Page 58 of Split Decision

“Two of those sentences are real,” I say. I keep my voice even. He needs the information, not my feelings about it right now. “The rest is constructed around them. The real ones were said in two separate private contexts weeks apart. Someone put them together.”

A silence.

“Which two?” he asks.

I read them to him. He’s quiet while I do.

“The boardroom one,” he says slowly, as if he’s turning it over from more than one angle. “Who was in the boardroom?”

“Board members. Brandon.” I pause. “Marin.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. I can hear him thinking, not reacting.

“And the bus?”

“Travis. Cami. Two crew in the front. Katelyn was in her room.”

Another silence, but this one feels more focused.

“The bus one is harder to trace,” he says. “Could have been overheard. It could have been repeated. It’s messy.”

“Yes.”

“But the boardroom one isn’t messy,” he continues. “That’s contained. That had to come from someone who was supposed to be there.”

“Yes,” I say, more firmly now. Because that’s the part that matters. “Luke.” I keep my voice level. “The transcript uses the language to make it look like I’m considering leaving you. That I’ve been thinking about it. That the weight of—of what’s attached to me is something I want to move away from.”

“I saw how they framed it,” he says, and there’s something in his voice now that wasn’t there before. No doubt. Something closer to restraint. “They want it to sound as if you’ve already decided.”

“You know that’s not true.”

He hesitates. Not long. But long enough that I feel it land in my chest before he answers.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

It’s not as immediate as I want. Not as clean.

“Luke.”

“I’m here,” he says, softer now. “I’m not going anywhere. I just… needed to hear you say it in your own words.”

That settles something in me. The edge eases just enough for me to breathe again.

“Someone is building a transcript of me,” I say. “Not just pictures. Not just press. A version of my voice that sounds authentic enough to be believed. That requires access, Luke. Real access. To specific conversations.”

He exhales slowly.

“Then this isn’t random,” he says. “This is someone who’s been close enough to study you.”

“The machine didn’t die with Jackson.”

“No,” he says. There’s a brief pause. “It adapted.”

We sit on the line for a moment, both of us in the same thought from opposite ends of the country.

“What do you want to do?” he asks.

“Nothing yet.” The answer comes from the same place my answers always come—clear and preceded by a full second of stillness. “Responding confirms that something was said. Denial feeds it. The safest move is silence for now.”