We cross the site in uncomfortable silence, weaving between pallets of material and scaffolding. Workers call out stiff greetings as we pass, their expressions curious. News travels fast in small towns, faster on construction sites where boredom breeds gossip.
The phone in my pocket buzzes with new notifications. I ignore them, focusing instead on the job. Just need to keep moving.
At the east wing entrance, three laborers lean on stacked drywall sheets, phones out. They straighten as we approach, wearing expressions I can’t quite interpret.
“Afternoon, Em.” The oldest of them touches the brim of his hard hat. “Quite the excitement with your boy yesterday.”
My boy.The phrasing coils around my ribs, squeezing until breathing becomes difficult.
“Focus on the walls, Charlie, not rumors.” I gesture for Tim to lead me to the issue.
Charlie shrugs, unperturbed. “Not rumors when it’s on video. My wife showed me the clip this morning. Pretty clear what happened.”
My fingernails dig deeper into my palms. “Wasyour wife there? Did she see what happened before someone started filming? Or after?”
Charlie’s expression hardens. “Don’t need to be there to figure out what kind of Alpha he is.”
“Show me the framing issue,” I tell Tim, ignoring Charlie’s smug expression.
Tim points to where the metal studs deviate from the blueprint displayed on my tablet. I force my attention to the technical problem, measuring distances and comparing them to the specifications. The work calms me, gives my hands purpose beyond wanting to punch people.
“Move these two studs to match the print,” I instruct, marking the correction on my tablet. “And add blocking here for the cabinet installation.”
“Got it.” Tim takes notes on his clipboard, and the normalcy of the interaction anchors me, though the conversations around us have shifted to whispers.
“Heard she’s letting him stay at her place.”
“Thought she had a more level head.”
My pen lands too hard on the screen, the stylus skidding across the glass.
I finish the inspection, signing off on the corrections with quick strokes.
With a pat on Tim’s arm, I head back downstairs to check on the progress of the lobby.
The framers finished the vaulted ceiling last week, and the exposed beams create a cathedral-like space to welcome guests to Misty Pines Resort.
I make a note on my tablet about the crown molding transition, satisfaction humming beneath my skin. At least this is going right.
“Emily.” Nathaniel cuts through my concentration.
I turn to find him standing near the temporary stairs, Blake a half-step behind him. Something in their expressions sends a prickle of warning down my spine.
“Afternoon.” I tuck my tablet under my arm. “The framing looks good. We should be ready by Thursday for electrical rough-in for the chandelier Dominic wants.”
“That’s great,” Nathaniel says without his usual enthusiasm for the progress. “We need to talk about Jared.”
I stiffen, while behind them, a crew member pretends not to listen as he measures a length of trim.
Blake clears his throat, his brown eyes flicking toward the workers. “Somewhere private?”
I follow them toward the eastern corner of the structure, where plywood creates a makeshift wall separating us from curious ears. Fresh-cut pine andsawdust cling to the air, the floor beneath our feet still bare subfloor waiting for tile.
Nathaniel stops once we’re alone, turning to face me with his hands clasped in front of him. “We had a sit-down with Kyle yesterday, and he filled us in on everything from last Friday.”
Blake shifts his weight, leaning against a nearby support beam. “And we’ve seen the videos circulating online.”
My shoulders stiffen. “Those videos don’t show what really happened.”