"That was one of the things I questioned."
Sarah stared at the document.
It was not proof that Richard had concealed anything. It did, however, establish that he had been involved in the process that removed the records from the medical center.
"Can we get the originals?" she asked.
"I don't know where they are."
"Who would know?"
"There's one person you should talk to. His name is Martin Vale. He was the tournament's chief timekeeper."
"Is he still working?"
"Not in the sport. He moved to a town outside the city. He was there the night Michael died, and he argued with the organizers afterward."
"Why?"
"Because he said the official timeline was wrong."
Sarah felt a chill move through her.
"What happened to him?"
"He lost his job. Then his house was repossessed. He told people he was being punished for speaking up, but nobody could prove anything."
Olivia pushed the documents across the table.
"Take these. Don't tell anyone I gave them to you."
"I can't thank you enough."
"Don't thank me yet."
"If you discover what really happened, make sure you understand the difference between truth and justice. They're not always the same thing."
That evening, Daniel read the documents in silence.
He examined the signature, the dates, and the handwritten note. He compared them with the articles he had collected.
Then he opened an old notebook.
Inside were names, telephone numbers, and fragments of conversations he had recorded during the weeks after Michael's death.
Some people had denied remembering the tournament. Others had stopped answering their phones. One had told Daniel to stop asking questions if he wanted to keep his job.
Richard Caldwell had authorized the transfer of medical records.
And the person who could explain the original timeline had been forced out of the industry.
Daniel looked at Sarah.
"Where is Martin Vale?"
"Outside the city."
"How far?"
"About two hours by car."
Daniel stood and reached for his jacket.
"Not tonight."
"Why?"
"Because you're angry."
"I'm focused."
"You're shaking."
Daniel looked down.
Sarah released his arm.
"You want answers. I understand that. But if you go to him tonight, you'll be thinking about Michael instead of listening to what Martin has to say."
Finally, he folded the documents and placed them inside the notebook.
"Tomorrow morning," he said.
"Tomorrow morning."
For six years, Daniel had believed that his brother's death was the consequence of one terrible night and a series of mistakes he should have prevented.
Now he was beginning to suspect that the tragedy had not ended when Michael died.
Someone had spent years making sure it remained unexplained.
And that meant the truth was still somewhere in the world, waiting for someone brave enough—or desperate enough—to find it.
Ethan arrived at Blackstone the following morning with four hours of sleep and a determination to prove that the previous day's humiliation had meant nothing.
He trained harder than usual.
He hit the heavy bag until his shoulders burned. He ran repeated combinations with Marcus. He asked Raymond to review his defensive movements, then ignored half the corrections because he didn't like hearing how many mistakes he was making.
By ten o'clock, his frustration had become impossible to conceal.
"Again," Ethan demanded.
They exchanged a short combination. Ethan moved forward too aggressively, caught Marcus with a glancing shot, and followed with a heavy right hand.
Marcus blocked it and stepped back.
"Enough."
"What's your problem?"
"My problem is that you're trying to win a training round."
"So?"
"So we're supposed to be learning."
"Maybe you should learn to keep up."
"You're still thinking about Daniel."
"I'm thinking about my performance."
"No, you're thinking about the fact that somebody finally treated you like an ordinary fighter."
Ethan threw his gloves onto the bench.
"Everybody has an opinion today."
"Because everybody watched you lose control."
"I didn't lose."
"You got outclassed."
Ethan stepped forward.
"Say that again."
"You got outclassed. And instead of asking why, you're trying to punish everyone who reminds you."
For several seconds, Ethan looked as though he might start a fight.
"You're better than this."
"Don't tell me what I'm better than."
"Then show me."
Marcus walked toward the changing rooms.
Ethan remained beside the bench, breathing hard.
He wanted to hate Daniel. It would have been easier if the man had taunted him, mocked him, or celebrated the victory.
But Daniel had done none of those things.
He had given Ethan a few honest observations and walked away.
That left Ethan with an uncomfortable possibility.
Perhaps the problem wasn't that Daniel had made him look weak.
Perhaps Daniel had simply revealed what was already there.