him—more than half the gazes openly hostile—as he handed several folded sheets of paper to my dad.
“What’s that?” Milo Mitchell demanded, without acknowledging Marc. We’d been expecting some static over his unofficial reinstatement into the Pride, but so far no one had said a word. Neither had Malone even mentioned the covert ops we’d unleashed on his Pride, in spite of the fact that several of his men had been seriously injured.
My theory on his silence was that Malone was planning to throw consequences at us full force, once he had the power to overrule any objections. Which was one of the more critical reasons we had to keep him from being voted in as council chair.
“Calvin, when did Brett die?” my dad said, without answering Mitchell’s question or unfolding the papers. “Time and date, please.”
“This is completely inappropriate,” Malone insisted, as a vein in his temple throbbed visibly. “I’m not going to let you turn my son’s tragic death into the center ring of whatever circus you’re directing. We’re here to vote.”
“I don’t think we can afford to gloss over such serious accusations. And I would think you’d be eager to defend yourself.”
“There’s nothing to defend. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
My father raised one brow, still eyeing Malone steadily. “Then answer the question. When did Brett die?”
Malone sank stiffly into his chair, still pushed back from the table, and when Blackwell didn’t object to the question, he had no choice but to answer. “Last Monday night.”
“What time of day?” My dad slowly unfolded the first piece of paper, focused on it now, rather than Malone, as if the other Alpha was no longer worthy of his full attention.
“Afternoon. I don’t remember the exact time. It was a very traumatic day.”
“I’m sure your wife was traumatized, as well, but she remembers the time. According to Patricia, Brett died at around 3:45 p.m.”
Malone nodded slowly, eyes narrowed in barely contained fury. “That sounds about right. What’s your point?”
My dad laid the first sheet of paper faceup on the table and pushed it toward Malone. “This is a printout of the recent activity on Jace Hammond’s cell phone. My daughter borrowed it last Monday afternoon, in front of multiple witnesses. The highlighted line shows a call she made at 2:49 p.m. the day your son died. Do you recognize the number she called?”
Malone looked like he wanted to say no. To say he didn’t recognize his own son’s phone number. But he knew we could prove whose number it was, so finally he nodded. “It’s Brett’s. So what? She called him, and he probably hung up as soon as he heard her voice.”
“Look again,” I said, then rushed on before anyone could tell me to shut up. “That call lasted seventeen minutes, and I’m more than willing to testify about what he told me.”
“You don’t have the floor,” Mitchell snapped, eyes flashing. “And hearsay testimony is inadmissible.”
One of the few parallels to the human legal system. Which we all already knew. But Mitchell was ill informed.
I stood and addressed Paul Blackwell, trying not to be completely creeped out by the fact that I’d just left both Alex Malone and Colin Dean at my back, where I couldn’t watch them. “Councilman, if I may?” I said, in my best, most respectful voice. Who says I never learn?
Blackwell gave me a short, reluctant nod, and I squashed my brief urge to grin in triumph before redirecting both my gaze and my comments to Milo Mitchell, whose son Kevin had broken my arm and tried to kill me, Marc, Jace, and Dr. Carver earlier that same month.
“Hearsay isn’t admissible during a trial, but as Councilman Malone has already pointed out, he’s not on trial. We’re simply offering evidence as a basis for the charge we’re leveling against him. We have every right to present both the charge and the evidence, and I can cite multiple precedents, if you’d like.”
I’d worked with Michael for eight straight hours, memorizing cases and learning how the council’s ruling in each one supported our strategy. And silently I dared Mitchell to challenge my knowledge. To give me a chance to show off and to make a fool of him. That’s the least he deserved after conspiring with Malone to tag strays in the free zone, a plot that had nearly cost Marc his life, and had convinced most of the strays that there could be no peace between them and the Pride cats.
But Mitchell must have seen the truth in my eyes, or in my confident bearing—which I’d also worked on with Michael. Apparently there’s a difference between confident and cocky. Who knew?
Either way, Mitchell only shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”
That time I resisted a smile in favor of a small nod, the most noncommittal response, and one most Alphas perfected quickly. Then I turned back to Blackwell. “Will the council hear my testimony?”
Blackwell hesitated, but to his credit, he didn’t glance around for input from his fellow Alphas. He only had a matter of minutes left as the council chair, and he wasn’t going to waste it. “Yes. Briefly.”
“Thank
