CHAPTER SIX The Things We Hide

Alexander hated losing.

He hated it in training, hated it in matches, and hated it most when the defeat had nothing to do with football.

On Saturday afternoon, Westbridge drew one-all against a team they should have beaten comfortably.

Alexander spent the entire match fighting his own thoughts.

His passing was inaccurate. His timing was poor. Twice, he failed to recognise an opening that would normally have been obvious to him.

When the final whistle blew, the supporters responded with a mixture of applause and frustrated boos.

He could hardly blame them.

He had been terrible.

In the changing room, Daniel dropped onto the bench beside him.

“You look like you want to murder someone.”

“I want to murder myself.”

“That's considerably less practical.”

Alexander pulled off his boots.

“Don't.”

Daniel's expression softened.

“It's one match, Alex.”

“One match we should have won.”

“And we will win the next one.”

Alexander stared at the floor.

He knew Daniel was trying to help, but reassurance felt useless when his mind was crowded with questions.

Who had leaked the photograph?

Why had someone sent Isabella a document bearing her father's signature?

And why had Richard Vale looked frightened when Alexander questioned him?

He had tried to put the matter aside during the match.

It had not worked.

“Have you spoken to Isabella?” Daniel asked.

Alexander looked up sharply.

“Why would I speak to her?”

“Because you keep checking your phone.”

“I am not.”

Daniel glanced at the phone beside his knee.

“You've checked it four times in the last five minutes.”

Alexander picked it up and shoved it into his bag.

“Happy?”

“Not particularly. I was hoping for a more dramatic reaction.”

“Find someone else to annoy.”

Daniel stood, laughing.

“Try not to lose your mind before the next match, Captain.”

When he was gone, Alexander sat alone for several minutes.

Then he retrieved his phone.

There was no message from Isabella.

He had no reason to expect one.

Still, he opened their previous conversation.

There wasn't one.

He had never asked for her number.

He told himself that was a good thing.

Isabella spent Sunday morning at her parents' house in Richmond.

Her mother had insisted she come for lunch, but Isabella knew the invitation was only an excuse to discuss the photograph.

The house looked exactly as she remembered it. Cream curtains framed the windows, framed family pictures lined the hallway, and the smell of roasted chicken drifted from the kitchen.

Everything seemed ordinary.

That made the document in her bag feel even more disturbing.

Her mother, Eleanor Reed, greeted her with a hug.

“You look tired.”

“Thank you.”

“Don't be sarcastic.”

“Then don't ask questions you already know the answer to.”

Eleanor stepped back.

“Isabella.”

“Sorry.”

Her mother studied her face.

“Have you been sleeping?”

“Some.”

“Eating?”

“Yes.”

“Properly?”

Isabella smiled faintly.

“I'm twenty-four, Mum.”

“And I'm your mother. I reserve the right to worry.”

For a moment, Isabella felt the familiar comfort of home.

Then she remembered why she had come.

“Is Dad here?”

Eleanor's expression changed.

“He's in the garden.”

“Good.”

“Isabella, please don't start an argument.”

“I'm not planning to.”

“You say that every time.”

Isabella kissed her mother's cheek and walked through the back door.

Thomas Reed was sitting beneath the old apple tree, reading a newspaper.

He looked up when she approached.

For a moment, she saw the father she remembered: gentle, patient, and always ready to listen.

Then she remembered the signature.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

“Hi, Dad.”

He folded the newspaper.

“Your mother tells me you've been busy.”

“I'm working on a story.”

“I saw.”

She sat opposite him.

“Then you know what it's about.”

His face became still.

“Isabella—”

“I found an old article about your departure from Westbridge.”

He looked away.

“And someone sent me a document with your signature on it.”

Thomas closed his eyes.

For several seconds, he did not speak.

Then he asked, “Who sent it?”

“I don't know.”

“Did you give it to the police?”

“It's a photograph of a document. I haven't verified it yet.”

“Good.”

She stared at him.

“Good?”

“You must be careful with documents like that. They can be altered.”

“Then help me verify it.”

He shook his head.

“I can't.”

“Why?”

“Because there are things you don't understand.”

“Then explain them!”

The words came out louder than she intended.

Her father flinched.

Isabella immediately regretted raising her voice, but the frustration had been building for years.

“You left when I was seventeen,” she continued, her voice trembling. “You told me you needed time to put things right. You never explained what went wrong. You never told me why people stopped speaking to you. And now your name is appearing in an investigation I'm working on.”

Thomas looked at her with an expression she could not decipher.

“I never wanted you involved in any of this.”

“That's not an answer.”

“I know.”

“Were you involved in the payments?”

He stood abruptly.

“I cannot discuss this with you.”

“Because you did something wrong?”

“Because I am trying to protect you!”

The words echoed through the garden.

Isabella stared at him.

“Protect me from what?”

He seemed to realise what he had said.

His shoulders slumped.

“Please,” he whispered. “Leave this alone.”

She felt something inside her crack.

“I spent years believing you abandoned us because you were ashamed of something you'd done.”

Thomas looked stricken.

“I never abandoned you.”

“You left.”

“I was trying to keep you safe.”

“From what?”

He opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Isabella stood.

“Fine.”

“Isabella—”

“No. You don't get to tell me to leave something alone when you've spent seven years refusing to tell me why it matters.”

She walked toward the house.

Her father did not follow.

By the time Isabella reached her flat, she was exhausted.

She had not obtained an answer.

Instead, she had learned that her father was frightened, that he believed the document could be dangerous, and that he was still determined to keep the past hidden.

She threw her bag onto the sofa and sat beside it.

Her phone vibrated.

An email from an unfamiliar sender.

You deserve to know the truth about your father.

Attached was a scanned document.

Isabella opened it.

The image showed a financial ledger from Westbridge FC. Several payments had been highlighted, including one to Meridian Sports Advisory.

At the bottom of the page was a handwritten note.

Approved pending review — T. Reed.

Isabella stared at the words.

The document could be genuine.

It could also be fabricated.

She could not publish it without verification, and she would not accuse her father based on an anonymous email.

But she needed to know what it meant.

She saved the document and sent it to the newspaper's legal team for preliminary review.

Then she searched the club's public records again.

Meridian Sports Advisory had been dissolved seven years earlier.

The same year her father left Westbridge.

The same year the financial records appeared to show the payments beginning to attract attention.

Isabella pressed her palms against her eyes.

There had to be an explanation.

She needed someone who understood the club's internal operations.

Someone who could tell her whether the documents made sense.

Someone who might know why Alexander Hayes looked so uncomfortable whenever she mentioned the financial allegations.

She hated that he was the first person who came to mind.

But she had reached the limits of what she could discover alone.

Alexander was leaving the training complex late that evening when he saw Isabella standing near the entrance.

She wore a dark coat, her chestnut hair loose around her shoulders. She looked tired, and there was a tension in her face that had not been there during their last meeting.

He slowed.

“Miss Reed.”

She turned.

“Alexander.”

He was surprised she remembered his first name.

Then again, she seemed to remember everything.

“What are you doing here?”

“I need to speak to you.”

“About the investigation?”

“Yes.”

He glanced at the security office.

“Is this a good idea?”

“No,” she said. “But I don't have many good options left.”

Something in her voice made him reconsider.

“Come inside.”

He led her to a small meeting room near the players' lounge. It was empty, quiet, and far enough from the main offices that they could speak without being overheard.

Isabella remained standing.

“Someone sent me documents connected to Meridian Sports Advisory.”

Alexander felt his stomach tighten.

“What documents?”

“Financial records. Payments that appear to have been approved by my father.”

He stared at her.

“Your father worked for Westbridge?”

“Seven years ago.”

Alexander sat slowly.

He had heard of Thomas Reed. The former employee's departure had been mentioned during a meeting several weeks earlier, though no one had explained the circumstances.

“Do you believe the documents are genuine?” he asked.

“I don't know. That's why I'm here.”

She placed a printed copy on the table.

Alexander studied it.

He recognised the club's old letterhead. The format looked plausible, but he was not an accountant and could not confirm whether the document was authentic.

“Where did you get this?”

“An anonymous email.”

“Have you shown it to the club?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because if the document is genuine, someone may have leaked confidential information. And if it's false, someone may be trying to manipulate you.”

“Which is exactly what I've been thinking.”

She sat opposite him.

“Alexander, I need you to tell me whether you know anything about these payments.”

He looked at the document again.

He wanted to tell her everything he knew.

Unfortunately, he knew very little.

“I've heard the name Meridian,” he admitted. “But I've never seen the accounts, and I don't know who authorised the payments.”

“Do you trust Richard Vale?”

The question caught him off guard.

“Why?”

“Because he's connected to the company.”

Alexander's expression changed.

“How do you know that?”

“Public records.”

He rubbed a hand over his face.

“I don't know what to think about him.”

“That's not an answer.”

“It's the only honest one I have.”

Isabella studied him.

For the first time, she seemed to believe him.

“Then we have a problem,” she whispered.

Alexander looked at her.

“What's that?”

She met his eyes.

“Someone wants me to believe my father was involved in a financial scandal. Someone is sending me documents, threatening me, and trying to make my investigation look compromised.”

She paused.

“And I think they know something about you, too.”

Alexander felt the room grow colder.

He thought of Richard Vale's warning.

He thought of the photograph.

And he thought of the expression on the director's face when he had questioned the club's financial records.

“Isabella,” he said carefully, “if you're going to continue this investigation, you need to understand something.”

“What?”

“Not everyone at Westbridge wants the truth to come out.”

She held his gaze.

“Then perhaps it's time someone made sure it did.”

For the first time, Alexander realised he was no longer simply irritated by Isabella Reed.

He was worried about her.

And that was a far more dangerous feeling.