"I know," Delia says. "That's usually where the good stories are."
Later that day, Delia sits on a bench across the street from a small office building downtown. She watches Richard Colton walk inside; Councilman Hensley's name is printed on the directory by the door. She snaps a photo, timestamped, and jots the date in her notebook. Twenty minutes later, both men leave together, laughing over something on Richard's phone.
Inside that office minutes earlier, Roger Hensley had not been laughing at all.
"You said this would be quiet," Hensley had told Richard, voice low. "Now there's a viral video and a reporter asking questions."
"The vote still happens Friday," Richard said. "Nothing has changed."
"Everything has changed," Hensley muttered, though he said nothing more once they stepped outside.
Delia does not need a confession to know what she is looking at; she just needs enough pieces to make it undeniable.
That same afternoon, an anonymous email lands in Delia's inbox: no name attached, just a single forwarded document and three words in the subject line: Look into this.
The document is two years old: a regional taekwondo federation incident report marked confidential, detailing a failed drug test at a tournament. The athlete's name has been redacted, but the date, the weight class, and the tournament location line up with one very specific competitor. Delia stares at the screen for a long moment. If this is real, Derek Colton's undefeated record is built on something other than talent. And if Richard Colton's money made this report disappear once, he will do it again. She needs more than a redacted document; she needs someone willing to confirm it on the record.
There is really only one person who would know for certain: Marcus Webb.
Delia finds Marcus at Colton Elite Performance the next morning, catching him just as he is locking up for a break.
"Mr. Webb," she says, "got a minute?"
Marcus eyes her notebook warily. "Depends what it's about."
"Two years ago," Delia says. "A failed drug test. A report that never became public."
Something shifts behind Marcus's eyes—quick and unmistakable. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says, though his voice lacks conviction.
"I think you do," Delia says gently. "I also think you've been carrying it a long time."
Marcus is silent for a long moment, glancing back toward the empty gym behind him. "Not here," he says finally. "Not like this."
"Then where?" Delia asks.
Marcus looks at her, something tired and heavy behind his expression. "Give me a few days," he says. "There's someone I need to talk to first."
He does not say the name Eleanor Voss out loud; he does not have to. Something in the way he says it tells Delia the conversation has already started.
"I'll wait," Delia says. "But not forever. This story is moving fast now."
Back at the Gazette that evening, Delia's editor leans over her shoulder, reading the draft so far. "You sure about this, Marsh?" he asks. "Naming a sitting councilman is a big swing for a paper our size."
"I'm sure about the paper trail," Delia says. "The rest just needs one more source willing to talk on the record."