Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 112249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
It’d be a good ten hours or more before they’d see the twenty-two-year-old back on the Miramichi.
Chip didn’t seem concerned.
Barely even phased.
“Let it go,” his boss said, almost indulgently.
Malachi didn’t think he could.
“Chip—”
“Malachi, I need you to listen,” Chip interrupted, his tone dipping sharply enough that Malachi took notice. “Right now, listen more than you talk.”
“All I’m hearing is bullshit, man.”
Chip shook his head and pointed down at the invoices. “No, you’re asking too many questions.”
Using that statement a second time made it impossible for Malachi to ignore. He crossed his arms over his chest and full on faced Chip who matched his defensive posture right down to the head tilting back and chin popping up. Hyperaware that the man had a handful of inches of height and fifty pounds of muscle on Malachi’s leaner form did nothing to urge him to back down.
“You want to tell me what that means?” Malachi asked.
“No,” Chip returned shortly, “I want you to stop asking questions.”
“Since when am I not allowed to bring up a problem with you? That’s not how this is gonna play—”
“You’re a good guy,” his boss jumped in before Malachi could adequately express how uncomfortable the conversation had turned, “and I like you, but things here can be a lot better when you do your job, supervise the crew, and don’t ask questions in between.”
Malachi hated the moments in his life when things became so unbearably, painfully clear that he felt like an idiot. This was one of those times.
What scheme could Chip be running?
It couldn’t be insurance fraud. Chip paid into insurance for his business and employees, but claims were far and few between, and had nothing to do with missing supplies and messed up numbers. It was unlikely that the missing supplies would be sold for profit, so Malachi didn’t give that route much consideration, either.
The fact Malachi had become more aware over the past couple of years of numbers not matching up gave him an easy timeline in his head to go back to. He tried to find a common similarity between each event, and only came up with one thing.
Chip’s nephew.
Natan—better known as Natty to the guys in Chip’s crew—hauled every load that came to Malachi’s mind where something had come up short. Better yet, the guy’s trips across the rural highway known as the Renous happened every time, too. What reason would the hardware store—and Chip—have to show the weight and expense of freight on a truck that didn’t exist?
Unless there was something on the truck.
But what?
“The numbers work out in the end,” Chip added, spinning on the heels of his boots as he seemed to take Malachi’s quietness as his willingness to end the conversation. “Shit gets damaged, excess is written off. Whatever. It’s not an issue.”
If only Malachi could leave it at that—his moral compass wouldn’t let him do it, though. When everything added up, from log books to invoices, to say there was something there ... what was it? Where it was didn’t seem all that important to Malachi anymore.
He had questions.
No doubt, that would be a problem for Chip.
At Chip’s back, Malachi asked, “What’s he hauling on the truck?”
His boss paused in his steps.
Even his shoulders tensed.
Malachi hit the nail right on the head. “That’s what it is, huh? Isn’t he always hauling into Montgomery Mountain for those fucking trips?”
“Malachi, if I wasn’t already clear—”
“No, we’re not gonna do that right now.” It pissed Malachi off more that he handed this man respect, friendship, and trust, but Chip couldn’t give it back when push came to shove. “At least tell me what kind of shit you’re letting me walk through working for you, Chip.”
After everything, Malachi felt owed that much. At the very least. He’d worked hard to keep his ass out of trouble and repair the damage he’d done to his reputation in his youth. Being young and dumb wasn’t a good enough excuse for him after a certain point in his life—no part of him wanted to be the punk that got the pointed finger first whenever something happened like he had to be the default cause.
That time was long over.
“I guess you’ve not had time to consider it,” Chip said, glancing over his shoulder to stare Malachi down, “but the fact that I know exactly what kind of man you are is the reason why you have to ask me about any of it at all. Consider it the best I can do—you know nothing, and no one can, or will, say anything different at the end of the day. Isn’t that what matters?”
No.
Not at all.
“I know something, Chip.” He shrugged. “I know something now.”
Maybe the details weren’t all that important in the grand scheme of things. Just knowing something underhanded was happening around him drew a big line in the sand for Malachi. The suggestion of impropriety was more than enough. Stand for something or fall for everything, right?