Arthur is quiet for a moment, glancing at Walter. "That," he says, "might be a question for someone else entirely."
"Someone connected to the Coltons?" Delia guesses.
Neither man answers directly, but something in the silence tells Delia she has found a thread worth pulling.
"One more question," she says. "The land deal: do you have proof Richard Colton is pressuring the council?"
"Only his own mouth," Arthur says. "He came here himself and said as much. Threatened to find code violations if I wouldn't sell."
Delia's pen stops moving. "Would you say that on the record?"
Arthur looks at Walter, who gives a small nod. "Every word of it," Arthur says.
Across town, in a converted warehouse, mirrors line every wall. Marcus Webb watches his star pupil run through drills. The gym is called Colton Elite Performance; it opened eighteen months ago, funded entirely by Richard Colton. Derek moves through a combination: fast and precise. Nobody could argue with his technique; that was never the problem.
"Again," Marcus says, arms crossed. "Sloppy footwork on the pivot."
Derek resets and runs it again, sharper this time. Marcus nods, but something in his face stays tight. He has watched the viral video eleven times now. Eleven times he has said nothing to Derek about it. That is not new for Marcus; he has been saying nothing for a long time.
After practice, Derek heads toward the locker room, already checking his phone. "You've got that look," Derek says, not looking up. "The disappointed one."
"I don't have a look," Marcus says.
"You've had it since Tuesday," Derek says. "Since the mop lady."
Marcus sets down his clipboard slowly. "Her name is Vivian Hale," he says. "And you nearly hit a seventy-four-year-old man."
"I didn't hit anybody," Derek says. "I stopped."
"Only because she stopped you first."
Derek's jaw tightens the same way it did in the dojang. "Whose side are you on?"
Marcus looks at him for a long moment. "I'm on the side that doesn't end up on the news for the wrong reasons."
"You used to be more fun before you got old," Derek mutters, grabbing his bag.
"I used to be a lot of things," Marcus says quietly, mostly to himself.
Derek scoffs and walks out, phone already back up to his face.
Marcus stands alone in the empty gym, staring at his own reflection in the mirrored wall. He has coached Derek for three years; he has never once told him the truth about where his own career actually started. Maybe it is time somebody did.
That evening, Marcus drives twenty minutes past the edge of town, down a gravel road lined with old oak trees. At the end of it sits a small house with a porch light on. A hand-painted sign by the door reads simply: Voss. Marcus has not been out here in six years.