"I've been thinking about Marin's recommendation," I say.
"And?"
I stand at the kitchen counter with my coffee. Andi left an hour ago for a morning full of MaxMorgan meetings, and she’ll be at the recording studio for the rest of the day. The house has the unique quiet of someone who has just left, as if it can still sense her presence. Her favorite coffee mug is still in the drying rack.
"I will not issue the statement."
A pause. "Luke?—"
"Not the way she wrote it."
"The Commission wants?—"
"I know what the Commission wants." I keep my voice level. "I also know that issuing a statement that treats Andi like she doesn't exist is not something I'm willing to do. If they want a statement, it mentions her. It doesn't elaborate. It doesn't connect the two investigations. But her name is in it because she is my team and I'm not pretending otherwise in public."
Another pause. Longer this time. I can hear Brandon working through the angles the way he always does—methodically, looking for the version that satisfies everyone.
"Marin's going to say it opens the door to linkage," he says finally.
"Then she can say that. She advises. She doesn't decide."
The stillness that follows is the silence of a man who agrees with you and isn't sure he should say so out loud.
"I'll let her know," Brandon says.
"You don't need to. I'll call her myself."
"Luke." His voice changes slightly. Not cautionary. Something else. "Be careful how you do that."
"She's a consultant, Brandon. Not family. Not my boss."
"I know." He pauses. "I'm just saying she doesn't respond well to being overruled directly. Better to let her think she's been redirected."
I stand there for a moment, wondering if Brandon fully comprehends what he just said. That's an interesting thing to know about someone. I file it away for future reference.
"I'll handle it," I say.
Marin takesthe call without warmth or hostility—the professional neutrality of someone who's heard pushback before and knows how to receive it without it affecting her position.
"I understand your instinct," she says when I finish. "I want to be clear that I'm not recommending you hide Andi. I'm recommending you don't amplify the connection between two separate regulatory processes."
"I understand the recommendation. I'm changing it."
She hesitates. "What does changed look like?"
"My name. My statement. One line acknowledging that Andi and I are facing separate inquiries and that I have full confidence in her work at the center. No elaboration. No press conference. Just the statement."
Complete silence this time.
"That line will generate questions," she says.
"Let it. Silence generates assumptions. This generates questions, which I don't answer."
Another beat of silence, only longer.
"It's your call," she says. Her tone is exactly the same as it was before. Neutral. Measured. Nothing in it I can point to or call her out for. It’s simply impartial.
What I notice—and don’t comment on—is that she doesn’t push back. She acknowledges the risk, clarifies her stance, and then disengages. That kind of retreat can be a form of professional restraint. Or it can mean she’s already calculated every possible scenario and found that this line of opposition isn’t strong enough to interfere with the larger plan she’s executing.