Read Chapter 4: The Leak

The rain had stopped by the time Elena reached the newsroom that afternoon, but the air inside was thick with something worse than weather. Phones rang off hooks. Keyboards clattered in frantic bursts. And on the wall of screens behind the sports desk, one headline blazed in black and red:

REID'S RIGHT HAND BETS ON MATCHES — WEST LONDON FC COVER-UP EXPOSED

Elena stopped dead. Her coffee went cold in her hand.

Marcus Webb, her editor, stood by the main display with his arms crossed, a satisfied tilt to his jaw that made her stomach turn. He saw her and waved her over with two fingers, like calling a dog.

"Elena. There she is. Our woman on the inside."

"I didn't—" She couldn't finish the sentence. The screen showed a photo of Tommy Whitmore leaving the training ground, his face half-hidden under a hood, and beneath it, a litany of accusations: gambling debts, unpaid bookies, a leaked screenshot of what appeared to be a betting slip with West London FC player names on it.

"You didn't what?" Marcus's smile was thin. "File it? No. You didn't. But your source did."

"I don't have a source inside the club. Not for this." She stepped closer, lowering her voice so the junior reporters couldn't hear. "Marcus, this is wrong. I was working the dressing room dissent angle. Nothing about gambling."

He shrugged. "Then someone's doing your job for you. The tip came in anonymous, but the detail was too good to ignore. Bank records, timeline, everything. We ran it past legal, and they signed off this morning."

"This morning." Elena's mind raced. Her meeting with Frank wasn't until tonight. If someone else had already pushed a story into print, then either Frank had betrayed her—or someone else inside the club had moved first.

"You look pale," Marcus said. "Get some color. I want a follow-up by tomorrow. Reaction from the club, the league, the betting commission. You're the one with access."

"I don't have access anymore. They barred me from the training ground. You know that."

"Then find another way. That's what I pay you for." He turned back to the screens, already dismissing her. "And Elena—check your phone. The club's PR people have been calling for an hour. They think you wrote it."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Nine missed calls. All from West London FC numbers.

The last one was from a private line she didn't recognize. She stepped into the stairwell and called it back.

"Elena Marsh."

"They're blaming you." Jack Reid's voice was raw, scraped clean of the polished captain's tone he'd used in the press conference. "The board saw the byline. My chairman wants your press credentials revoked permanently. He wants your editor's head on a spike."

"I didn't write it, Jack. I didn't source it. I don't even know who did."

"Then you're either lying or you're useless. Which is it?"

The insult landed like a slap. Elena pressed her phone harder against her ear. "Listen to me. I was in the dark just like you. Someone leaked that story to my paper, but it wasn't through me. My editor received an anonymous tip. That's all I know."

Silence on the line. She could hear his breathing, steady and controlled, the breath of a man who was used to keeping his temper in check for ninety minutes at a time.

"Tommy's a kid," Jack said finally. "Twenty-one years old. He made mistakes—small ones, personal ones. Nothing that should have ended his career. But the whole country's going to read this and decide he's a crook before he's even had a hearing."

"You're protecting him."

"I'm protecting the truth. The gambling happened eighteen months ago. He was young, scared, and stupid. He paid off the debts himself, went to the club doctor, got help. This story makes it sound like he's actively throwing matches for bookies right now."

Elena closed her eyes. The staircase smelled like stale coffee and printer ink. She leaned against the wall and tried to think clearly.

"Show me the tip," she said. "The one my editor received. If I can trace where it came from, I can prove it wasn't me."

"Why would I help you prove your innocence?"

"Because if you don't, someone inside your club gets away with this. Whoever leaked that story wanted it to destroy Tommy—and by extension, you. They used my newspaper as a weapon. Do you want to find out who's holding it?"

Another silence. Then, quieter, almost reluctant: "There's a pub called the Queen's Head on Lillie Road. Seven tonight. Come alone. No notebook, no phone."

"I have a meeting tonight."

"Then cancel it." The line went dead.

Elena stared at the blank screen. Frank. Her meeting with Frank was at the Black Bull on the other side of the ground—the same pub where he'd promised to show her evidence that would "hurt everyone who loves the club." If she went to Jack instead, she'd miss Frank. But if she missed Frank, she might never get another shot at whatever he knew.

She dialed Frank's number. Voicemail.

"Frank, it's Elena. I know you've seen the news. I need to move our meeting earlier—six, maybe? At the Black Bull. Call me back."

She hung up and stood in the stairwell for a long moment, her breath fogging in the cold air. The story had been leaked, but not by her. Which meant either someone inside the club had decided to go public, or—worse—someone inside her own newsroom had taken matters into their own hands.

She thought about Marcus Webb's too-easy smile. The way he'd said "your source" like he knew something she didn't.

Elena pulled out her notebook—the new one, the one she'd bought after the rain had ruined her old pages—and started writing. Questions. Names. Probabilities.

Frank. Jack. Tommy. Marcus. Someone had lit this fire, and they were all standing around watching it burn.

Her phone buzzed. Not Frank. A number she didn't recognize. She opened the text.

One photo: a screenshot of a betting slip. A name at the top—not Tommy's. Below it, a message in block capitals:

THEY'LL THINK YOU WROTE THIS. WATCH YOUR BACK.

Elena's grip tightened on the phone. Someone was playing her. Someone who knew exactly how the game was meant to go.

She pocketed the phone, grabbed her coat, and headed for the stairs. The Black Bull first—find Frank, see his evidence. Then Queen's Head, if she survived long enough to make it there.

The club was in lockdown. The story was out. And somewhere between a journalist who wanted revenge and a captain who wanted protection, Elena Marsh was standing in the crossfire.

She pushed through the fire door into the grey London evening and started walking fast, her heels clicking on wet pavement, the text still burning in her pocket.

Someone wanted her out of the way. Which meant she was exactly where she needed to be.