Page 68 of Split Decision

I call her that night.

She picks up on the second ring. No greeting.

"Tell me what you did," she says.

Her voice is controlled. That's the thing about Andi—the more controlled her voice, the more it costs her. She's somewhere on the bus, quiet around her. Late.

"I made an arrangement with the Commission," I say. "Sixty days of public separation. It closes my file before it escalates. It removes my case from your board's argument against you."

Silence.

"You decided that?" she says.

"Yes."

"Without telling me."

"You would've said no."

The line holds the silence for a moment.

"Exactly," she says. One word. Flat and final as a door.

"Andi—"

"You knew I would have said no," she says, "and you did it, anyway. And you're telling me this three days after the fact when it's already done."

"I thought if I handed you results instead of another fight?—"

"I don't need you to hand me anything." Her voice doesn't rise. That's the thing that gets me. She's not screaming. She's precise. "I need you to stand next to me. That's it. That's all I've ever needed from you. Not someone to fix it. Someone to stand there without flinching."

I look at the hotel ceiling.

"Luke." A pause. "Walk me through how what you did is different from what they've been doing to me."

"Because I'm not trying to hurt you," I say. "I'm trying to protect you."

"So was every person who made a choice for me without my knowledge." She says it without accusation. Just weight. "The board. The system that placed me in that house. The people who decided what I could handle and acted on it without asking." A pause. "You know that history. You know exactly what it cost me. And you used the same logic."

My jaw tightens.

"That's not fair," I say.

"No," she agrees. "It isn't. Neither is what you did."

Outside my hotel window, the city glows against the desert dark. The Strip at midnight, indifferent and permanent.

"I can't undo it," I say.

"I know you can't."

"If I pull back now, the file reopens. Everything I was trying to?—"

"I know." Her voice is quieter now. Still controlled, but something different underneath it. "I'm not asking you to undo it. I'm telling you what it cost."

I don't have an answer for that.

"I still think it keeps you safer," I say finally. It comes out quieter than I mean it to. It's not a defense. It's just the honest thing.