Page 123 of Split Decision

She asked about the Morrison project. She asked about my father's back. She asked about Luke's next fight, Andi's recovery, and whether the center's board reinstatement had gone as planned. Twenty minutes of warmth and connection and the careful reconstruction of context before anything consequential.

I know this technique. I've watched her deploy it in boardrooms.

I sat there for twenty minutes and let her deploy it on me.

"Brandon." She looked at her cup. "I need to ask you something."

"Okay."

"Has Luke said anything to you? About me?"

I was careful. "He has concerns."

"About my recommendations."

"About the direction of them, yes."

She nodded slowly. Not surprised. "And you?"

"I've had questions," I said. "I did my due diligence. I found the Garrett Cole connection. You explained it."

"I did," she said. "And you accepted it."

"Yes."

She was quiet for a moment.

"I want you to know," she said, "that everything I've done since I got involved in this situation—every recommendation, every strategy—I've made it with your best interests in mind. And Luke's. And Andi's."

I looked at her.

"I believe you," I said.

And I do. That's the honest answer. I believe that Marin, sitting across from me with her tea and her precise warmth and her extraordinary ability to understand how systems work—I believe she meant to help.

There’s something I don't say, though.

Meaning to help and actually helping are not the same thing.

The other thing I also don't say:

Luke's concern isn't about her intentions. It's about the direction of the outcomes. Every recommendation narrowed something. Every strategy reduced something. Even when it made sense—even when the logic was sound—the cumulative direction was away from Andi, away from visibility, away from the positions that would make her harder to silence.

I don't say any of this because I look at her, and she’s real and present, looking at me with the directness she always has, and the alternative to trusting her is a kind of loneliness I don't want to name.

"Can I ask you something?" I pose.

"Of course."

"Before you came to me—before I called you about the Commission notice—had you heard of the situation? Of Andi and Luke?"

A pause. Brief. Controlled.

"I follow political crisis patterns," she says. "The Rhoades' case was significant. I was aware of it."

"Were you aware of Andi specifically?"

She holds my eyes. "Yes."