Chapter 23 The Photo
CALEB
I lay on Eli’s couch and stared at the ceiling and tried to make sense of what Tyler Webb had said, turning it over in my head the way you turn over something sharp to figure out where it cuts.
A photo from inside the locker room corridor.
Not random. Not careless. Intentional.
That was the part that kept sticking. Whoever took it had not just been passing through. They had been watching for something specific. Waiting for an angle that could be shaped into damage later.
I did not sleep properly after that.
By morning the apartment felt too small for my thoughts, like they were bouncing off the walls and coming back louder.
I sat up and called Eli.
He picked up on the second ring.
“You have something,” I said.
A pause.
“I was going to tell you after Thanksgiving,” he said.
“Tell me now.”
Another pause, longer this time.
“Marcus,” he said.
I closed my eyes for a second.
Marcus had been on the roster for two seasons. Quiet kid. Reliable. The kind of player you only notice when he is missing. I had never had a reason to question him. He kept his head down, did his job, stayed out of the way.
“Why him,” I asked.
“His father works for yours,” Eli said. “Compliance side. Travel approvals. Facility access requests. He is connected enough to move through places without anyone thinking twice.”
I did not answer right away.
Because that part made it worse. Not dramatic. Just simple. The kind of access you do not even think to protect against because it usually belongs to people you trust by default.
“The photo,” I said. “What does it show.”
“I have not seen it,” Eli said. “Tyler just said it was you and Mia in the corridor after the Northwood game. Close enough to be interpreted badly. Not proof of anything specific. Just enough to suggest whatever story someone wants.”
Nothing happened in that hallway.
I knew that.
Eli knew that.
But I also knew that was not the point anymore.
I sat there for a while after the call ended, phone still in my hand, staring at nothing.
Then I called Walter.
He answered immediately.
“I know,” he said before I could speak.
That made my stomach tighten.
“My attorney got a warning from a contact at the Gazette,” he continued. “The story is already queued. Friday morning.”
“How is that possible,” I said.
“Because it has been sitting with an editor since yesterday,” he said. “They were waiting for verification on the image source. That part is now resolved from their perspective.”
I pressed my thumb against my palm without realizing it.
“The scout,” I said.
“Arrives Friday night,” Walter finished.
Silence stretched for a moment.
“Is there a way to stop it,” I asked.
“There is a way to change its effect,” he said carefully. “But not stop it.”
I already knew what came next before he said it.
“Mia has to speak,” he said.
I leaned back against the couch.
“She has to go public.”
“Yes,” Walter said. “First. Before the image defines the narrative.”
I looked at the ceiling again, but it did not help this time.
Because this was not just about clearing something up.
It was about putting her entire life on display before someone else did it for her.
“I will not decide that for her,” I said.
“I am not asking you to,” Walter replied.
That was the end of that conversation.
I got dressed without thinking too much about it and drove.
The city was still half asleep, streets quiet in a way that felt temporary, like the world had not yet decided what kind of day it was going to be.
Mia opened the door before I knocked.
Already awake. Already dressed. Like she had been expecting this call without needing to hear it.
“I know about the photo,” she said immediately.
“I know you do,” I said. “Can I come in.”
She stepped aside.
Inside, the apartment was warm. Kettle already on. The kind of normal that feels fragile when you know what is coming next.
We stood in the small hallway for a moment without moving further in.
“Your grandfather’s idea,” she said. “To speak first.”
“Yes.”
She nodded slowly, like she was measuring it against something only she could see.
“If I do this,” she said, “there is no version where I stay private.”
“No,” I said.
She did not react to that right away.
Instead she walked to the kitchen and leaned lightly against the counter, arms folded, thinking.
I stayed where I was, not pushing, not filling the silence.
When she spoke again, her voice was steadier.
“If I talk,” she said, “I decide what gets said about my mother. About Jamie. About everything. No one edits that.”
“That is reasonable,” I said.
“And I want it on record,” she added, “that this stopped being what it looked like at the beginning. That it is real now, regardless of how it started.”
I nodded once.
“I can say that,” I said. “Or you can.”
“I will,” she said.
There was a short pause after that, like something had settled into place.
“Then I talk to Shaw,” she said.
I pulled out my phone.
She put the kettle on properly this time, not because she needed tea but because her hands needed something to do while the decision became real.
I called Shaw.
He answered on the first ring.
When I told him Mia Lin wanted to meet, there was a shift in his voice immediately. Not excitement exactly. Awareness. Like the story had stopped being something he controlled and started being something he had to follow carefully.
When I hung up, the apartment was quiet again.
Mom appeared in the hallway behind me a moment later, pink beanie still on, eyes heavy but alert.
She looked at me first.
Then toward the kitchen where Mia stood.
“She is going to be okay,” Mom said softly.
I nodded.
“I know,” I said.
A pause.
“And you,” she asked.
I did not answer immediately.
Because I was not sure what the honest version of that sounded like yet.
So I said the only thing I could.
“Ask me Friday night,” I said. “After the game.”
She studied me for a second, then nodded once.
The kettle began to whistle in the kitchen, cutting through the silence like a starting signal neither of us had asked for but both of us heard anyway.