As she sits down on the sofa and goes to work with the laptop balanced on her knees, I glance around the living space, looking for anything of interest. I study his dresser drawers for a few moments but decide to stay away because it would be too easy for him to notice something out of place. However, remembering Big Dale’s mattress magazine stash, I cross over to Tank’s bed and carefully raise one side of the mattress several inches, finding nothing but the box spring beneath.

I’m about to check the other side of the mattress when I hear some crackling audio coming from the laptop. Sarah quickly turns down the volume and says, “Oh my God. Come here and listen to this.”

“What is it?” I rush over and sit beside her.

“Just listen. It’s transferred audio from his phone. It’s the only clip in the folder. Look at the file name.”

Squinting and leaning in toward the screen, I see a file name that actually excites me. The file name is Horton. I’ve never been so happy to see that idiot’s name.

“Play it,” I say, my heart racing wildly.

We both lean in close to the speakers and listen to a surprisingly clear sixty-second recording of Coach Hank Horton and Tank Foster.

The highlights:

HORTON: “So you like what you’re seeing, huh?”

TANK: “I’ve put on ten pounds in four weeks. A few more cycles should do it.”

HORTON: “I don’t see why people get so worked up about this stuff. I look at them as advancements in athletic training. They don’t hurt you as long as you use them responsibly, which is exactly what we do here.”

TANK: “Some schools are randomly testing student-athletes.”

HORTON: “That will never happen here. Trust me.”

We listen to it three times, our jaws dropping closer to the basement floor with each playback.

“What’s the date on the file?” I ask.

She checks. “Exactly two weeks ago.”

“Oh my God. He actually listened to me,” I say, feeling a wave of relief spread through me. “Unbelievable.” I smile.

“What do you mean?” she asks, browsing for more files.

“The second time he lied to me was right after I told him I’d heard coaches were involved. He told me to leave the house or else he’d hurt me. Right before I ran out I told him that if it was true, if a coach was involved, especially Horton, then he needed to do something about it.” I pause and almost break out in laughter. “And he did. Jesus!”

“Yeah, he sure did,” Sarah says. She squints at the screen again. “No way.”

“What now?”

“A video file.” She points at the file, this one again titled Horton. “Imported from his phone.” We look at each other in disbelief.

Then Sarah clicks the file name.