Chapter 51 What It Looks Like

Chapter 51 What It Looks Like
I don’t sleep after Emma leaves the bathroom. I spend the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of the city and the rhythmic thrum of my own anxiety. The weight of Emma’s revelation – that Lena isn't just looking for a mystery woman but is looking at me – feels like a physical pressure on my lungs. By the time the sun starts to bleed through the curtains, I have reached a decision. I can’t sit around waiting for the bomb to go off. I have to be the one to defuse it, even if I end up losing a few fingers in the process.
​I drive over to Cole’s house before the morning fog has fully lifted. My heart does a strange, painful flutter as I pull into the driveway. This place used to be my sanctuary, the site of whispered promises and heated encounters, but today it feels like a crime scene. I don't use my key. Instead, I knock, bracing myself for whatever version of Lena opens the door.
​She doesn't answer. I try the handle and find it unlocked, which is my first sign that things are sliding out of control. Cole is usually a stickler for security. I walk inside, the silence of the house amplified by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. I find Lena in the study, and the sight of it stops me in my tracks.
​The room is a disaster. Books have been pulled from the shelves, folders are splayed across the mahogany desk, and Lena is on her knees in front of the filing cabinet, her hair a chaotic nest and her eyes rimmed with red. She looks like she’s been up as long as I have, fueled by nothing but caffeine and a frantic need for order.
​"Lena? What on earth are you doing?" I ask, keeping my voice low and concerned.
​She doesn't look up. She just shoves a hand into the back of a drawer, pulling out a stack of old tax returns. "Nothing makes any sense, Riley. I went there. I went to L’Incontro last night after I saw the receipt. I didn't even wait for you. I just drove."
​I lean against the doorframe, trying to look surprised rather than terrified. "And? Did you find anything?"
​"I talked to the night manager," she says, finally sitting back on her heels and looking at me. Her expression is one of pure, unadulterated confusion. "He checked the logs for that night. He told me the reservation was for Cole and a woman named Christy Walker. He even showed me the digital note. It said 'Business Meeting: Christy Walker.' Riley, who the hell is Christy Walker?"
​I feel a surge of triumph that I have to work hard to suppress. The manager actually did it. He changed the name. "Christy Walker? I’ve never heard that name in my life. Maybe she’s a scout? Or someone from the league office?"
​"That’s what I thought," Lena says, her voice rising in frustration. "But I searched the name. There is no Christy Walker in the national soccer database. There’s a Christy Walker who sells real estate in Oregon and another one who is a pediatric nurse in Maine, but nobody here. And it doesn't match the initials, Riley. The R.B. handle. The initials on the screenshot. Christy Walker is a C.W. It’s a dead end."
​She stands up and starts pacing the small space, stepping over a pile of journals. "I’m missing something. My dad isn't the type to have a business dinner with a real estate agent from Oregon at a romantic Italian bistro an hour away. The manager was lying, or the log was tampered with, or I’m just completely losing my mind."
​"Lena, hey," I say, stepping into the room and catching her by the shoulders. I need to stop her before she starts looking too closely at the "tampered with" theory. "You’re spiraling. Look at this place. You’re tearing your father’s office apart because of a name you don't recognize."
​"I have to find a connection," she insists, wrenching herself away and heading toward the bookshelf. "There has to be something in here. A letter, a photo, a business card. Something that links him to an R.B."
​I follow her, my eyes scanning the room for the same things she is, but for the opposite reason. I know this office intimately. I know which floorboards creak and which drawers stick. I know that if she looks in the third humidor on the left, she’ll find the burner phone he uses to talk to Thorpe. I move toward the desk, physically blocking her path to the filing cabinet.
​"Maybe the R.B. wasn't a person," I suggest, trying to sound helpful. "Maybe it’s a company? Or a project code? You’re so focused on a mistress that you might be missing the obvious."
​"No, it’s a person," Lena mutters, her fingers dancing over the spines of the books. "I can feel it. He’s different when he talks to her. He’s... softer. It’s disgusting."
​She yanks a heavy leather-bound volume on sports medicine from the shelf. As she pulls it out, a folded piece of white paper slides from between the pages and flutters toward the floor. We both dive for it, but I’m an athlete and she’s a researcher. I’m faster. My hand closes over the paper just as it hits the rug.
​I recognize the header immediately. It’s the formal termination order from the university, the one that mentions the "discrepancies" in the athletic department’s funding. It’s the smoking gun for the criminal side of Cole’s life, the thing that connects him to the money Thorpe is moving. If Lena reads this, she won't just find a mistress; she’ll find a convict.
​"What is it?" Lena asks, reaching for my hand.
​"Just a grocery list, I think," I lie, palming the paper and shoving it deep into the pocket of my leggings. I offer her a small, tight smile. "Empty calories and protein powder. Nothing exciting."
​She looks at me suspiciously for a second, her eyes narrowing, but then she sighs and rubs her forehead. "I’m so tired, Ri. I feel like I’m running a race where the finish line keeps moving."
​"That’s because you are," I say, taking a risk and stepping closer. I need to shut this down now. "Lena, look at me. Do you really think all of this is worth it? All this digging and searching and destroying your relationship with your dad?"
​"He lied to me," she whispers.
​"He’s a grown man," I counter, my voice steady and firm. "He’s been alone for a long time. If he has a life outside of being your father and my coach, doesn't he deserve a little privacy? Even if it’s messy? Even if it’s a woman named Christy Walker who doesn't show up on Google? He’s always taken care of us. He’s always been there. Maybe you need to trust that he knows what’s best for him, even if he isn't ready to share it with you yet."
​Lena looks around the wrecked office, the adrenaline finally starting to leak out of her. She looks at the piles of paper and the empty shelves, and for the first time, I see a flicker of shame in her eyes. "I just don't want him to get hurt."
​"He’s tougher than you think," I say. "And so are you. But you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep this up. Put the books back, Lena. Let’s go get some breakfast. You need to be a daughter again, not a private investigator."
​She stands there for a long moment, her chest heaving. Then, slowly, she nods. "You're right. I’m being crazy. It’s just... everything feels so fragile lately."
​"I know," I say, and I mean it more than she could possibly understand.
​As she starts to haphazardly shove folders back into drawers, her phone pings on the desk. She picks it up, her thumb swiping across the screen. Her expression shifts from exhaustion to a strange, guarded interest.
​"It's Mercer," she says, her voice sounding different. "He wants to meet for coffee before his afternoon lectures. He says he has something he wants to discuss regarding my thesis."
​I feel a jolt of alarm. Mercer. The man who was just on the phone talking about illegal shipments and the northern corridor. The man who is working for Richard Thorpe. My first instinct is to tell her to stay away, to warn her that he is dangerous, but I catch myself. If I tell her that, I have to explain how I know. I have to explain why I was under his desk yesterday.
​I have already won one major battle tonight. I have successfully steered her away from the investigation into Cole and me. If I push too hard on Mercer now, I risk her becoming suspicious of my motives. I have to play the long game. I’ll handle Mercer later, once I have a better handle on what that "shipment" actually is.
​"You should go," I say, forcing a casual tone. "It’ll get your mind off things. A little academic talk might be exactly what you need to feel normal again."
​"Yeah," Lena says, a small, genuine smile finally appearing. "You're right. I'll go meet him. Are you headed to the fields?"
​"Weekend practice," I say, checking my watch. "Cole is going to kill me if I’m late, especially after everything."
​We leave the house together, the morning air crisp and biting. I watch her drive away toward the university, a knot of guilt twisting in my stomach. I am sending her straight into the arms of a man who is part of the very machine that is trying to crush us, but I don't see another choice. Not yet.
​Soccer practice is a blur of physical exertion. I run until my lungs burn and my legs feel like lead, using the pain to drown out the voices in my head. Cole is there, of course, but he stays professional. He watches me with those eagle eyes, barking instructions and marking plays, but every time our eyes meet, I feel the electric charge of what happened in my kitchen. He doesn't say a word about Portugal. He doesn't say a word about Emma. He just coaches.
​By the time I finish my extra laps and head to the locker room, the sun is beginning to set. I’m exhausted, covered in sweat and grass stains, but I feel a sense of accomplishment. I managed to fix the restaurant mess. I managed to get Lena to stop her search. I am winning.
​I drive home in the dark, the heater in my car blasting against the evening chill. I’m thinking about a hot shower and the email from the Portuguese scout. I need to figure out how to respond without alerting the world to my departure.
​I pull up to my apartment building and stop. Someone is sitting on the front steps, a dark silhouette against the yellow glow of the streetlamp. As I get closer, I recognize the coat. It’s Lena.
​She isn't moving. She is just sitting there with her knees pulled up to her chest, her phone held face-up in her lap. The screen is glowing brightly, casting a ghostly light on her face. She looks pale, her features frozen in a mask of absolute stillness.
​"Lena?" I ask, stepping out of the car. My heart starts to pound, a slow, heavy rhythm of impending doom. "What are you doing here? I thought you were with Mercer."
​She doesn't look at me. She just holds the phone out, her arm steady despite the way her breath is hitched in her throat.
​"Someone sent this to me," she says, her voice so quiet I can barely hear it over the sound of a passing car. "Anonymously. About ten minutes ago."
​I walk up the steps and look down at the screen. My world ends in a single, vivid frame.
​It is a photo from the gala. It must have been taken from across the room, through a gap in the crowd. In the image, Cole and I are dancing in a dark corner of the ballroom. His hands are on my waist, pulling me close, and his forehead is pressed firmly against mine. The look on his face is one of pure, unshielded devotion. The look on mine is even worse. We look like two people who believe they are the only inhabitants of the planet. There is no mistaking it for a coach and a player. There is no mistaking it for a family friend.
​It is the undeniable, visual proof of a love that was never supposed to exist.
​"Riley," Lena says, finally turning her head to look at me. Her eyes are dead, two dark holes in a face I no longer recognize. "Tell me this isn't what it looks like."