Page 119 of Split Decision

"I need this to be over."

"I know." I tighten my grip slightly. "It will be."

"When?"

"When Daniel decides we've done enough." I pause. "And I think we're almost there."

He's quiet for a moment. The house holds us. Outside, the neighborhood is doing what it does at seven in the evening—sprinklers, someone's music, the ordinary Atlanta summer proceeding without interest in what's happening in this kitchen.

"He's going to ask me questions," Luke says. "Brandon. When he's out of the hospital and thinking clearly. He told me he's not as far behind as I think."

"What did you say?"

"I said I know." He turns around, which means I have to step back, and he looks at me with the expression he has when something is costing him. "I'm lying to my brother to protect him from something that's already hurting him."

"I know." I hold his eyes. "Not much longer."

He nods. Once. The way he decides things.

"Call me next time," I say. "If something happens to someone we love—I want to be there. Even if I can't do anything. I don't want to be at the center while you're in an ER alone."

"I wasn’t alone," he says. "You were with me the whole time."

I look at him.

"You were," he says simply. "You always are."

The kitchen is quiet around us.

Outside, somewhere in the city, Evelyn Carrington is making her next calculation.

She doesn't know yet that the methodology stops working the moment the target stops being alone.

We stopped being alone a long time ago.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

LUKE

Syndi calls on a Wednesday because she has a genuine PR question. There's a sponsor interested in me ahead of the next fight announcement, and she needs a quote cleared. It's exactly the kind of call she's been making since Vegas. Professional. Clear boundaries. She's been doing her job since the night backstage when things went sideways, and we had the conversation we needed to have, and she's been doing it well.

We clear the quote. She asks how Andi is recovering. I tell her she's on the mend.

"Good," she says. She means it.

I'm about to say goodbye when she adds, almost as an afterthought: "Oh, I don't know if this matters, but I wanted to tell you something about that Caldwell woman. The one who was managing your situation?"

I go still. Keep my voice easy. "What about her?"

"I had dinner with a friend last month. She works in corporate governance consulting—a different firm, a different world, but she mentioned Marin's name in passing. Said they'd overlapped years ago." A pause. "She mentioned someone named Carrington. Said Marin used to work for her, back in D.C., before she went independent." Another pause. "I only remembered it because Carrington's a local name now. She sits on something connected to the state oversight structure, my friend said. One of those invisible board positions."

I look at the notebook on my nightstand.

Carrington. Already there, in my own handwriting, from the donor list thread Andi found three weeks ago. Already confirmed by Bill. Already the center of everything we've been building toward.

"Thanks, Syndi," I say.

"As I said—probably doesn't matter," she says.