The old coach stared at the floor.
Daniel's voice continued.
"Don't tell him everything at once. He'll want revenge. That's who he is. I know my son."
Adrian closed his eyes.
The recording crackled.
"But revenge is exactly what they want."
A pause.
Then:
"If Adrian ever finds the bucket, tell him this."
Another pause.
"His career was never an accident."
Adrian opened his eyes.
"What?"
The recording continued.
"They have been watching him since he was a boy."
The tape clicked.
Silence.
Adrian stared at the machine.
"What does that mean?"
Reed didn't answer.
Adrian walked to the window.
Outside, rain had begun falling.
The reflection in the glass showed his own face.
The same face printed on the banners.
The same face thousands of people recognized.
For the first time, Adrian wondered how much of his success had really belonged to him.
Then he remembered something.
A fight from three years earlier.
A decision he had thought was suspicious.
A judge who had scored him by an impossible margin.
At the time, Adrian had laughed about it.
Now he wasn't laughing.
He turned.
"Who fixed my fights?"
Reed looked at him.
"I don't know."
"Who knows?"
"Thomas."
Adrian grabbed his coat.
"Then I'll find him."
Reed stood.
"Adrian, don't."
But Adrian was already walking toward the door.
Behind him, the bucket remained open.
And inside it, beneath the notebook and photographs, lay the sealed envelope.
Neither man had opened it.
Yet.
The Man Who Wouldn't Talk
Thomas Vale lived above an abandoned repair shop on the east side of Westbridge.
Adrian found him there the next morning.
The building looked empty.
The windows were dirty.
The sign had fallen years ago.
Adrian knocked.
Nothing.
He knocked again.
"Thomas."
Silence.
He tried the handle.
Unlocked.
Inside, the room smelled of dust and old machinery.
"Thomas?"
A voice came from behind him.
"You shouldn't have come."
Adrian turned.
Thomas stood at the end of the hallway.
He looked smaller than he had the previous day.
Tired.
Almost fragile.
But his eyes were the same.
Sharp.
Watchful.
"Why did you give Reed the bucket?"
"Because he promised me he'd know what to do with it."
"He told me my father was investigating match fixing."
Thomas said nothing.
"Was he?"
"Yes."
"Did they kill him?"
Thomas looked at him for a long time.
"Do you really want the answer?"
"Yes."
"No, you want someone to blame."
Adrian stepped closer.
"Then give me the name."
Thomas sighed.
"Your father wasn't killed because he discovered match fixing."
"Then why?"
"Because he discovered who was paying for it."
Adrian waited.
Thomas walked into the kitchen.
"Coffee?"
"No."
"I need coffee."
He made it anyway.
Adrian watched him.
"You knew my father well?"
"Better than anyone."
"How?"
"We fought together."
Adrian frowned.
"You were a boxer?"
"Once."
"Professional?"
"Briefly."
"Why did you stop?"
Thomas looked at his hands.
"Because I learned what happens when you realize the man across from you isn't the person you're really fighting."
Adrian didn't understand.
Thomas continued.
"Your father and I were young. We thought boxing was simple. Two men enter a ring. One wins. One loses."
He smiled sadly.
"Then we learned there were men outside the ring who could decide both."
Adrian sat down.
"Tell me about the night he died."
Thomas stared into his coffee.
"Daniel called me."
"What time?"
"11:43 p.m."
"Why?"
"He said he had proof."
"Of what?"
"Payments."
"To whom?"
"Judges. Managers. Promoters. Sometimes fighters."
Adrian's expression hardened.
"And he was going to expose them."
"Yes."
"What happened?"
"He told me to meet him at an old warehouse."
"Did you?"
"I was late."
"How late?"
"Twenty minutes."
"And?"
Thomas looked up.
"He was already gone."
Adrian felt a chill.
"What did you find?"
"His car."
"Was he dead?"
"Not there."
"So he wasn't killed at the warehouse."
"No."
"Then what happened?"
"I don't know."
Adrian stared at him.
"You don't know?"
"Not everything."
"That's not good enough."
Thomas nodded.
"You're right."
He went to a cabinet and removed a small box.
Inside was a photograph.
Daniel stood outside the Westbridge Boxing Club.
Beside him was Thomas.
And behind them was a much younger Samuel Reed.
But there was a fourth man.
A man Adrian had never seen.
Thomas turned the photograph over.
Written on the back were four words:
THE NEXT ONE IS ADRIAN.
Adrian stared.
"When was this taken?"
"Three days before your father's death."
"Who wrote that?"
"I don't know."
"You're lying."
Thomas looked at him.
"No."
Adrian stood.
"You expect me to believe that?"
"I expect you to understand that there are questions you cannot answer by punching someone."
Adrian's face tightened.
"That's all I've ever been good at."
"No."
Thomas shook his head.
"That's what they've made you believe."
Adrian looked away.
"Who are they?"
Thomas hesitated.
Then he said a name.
"The Black Corner."
Adrian repeated it.
"The Black Corner?"
"A network. Not an organization in the way you imagine. No headquarters. No membership cards."
"Then what is it?"
"Connections."
"Between whom?"
"Promoters. gamblers. managers. businessmen. Sometimes officials."
"Politicians?"
"Sometimes."
"Police?"
"Sometimes."
Adrian felt his stomach turn.