I called Lola at eleven that night.
She answered on the first ring. No greeting. Just her voice, sharp and awake: "Mad."
I sat at my desk, the laptop screen glowing in the dark. The filing cabinet stood open beside me. Eight years of records spread across the surface like evidence at a crime scene.
"Can we win?" I asked.
Silence. One breath. Two.
Then Lola laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. It was the laugh of someone who'd been waiting for this exact question for a very long time.
"We already have," she said. "I've been building this case for two years — since you stopped calling me back."
My hand tightened on the phone. "What?"
"Cataleya's social media. Public pack registry filings. Council records. Every territorial lease payment that went through Silverfang's books is public record if you know where to look. I've been tracking it, Mad. All of it. I was just waiting for you to be ready."
I stared at the spreadsheet on my screen. The dates. The account numbers. The pattern I'd thought I was the only one who could see.
"How long have you known?" I asked quietly.
"Two years," Lola said again. "Since the first time you canceled coffee because Jayson needed you to manage a rogue threat that turned out to be three juveniles stealing from a trash can. Since you stopped answering my texts. Since I saw Cataleya post a photo wearing jewelry I knew came from the Tucker family vault."
My throat tightened. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because you weren't ready to hear it." Her voice softened. Not much. Just enough. "You had to reach your own breaking point, Mad. I couldn't drag you there. But I could make sure that when you finally got there, you wouldn't have to start from nothing."
I closed my eyes. Felt something crack open in my chest that wasn't grief. It was relief.
"Send me everything," I said.
"Already done. Check your email. Encrypted file. Password is the name of that terrible bar we went to senior year."
I pulled up my email. The file was there. Subject line: *Evidence Package — Silverfang Financial Irregularities.* I opened it. Spreadsheets. Screenshots. Cross-referenced Council filings. Two years of work, organized into color-coded tabs.
"Lola," I said.
"Don't," she cut me off. "Just tell me what you have on your end. We need to merge the datasets."
I told her. The internal financial records. The territory lease diversions. The alliance contract payments that had been rerouted through accounts Cataleya controlled. The jewelry purchases. The lakehouse rental. Every piece of evidence I'd documented since my father's birthday.
Lola was silent as I spoke. When I finished, she exhaled slowly.
"Ellis Grant," she said. "Silverfang's senior accountant. He processed most of these transactions. If we can get him to corroborate under oath, this becomes airtight."
"He won't," I said. "He's loyal to the pack."
"He's loyal to the pack," Lola agreed. "Not to Jayson. There's a difference. And if he's been processing these payments, he knows exactly what they are. The question is whether his conscience is louder than his fear."
I thought about Ellis. Mid-fifties. Quiet. Meticulous. He'd worked for Silverfang since before Jayson became Alpha. I'd always respected his precision.
"I'll talk to him," I said.
"Neutral location," Lola said immediately. "Somewhere his presence won't raise flags. And don't pressure him. Just confirm the numbers. Let him make his own choice."
"Ironvale's public records hall," I said. "He goes there sometimes to cross-reference old contracts. It won't look unusual."
"Good." I heard the sound of her typing. "I'm drafting the legal framework tonight. Formal rejection. Territorial claim. We're going to invoke Luna inheritance rights under Council jurisdiction. Jayson's going to fight this, Mad. He'll use every trick he has."
"Let him," I said.
Lola paused. "You sound different."
"I am different."
"Good," she said quietly. "It's about time."
We worked until three in the morning. Lola walked me through the legal structure. I provided internal documentation. We built the case piece by piece, merging her two years of external tracking with my eight years of internal records.
When we finally hung up, the sky outside my window was still dark. But something inside me had shifted. I wasn't alone anymore.
I met Ellis three days later at Ironvale's public records hall. The building was old stone, quiet, with rows of filing cabinets containing decades of pack contracts and territorial agreements. Ellis stood near the western wall, flipping through a ledger.
He looked up when I approached. His expression was carefully neutral.
"Luna," he said.
"Ellis." I set my own ledger on the table between us. The handwritten one. My father's style. "I need to ask you something."
He glanced at the ledger. Didn't touch it. "What kind of something?"
"The kind that requires honesty," I said. "Not loyalty. Just honesty."
His jaw tightened. He looked around the empty hall, then back at me. "I process the pack's financial transactions. That's my job."
"I know," I said. "And you do it well. You've always been meticulous."
"Thank you."
I opened the ledger. Turned it so the numbers faced him. "These figures. Are they accurate?"
Ellis stared at the page. I'd documented six months of territory lease payments. Every diversion. Every rerouted account. Every payment that should have gone to pack infrastructure but had instead funded Cataleya's lifestyle.
He didn't speak for a long moment. His hand rested on the edge of the table. I watched his fingers curl slowly into a fist.
"Yes," he said finally. His voice was quiet. Strained. "They're accurate."
I closed the ledger. "Thank you."
He looked up at me. His eyes were tired. Conflicted. "Luna—"
"You don't have to say anything else," I said. "I'm not asking you to choose. I'm just asking you to remember the truth when someone official asks you the same question."
Ellis swallowed. Nodded once.
I picked up my ledger and walked away. Behind me, I heard him exhale shakily.
That night, I called Lola again.
"He confirmed the numbers," I said.
"Will he testify?"
"When the Council calls him," I said. "He will."
Lola was quiet for a moment. Then: "We're ready, Mad. Whenever you are."
I looked at the boxes stacked in the corner of my office. My belongings. My records. Everything I'd quietly packed over the past week.
"Soon," I said.
My wolf stirred. Not in grief. Not in anger.
In certainty.
