Brooke sat across from them.
"There are several Nia Carters. A teacher in Maryland, a real estate agent in Georgia, a nurse in Pennsylvania. But nothing that looks like a professional fighter."
"Maybe she never competed," Madison said.
"Then why did she move like that?"
"Some people are naturally athletic."
Brooke took a drink.
"Natural athleticism doesn't explain everything."
Madison stared at her.
"Are you seriously defending her?"
"I'm not defending anyone. I'm trying to understand what happened."
"What happened is that I slipped."
Tessa raised an eyebrow.
"Twice?"
Madison's expression tightened.
Brooke looked down at her phone.
"I also searched Northstar Performance Center."
That got Tessa's attention.
"Why?"
"Because Daniel mentioned it last night."
"He mentioned the name?"
"He asked whether Nia had trained there. I thought it was strange, so I looked it up."
Madison leaned forward.
"And?"
"Private training facility outside Baltimore. Mostly closed membership. A lot of combat-sports development. The website is outdated, but it has old photographs from competitions."
"Did you find her?"
"No."
"Then we're wasting our time."
Brooke turned the phone toward them.
"Look at this."
The screen showed a photograph of a crowded tournament hall. Several athletes stood on a raised platform beneath bright lights. Behind them, a banner displayed the name of a regional combat-sports federation.
The photograph was grainy.
The faces were difficult to distinguish.
But one person near the back caught Tessa's attention.
A young woman with dark hair tied tightly behind her head.
She wore a black competition uniform.
Her expression was calm.
"Is that her?" Tessa asked.
Brooke enlarged the photograph.
"I'm not sure."
Madison leaned closer.
"That could be anybody."
"Maybe."
Brooke opened another image.
It showed a group of athletes standing around a coach. The young woman appeared again, this time wearing a medal around her neck.
The photograph was dated seven years earlier.
There was no caption identifying the athletes.
Madison shrugged.
"She could have been a beginner."
Tessa continued looking at the picture.
"Beginners don't usually stand like that."
Madison rolled her eyes.
"Here we go."
Before Tessa could answer, a voice interrupted them.
"You're all still talking about her?"
Daniel Price stood in the doorway.
He wore a black Iron Harbor shirt and carried a clipboard beneath one arm. His expression suggested he had heard enough to know exactly what the conversation was about.
Madison crossed her arms.
"We're discussing training."
Daniel glanced at Brooke's phone.
"That looks like a discussion about a person."
Brooke put the phone down.
"We were trying to find out where Nia trained."
"Why?"
"Because she has experience."
Daniel placed the clipboard on a nearby bench.
"That's not a crime."
"No one said it was," Madison replied.
"Then why does everyone sound like they're preparing a case against her?"
Madison's jaw tightened.
Daniel had never been especially impressed by status.
He had spent years coaching people who could barely complete a push-up and people who could fight professionally. He had learned that the most dangerous mistake in a gym was assuming that a person's appearance, reputation, or social standing told you how much they knew.
He had also learned that pride made people careless.
"She was new," Madison said. "She walked into our gym, made comments, and challenged three champions."
Daniel raised an eyebrow.
"That's not how I remember it."
"She said all three of us looked like we needed the round."
"After you offered her three options."
Madison looked away.
Daniel continued.
"And she didn't challenge anyone. She accepted a light round. There is a difference."
Brooke glanced at Tessa.
Tessa said nothing.
Daniel picked up his clipboard again.
"If she comes back Thursday, I expect everyone to treat her like a member. Not a mystery to solve."
Madison stood.
"Nobody's treating her badly."
Daniel looked directly at her.
"Good. Then there shouldn't be a problem."
He walked toward the office.
For a moment, the three women remained silent.
Then Brooke looked at Madison.
"He's right about one thing."
Madison frowned.
"What?"
"If she comes back, I want another round."
Madison gave a short laugh.
"Of course you do."
Brooke did not smile.
"Not because I want to prove anything. Because I want to understand what she did."
Tessa nodded slowly.
"Me too."
Madison looked between them.
She hated the feeling growing inside her.
It was not fear.
She had fought too many opponents to be frightened by one quiet woman in an ordinary training shirt.
It was something worse.
Uncertainty.
For years, Madison had been the person other fighters studied. New members watched her warm up. Coaches asked her to demonstrate combinations. Visitors recognized her from tournament photographs.
Now she was thinking about someone whose name barely appeared online.
Someone who had paid for one month of membership in cash.
Someone who had not even asked for a special training partner.
Madison stood and threw her used hand wraps into her bag.
"Fine. Let her come back."
She pulled the zipper closed.
"I'll be ready."
Across town, Nia Carter sat at a small kitchen table in a rented apartment.
The room was quiet.
A cup of coffee stood beside a folded newspaper. Her gym bag rested near the door, still partly open from the previous evening.
Nia was not looking at her phone.
She was looking at an old photograph.
It showed her at twenty years old, standing in the center of a tournament platform. Her hair was shorter then. Her face was younger, but the expression was familiar.
Beside her stood a man with silver hair and a weathered face.
He wore a dark tracksuit with a small embroidered emblem on the chest.
Coach Samuel Reed.
The man who had taught her that a fighter's first responsibility was not to win.
It was to remain in control.