Malcolm explained that Agrippa’s final championship years had ended in controversy, that money had vanished, and that certain records could damage powerful people if they ever became public. He did not offer proof. He offered hints, each one designed to make Trent feel that he had stumbled into a secret rather than been recruited into someone else’s plan.
“Why don’t you do this yourself?” Trent asked.
Malcolm’s smile thinned. “Because people notice when I move. They don’t notice men like you until it’s too late.”
Trent should have walked away. He knew it even as he listened. But the internet had made him a joke, and Malcolm was offering him something he had not felt since the video went viral: the possibility of taking control again.
“What do you need?” Trent asked.
“For now, nothing dramatic. Find out where Agrippa goes, who he speaks to, and whether he still has anything from his fighting days. Do not approach his son. Do not touch the boy. If you cross that line, I will be the least of your problems.”
The warning sounded oddly sincere, which made Trent more uneasy than a threat would have.
When he returned to his car, he found three missed calls from Mason and another unknown message: YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO HAS BEEN CONTACTED.
Trent looked back at the foundry. Malcolm had already disappeared into the dark.
For the first time since the park, Trent understood that he had not been the strongest person in the story. He might not even be the most dangerous fool in it.
Agrippa waited until Larry was asleep before spreading the old papers across the kitchen table. Victor had brought over a box of records he had kept from the final year of Agrippa’s career: training schedules, medical reports, contract drafts, and printouts of emails that had seemed unimportant at the time.
The first email was from Malcolm Rourke to Victor, sent three days before the championship fight. Malcolm had asked Victor to keep quiet about Agrippa’s knee injury and to make sure the medical report did not reach the commission before the bout. The language was careful, almost polite. That made it worse.
Agrippa read it twice.
“He knew,” Victor said quietly. “He knew you weren’t healthy enough to fight.”
“He told me the doctors had cleared me.”
“He told all of us what we needed to hear.”
The next document was a spreadsheet listing contract payments, appearance fees, and deductions. Several amounts appeared twice under different labels. A bonus Agrippa remembered being promised had been marked as paid, then transferred into an account he did not recognize. The figures were too neat to be accidental.
“I thought the money had been delayed,” Agrippa said.
“It may have been diverted,” Victor replied. “But this isn’t enough to prove who did it.”
A phone rang from an unknown number. Agrippa almost let it go to voicemail, but Victor raised a hand.
“Answer. Put it on speaker.”
A distorted voice came through the line. “You found the papers.”
“Who is this?”
“Someone who knows what was in the black notebook.”
Agrippa leaned forward. “Where is it?”
“Not with me. It contains names, dates, and figures that connect the payments to people who were supposed to protect you. Malcolm didn’t work alone.”
“Then tell me who did.”
“I can tell you where to start. Find Natalie Brooks. She handled the accounts for the promotion company before she disappeared from the business. She kept copies of records Malcolm believed he had destroyed.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn’t. Trust the documents. Ask Natalie about the final contract and see what she says.”
The caller gave an address and said Natalie would be there at eleven the next morning. Then the line went dead.
Victor looked at Agrippa. “This could be a trap.”
“Of course it could.”
“You have a son to think about.”
“That’s why I need to know who is watching us.”
Agrippa copied the number, saved the recording, and photographed every document on the table. He sent copies to a secure account Victor had set up years earlier, then placed the originals in a folder. If someone was trying to destroy evidence, he would not make it easy.
A new email arrived a few minutes later. There was no name in the sender field, only a string of numbers. The subject line read: TOMORROW, 11:00 A.M. The message contained the same address and one additional sentence: COME ALONE. DO NOT BRING THE POLICE.
Victor read it over his shoulder. “That settles it. You’re not going alone.”
“If they see you, they may cancel.”
“If you go alone, they may make sure you never come back.”
Agrippa looked toward the hallway, where the night-light under Larry’s bedroom door made a narrow gold line across the floor. The threat was no longer about lost money or an old championship. Someone had watched his home, asked about his child, and begun pulling the past apart piece by piece.