“Mara’s drafting a statement,” Reid reveals. “Plain language.We provide licensed services at our public sites, confidentiality protects safety at our trauma programs, audits are clean, we are proud of our outcomes and our partners, and we will not put survivors at risk for headlines.No interviews. If they want a quote, they get the one-line version.”
“Internal?”
Reid’s jaw moves. “We tighten. Fire drills at pilots today. Perimeter adjustments. We drop staff rotation lists to single digits so fewer names live on any page. We monitor Caldwell’s staffer and wire him a phone number full of decoys. We audit our own network. If there’s a leak in this house, I want a name before Caldwell does.”
“There isn’t,” Navarro says automatically, then catches herself. She has been in this work long enough to know thatthere isn’tis always the first half of a sentence that ends withuntil there is.“We trust our people,” she corrects, “and we check anyway.”
I look at Caldwell’s mouth moving on the screen. The cameras love him with his salt-and-pepper hair, casual tie, sleeves rolled, the posture of a man who thinks he can convince you he’s tired of politics while running for king of them. He wants to stand next to words likeunaccountableandtaxpayerbecause they keep average people feeling angry in a way that makes him feel useful. He’ll take our audited reports and pretend they hide the part he wants to show. He’ll use one name out of context and let the country fill it with fear.
“He thinks this is about budget,” I say quietly. “It’s about permission. He wants permission to see what he has no right to.”
Navarro’s mouth tightens. “I have women who will leave if they smell this on a television in a common room,” she spits. “That’s his war. Mine is keeping doors from becoming triggers.”
I pull my phone out, not to check for texts but to stop my hand from doing something stupid like throw the folder across the room. The screen lights with Aurora’s thread anyway. A single line from earlier still hangs there from the invitation to sit in on interviews. Below it, a fresh message pings in while my thumb sits on glass.
Thank you for letting me sketch in the clinic.
I don’t answer now. Not while Caldwell rehearses behind my left shoulder how he plans to split my work intogoodandbadfor people who don’t know it has to be both to live.
“Where does she fit in this?” Navarro asks, because she sees everything I try not to let my face say.
“She gets a restricted briefing,” I say. “Sanctuary protocols, confidentiality, what we can and cannot say. She’s in this house. If Caldwell’s staff comes sniffing around art shows and donors, they will look for her. Better she knows our rules before someone tries to write a narrative for her.”
Reid levels me with the look he uses when he’s not sure if I’m asking for a security response or a confession. “You’re playing with fire,” he says.
“It’s already lit,” I say. “ But, this is a contained burn. She’s inside the line anyway.”
“Then keep it technical,” Navarro says.
I look at her. She holds my eyes like she wants to be sure I understandI am not talking about art, Cassian, I am talking about control.I nod because it is the only answer that lets us all keep doing our jobs without killing each other.
Reid flips to a second document. “We also got a tip,” he says. “A ‘former volunteer’ at a partner org says someone inside our Residency program is talking to Caldwell’s staff. No name. Justa woman with access to the house who isn’t staff.”
Navarro turns to me. “That could be Lila,” she says, “without malice. She talks. Or it could be a plant. Caldwell knows you keep artists here sometimes.”
“Or it could be nothing with a microphone,” Reid adds. “We’ll check devices, run network logs. Quietly.”
“We don’t search guests,” Navarro says, a warning.
“We don’t,” I agree. “We can check what leaves our network without opening bags.”
Reid nods, already writing the orders I don’t have to speak.
The muted television cuts to a clip package: Caldwell shaking hands in a hospital corridor, Caldwell at a ribbon cutting, Caldwell kneeling to talk to a child in a tiny gown like he’s never had to restrain a sixteen-year-old while a nurse stitched him for free. The chyron repeatsCUTTING WASTE, SAVING LIVES.The people who put text on screens for a living love verbs that don’t make them pick up a box.
The door clicks. Mara steps in with a printed draft and a pencil stuck behind her ear like she’s about to mark a wall’s stud. “Statement,” she says, handing me the page. “Two paragraphs. No adjectives exceptlicensedandconfidential.”
I read:
The Ward Foundation provides licensed services at publicly listed sites and confidential trauma programs that protect survivors of violence. Our independent audits and public filings reflect this structure and our compliance with all applicable laws. We will cooperate with lawful oversight while protecting the safety of those we serve. We will not release any information that could endanger survivors or compromise the security of our programs.
No apologies. No defense. The language is exactly as dry as safety requires.
“Send it,” I instruct.
Mara slides the pencil out of her hair and makes a checkmark. “Donor calls at four,” she adds. “I’ll field. If Caldwell’s staff reaches out for comment, we give them the statement and nothing else. If they schedule a hearing, we’ll need you silent until we know what room he wants. And I’m saying this now, so I don’t say it later: do not weaponize the residency to make a point about art healing pain while we’re in a fight about whether pain deserves to be hidden. It will look cheap even if it isn’t.”
“Noted,” I say. “Tonight is internal.”
