“I know.” Sarah’s voice was steadier now, as if saying the words aloud had released some internal pressure. “I’ve thought about nothing else for weeks. I have a mortgage, student loans. My mum’s in a care home and the fees…” She trailed off, staring at the pile of shredded napkin.
“There are legal protections for whistleblowers,” Harper offered carefully, ensuring Sarah felt supported even with the change in lead. “And ways tominimize—”
“They won’t matter.” Sarah cut her off. “You don’t understand how connected these people are. The Hawthorne Foundation isn’t just some charity—the board reads like a who’s who of City finance and government. The earl himself has lunch with cabinet ministers. They have connections at every major accounting firm in the country.”
Sarah reached into her handbag, a simple black leather thing that had seen better days, and pulled out a small flash drive. The kind of generic USB stick you could buy at any electronics shop, unremarkable and untraceable. She set it on the table between them, her hand shaking slightly.
“I’ve been copying files for weeks. Expense reports, donor logs, reimbursement claims going back five years.” Her voice was barely audible now. “I can’t be part of this anymore.”
Geoffries looked at the drive but didn’t reach for it immediately. “What changed your mind? What made you decide to come forward?”
Sarah was quiet for a long moment, watching the condensation slide down the side of her glass. “Last week, I processed a grant payment. £50,000 to a children’s literacy program in Bangladesh. I was curious, so I looked up the organization online.” She met Geoffries’s eyes for the first time since they’d sat down. “It doesn’t exist. The address is a vacant lot in Dhaka. The contact email bounces back.”
“Jesus,” Harper breathed, the disgust evident in her voice.
“That’s when I realized this isn’t just about rich people skimming money for holidays. This is about stealing from actual charitable causes. From children who need schools, families who need clean water, communities that depend on this funding.” Sarah’s composure cracked slightly. “I joined the foundation because I thought it was a chance to help organizations do good work. Instead, I’ve been enabling theft on a massive scale.”
Geoffries finally reached across the table and closed his fingers around the flash drive. “What’s your timeline? When do you need to get back to the office?”
“I called in sick today. Told them I had food poisoning—should buy me until Monday.” Sarah glanced at her watch. “But Marcus will start asking questions if I’m out too long. He’s paranoid about information security,makes us all sign in and out of the building, monitors our computer usage.”
“Okay.” Geoffries slipped the drive into an inside pocket of his jacket. “I need you to go home, act normal. Don’t change your routine, don’t suddenly start working late or early. If anyone asks about your behavior lately, you’ve been stressed about your mum’s health—personal problems, nothing work-related.”
Sarah nodded, but Harper could see the fear creeping back into her expression as the reality of what she’d just done settled in. “How long before…?”
“Before we publish? Months, minimum,” Geoffries confirmed. “I need to verify everything, get independent confirmation, reach out to the Foundation for comment. This isn’t something we can rush.” He leaned forward slightly. “Ms. Chen, once this comes out, the foundation will be under a lot of scrutiny, and you may lose your job. Are you prepared for that?”
Sarah was quiet for a long moment, staring at her hands. When she looked up, her expression was resolute. “I’ve been living with this knowledge for months already. Lying awake at night, knowing what I was part of. Whatever happens next, at least I’ll be able to sleep.”
Outside, the evening rush was beginning to thin out. Through the pub’s grimy windows, Harper could see office workers hurrying toward the tube station, their faces lit intermittently by the glow of their phones. Normal people living normal lives, unaware that a few miles away, a foundation that claimed to serve the world’s most vulnerable populations was systematically defrauding them.
“One more thing,” Geoffries said as Sarah gathered her things. “If anyone contacts you—journalists, investigators, even people claiming to be from regulatory bodies—don’t talk to them. Don’t confirm or deny anything. Just tell them you don’t know what they’re talking about and contact me immediately.”
Sarah stood, shouldering her handbag with the careful movements of someone trying not to appear suspicious. “How do I reach you? I don’t want to use work email or my regular phone.”
Harper had anticipated this. She pulled out a cheap pay-as-you-go mobile, the kind of burner phone she kept for exactly these situations. “This is just for you, Sarah. It’s clean, untraceable. David’s number is already programmed in, and mine is too, but for emergencies only. All primary contact should be through him.”
They left separately, Sarah first, then Geoffries five minutes later. Harper lingered for a moment, watching them both disappear into the thinning crowd. As she stepped out into the cooling evening air, she felt the familiar mixture of excitement and dread that came with a big story, tinged now with the strange sensation of letting it go. The flash drive, now in Geoffries’s pocket, contained enough information to potentially bring down one of the country’s most prestigious charitable foundations. But it also represented a target on their backs.
Harper pulled out her regular phone and typed a quick message to her editor.
Sinclair:Geoffries has the drive. Whistleblower secure.
As she walked toward the tube station, she found herself checking over her shoulder more than usual, studying the faces of other pedestrians, looking for anyone who seemed to be paying too much attention. Paranoia was an occupational hazard in investigative journalism, but it had also kept her alive and out of legal trouble more times than she cared to count. This time, however, the target wouldn’t be on her back.
The weight of the flash drive, now no longer hers, seemed to shift, carrying with it the hopes of countless people who would never know their donations had been stolen, and the career—possibly the life—of a brave woman who had chosen to do the right thing despite the enormous personal cost. Harper descended into the underground, lost in the crowd of commuters, already planning her next moves within the new constraints. The real work was just beginning.
9
Come for the Scandal, Stay for the Trauma
Harper stood outside Sebastian’s townhouse, already judging it.
From the street, it looked like a trust fund’s final form—sleek glass, matte-black framing, and dramatic architecture that practically shoutedI host underground poker nights and own art you wouldn’t understand. The kind of place that made her feel underdressed even when she wasn’t.
She rang the bell. The door opened with a swiftness that suggested he’d been anticipating her arrival.
Sebastian leaned in the doorway, a study in calculated dishevelment. No tie, just a dark dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Barefoot, naturally, like he’d just stumbled to the door and landed in an editorial spread.