Read Chapter 14: Prying Eyes

Elena’s phone buzzed against the oak table at 6:47 a.m., dragging her from a sleep so shallow it felt like blinking. She grabbed it before the second vibration, squinting at the screen. Marcus Webb. Her editor. Twelve hours left on his deadline, and he was calling early, which meant he was either nervous or greedy. Both, probably.

She answered, voice rough. “You’re up early.”

“And you’re not answering emails.” His tone was clipped, the kind he used when he’d already made up his mind about something. “I need you to confirm the timeline on the recording story. We’re looking at a 6 p.m. publish slot unless you’ve got something better.”

“I told you I need more time.”

“You told me you’d have proof it’s a setup. Do you?”

Elena sat up, feet finding the cold floor of Jack’s brother’s flat. She’d slept in yesterday’s shirt, her notes fanned across the coffee table like a hand of cards she couldn’t win with. “I’m close. I’ve got a witness. Someone who can corroborate the bigger picture.”

“A witness to what, exactly?” Marcus’s voice sharpened. “Because I’ve had a very interesting conversation this morning with a colleague at the *Daily Ledger*. Name’s Pete Holloway. Rings a bell?”

Elena’s stomach dropped. Pete Holloway. The tabloid journalist Greg had mentioned meeting at the pub—the one who’d been sniffing around the club’s missing staff member before Elena even knew Sarah was gone. The same Pete Holloway who, according to Greg, had been asking pointed questions about Adam Foster’s medical records.

“Why is Pete Holloway calling you?” she asked, keeping her voice level.

“He’s not calling me. I called him. After I got a tip that someone on my own staff was feeding him information about your investigation.” Marcus paused, and she could hear the weight of his suspicion settling into the line. “He said you two had a mutual contact. A club source. He mentioned a name—Greg.”

Elena’s jaw tightened. “Greg is my source. He’s a club staffer who’s been helping me—”

“Greg is *also* Pete Holloway’s source.” Marcus cut her off. “Pete’s been paying him for information about the medical situation at West London FC for three weeks. He’s been running the same story I sent you to cover, and he’s been doing it with your guy’s help.”

The room tilted slightly. Elena gripped the phone. Greg had been feeding them both? It explained the leak of Jack’s recording—not from Ricky Dempsey’s phone, but from Greg. He’d had access to the club’s internal communications. He’d known about Jack’s threats to quit. He’d known about Sarah’s disappearance.

But Greg had also given her the USB drive. He’d given her Frank’s evidence. He’d led her to the concussion scandal.

“Greg’s not my source,” she said, steadying her voice. “He’s a middleman. The real source is a former club employee named Frank—the one who recorded the original meeting he and I discussed. I’ve been working with what Frank left behind.”

“Then you have the evidence?”

“I have part of it.”

“Part isn’t enough, Elena. I’ve got a newsroom breathing down my neck, and I’ve got Pete Holloway ready to run the same recording tomorrow morning with a *Daily Ledger* byline. If you don’t give me something concrete by six tonight, I’m pulling you off the assignment and running what I have.”

Elena stood, pacing across the worn rug. “If you run that recording now, you’re running a setup. Someone deliberately leaked it to make Jack look guilty of sabotaging the club. That’s not journalism—that’s collusion.”

“Then prove it.”

“I need forty-eight hours. I’m driving to Cornwall today to meet a witness. If she talks, I’ll have everything—the full conspiracy, the tampering, the cover-up.”

Silence stretched on the line. Elena could hear Marcus’s breathing, the creak of his office chair. Finally, he spoke, slower now. “Is there something you’re not telling me about your relationship with Jack Turner?”

The question hit like a cold splash. “My relationship with him is professional. He’s the story, not a partner in it.”

“Because I’ve heard you’ve been spending time with him. Off the record. Away from the stadium.”

Elena’s grip tightened on the phone. Someone had been talking. The surveillance van. The hotel break-in. Whoever was watching them had eyes inside the club’s inner circle—and now they were feeding information to her editor.

“That’s not how it is,” she said. “Jack is helping me access sources. That’s all.”

“Fine.” Marcus’s voice was flat. “Six p.m. tonight. You either walk into my office with a story that clears Jack Turner *and* exposes whoever leaked that recording, or I pull you back to London and hand the whole thing to the crime desk. You’ll be covering charity fun runs by Friday.”

He hung up before she could argue.

Elena lowered the phone, staring at the wall. Her pulse thrummed in her ears. Twelve hours. She had twelve hours to drive four hours to Cornwall, find Sarah Okafor, convince her to talk, and get back to London with hard evidence. It wasn’t impossible. It was just very, very tight.

Jack emerged from the bedroom, hair mussed, still in the t-shirt he’d slept in. He saw her face and stopped. “What happened?”

“Marcus knows about Greg—and about you.” She told him the exchange in clipped sentences. Jack listened, his expression darkening as she finished.

“Pete Holloway,” he repeated. “I know that name. He wrote a hit piece on a West Ham player two years ago. Ran a story about a dressing room brawl that turned out to be fabricated. He settled out of court.”

“So he’s not a clean operator. That tracks.” Elena shoved her phone into her pocket. “But what bothers me is how Marcus knew about you. About us working together. That’s not public knowledge.”

Jack’s jaw worked. “The surveillance van. They saw us. They knew we staged the argument—somebody in the loop told them it was fake.”

“Or they’re watching more than we think.” Elena looked at him, a cold thread winding through her. “Marcus said he heard I’ve been spending time with you. That’s specific. That means someone with access to your schedule has been reporting to him.”

“Marcus is in London. He doesn’t know my movements unless someone told him.”

“And the only people who know we’ve been together are you, me, and the people watching us.” She paused. “And whoever broke into my hotel room.”

Jack crossed to the window, peering through the blinds at the quiet street below. Morning light was creeping over the rooftops, but nothing moved out there. No vans. No figures. For now, they were alone.

“Your editor gets a call from a tabloid journalist,” Jack said slowly, “who knows about my involvement. The same journalist who’s been paying Greg. Greg, who fed me to you in the first place.” He turned back to face her. “What if Greg isn’t just a middleman?”

Elena’s mind raced. Greg had given her the USB drive. Greg had claimed Frank had passed it to him in good faith. But Greg had also been taking money from Pete Holloway. What if the USB drive wasn’t a genuine leak—what if it was planted? A way to point her at Sarah Okafor, to lead her somewhere specific?

“Frank’s USB drive,” she said slowly. “It was loaded with Sarah’s evidence. Evidence that pointed us toward Cornwall.” She met Jack’s eyes. “What if we’re being guided?”

Jack stepped closer, his voice low. “Guided where?”

“To Sarah. To wherever she is. Someone wants us to find her.” Elena’s throat tightened. “Or they want us to *think* we’re finding her, so we walk into a trap.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded. “We go anyway.”

“Jack—if Sarah’s evidence is planted, if she doesn’t exist the way we think she does, we’re walking into something blind.”

“She exists.” His voice was certain. “She texted me. She’s been hiding because she’s scared—not because she’s a trap.” He grabbed his coat from the back of a chair. “I’ve been lying to everyone about her for two weeks. I’m not going to stop trusting her now.”

Elena watched him, something softening in her chest despite the weight pressing down. “Marcus gave me twelve hours,” she said. “If we’re driving to Cornwall and back, we’re driving fast. And I don’t know if you remember, but you can’t drive.”

“I remember.” Jack’s mouth twitched. “That’s why you’re driving.”

He tossed her the keys to his brother’s car—a battered Golf parked two streets away. She caught them, the metal cold against her palm.

“And if we’re being watched?” she asked.

“Then they’ll follow us.” Jack’s eyes were hard. “And we’ll see who they are.”