Isabella POV

The printer rattled again, adding another stack of budget reports to the mess on my desk. I pulled the pages closer and reached for my highlighter.

After midnight, the student union basement felt almost abandoned. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the editors who usually filled the newsroom with complaints and last minute questions were gone. Every so often, I heard footsteps somewhere upstairs, but otherwise the building had settled into silence.

My laptop lit up the middle of the desk. Around it were three versions of the university athletic department’s allocation logs from the past two years.

At first, nothing looked unusual.

Coaching salaries, equipment, travel for away games, facility maintenance. Everything was where it was supposed to be.

I almost moved on. Then I noticed the renovation figure at the bottom of the page.I pulled up the contractor invoice on my laptop and checked the number again. Then I checked the university ledger.

The difference wasn’t huge. Less than fifty thousand dollars. Small enough to disappear in a budget that size.

I checked the invoice again. The amount wasn’t the problem. The description was. Then, I checked the donor index to see where the money had come from.

Whitmore Holdings.

I tapped the cap of my yellow highlighter against the desk. I’d seen that name three times tonight. First in the athletic scholarship fund, then in the executive lounge renovation budget, and now here.

“You’re still here?”

I looked up. Marcus stood in the doorway with a half empty paper cup of vending machine coffee in one hand. His gray hoodie was wrinkled, and his glasses had slipped halfway down his nose.

“Apparently.” I gestured at the papers. “You could ask yourself the same question.”

“I was waiting for the final proofs. Then I saw your light on.”

“And you couldn’t resist checking whether I was still alive?”

He walked over and looked at the papers spread across my desk.

“Still digging through athletic funding? I thought you finished the parking lot piece last week.”

“Parking was boring.” I leaned back in my chair. “This is more interesting.”

Marcus glanced at the spreadsheets. “What’s interesting about a bunch of numbers?”

“Where they came from.”

He took a sip of his coffee, made a face and set it down.

“Just be careful with the Whitmore stuff.”

He nodded toward the papers. “Their money is everywhere. Scholarships, buildings, athletics. Walk around campus long enough and you’ll find their name on something.”

“I’m not accusing anyone of anything, Marcus. I’m checking the records. If there’s nothing wrong, they’ll prove it.”

Marcus gave me a look. “Just don’t be surprised if the administration gets nervous when people start asking too many questions about donors. They like things quiet around here.”

“Quiet is usually where the interesting stories hide.”

Marcus shook his head. “Just don’t let this place eat your entire night. I’m heading out before my brain stops working.”

“See you tomorrow.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and the newsroom went quiet again. The printer had finally stopped. All I could hear was the wall clock above the whiteboard.

I looked back at the documents.

My mother had a rule I carried into every story: before you decide what you think, find out what actually happened.

I’d learned why when I was sixteen. I’d spent an afternoon sitting on the floor of a municipal office, reading through construction complaints that everyone had apparently decided were easier to ignore. One document had changed the whole story.

I hadn’t forgotten that.

I pulled a fresh page from my notebook and wrote down the dates beside each Whitmore transfer.

The money itself wasn’t strange. Universities needed donors. The dates were.

One report listed the fifty thousand dollars as an equipment donation. The quarterly athletic report recorded the same amount as a loan repayment.

I checked the numbers twice. Same amount. Same quarter. Different description.

That didn’t prove anything.

It just meant I had another question.

A burst of laughter came from the hallway outside the practice facility.

I glanced toward the glass partition. A group of basketball players was heading toward the exit, still talking over one another after practice. I recognized Nolan Whitmore before I even saw his face.

Everyone on campus knew Nolan Whitmore. Basketball captain. Starting point guard. Whitmore heir. His face showed up on game posters, recruitment banners and the occasional sports article.

I’d never had much reason to care.

Near the doors, one of the younger players caught his foot on his own shoelace. His bag hit the floor, sending water bottles rolling in every direction.

A couple of the guys groaned and kept walking. Nolan stopped. He turned back, crouched down and started collecting the bottles.

The freshman said something I couldn’t hear. Nolan laughed and handed him the last bottle. Then he clapped him on the shoulder and said something that made the kid grin.

I looked up from the papers again. I’d expected someone harder to like, maybe that was unfair. I only knew him from posters, game reports and things I’d heard around campus.

Instead, he was just a tired college student helping a teammate pick up water bottles after midnight.

The group started toward the exit. Then Nolan glanced toward the newsroom.

He slowed.

His eyes met mine through the glass. I didn’t look away.

My hands were still on the desk beside the highlighted spreadsheets. He looked at the papers, then back at me.

For a second, neither of us said anything.

Then his teammates called for him. Nolan looked over his shoulder, gave me one last glance and headed outside.

I let out a breath and looked back at my desk.

To him, I was probably just another student in the newsroom.

To me, he was Nolan Whitmore, and his family name was sitting on three different financial records in front of me.

I turned back to my desk and pulled the audit report closer. I flipped through the appendix, checking the scholarship entries I’d flagged earlier.

Then I stopped.

One of the funds was listed as being managed through the Whitmore family trust. The account number matched one of the duplicate entries in my notes.

I checked it again.

Same number. Same amount. Different description.

I leaned back in my chair, it still wasn’t proof of anything. But it was enough to make me curious.

I opened a fresh page in my notebook and wrote:

WHITMORE HOLDINGS

I drew a line underneath it. If the records were clean, I would find that out.

If they weren’t, I wanted to know why.