Chapter 9: The Last Conversation
Flynn called on a Sunday.
Not through his attorneys.
Not through Cord Halsey.
Directly, from his personal number, at seven in the evening when the light outside was going orange and the hotel suite was quiet.
I was sitting in the armchair by the window with Iris asleep on my chest.
Owen was in the portable bassinet two feet away, making the small snuffling sounds he made when he was deciding whether to wake up.
I looked at Flynn's name on the screen for a long moment.
Then I answered.
"Flynn."
"Nora." His voice was different.
The boardroom register was gone.
The soft persuasive tone from the hospital room was gone.
What was left was something I hadn't heard from him in years — something tired and stripped of performance.
"I need to talk to you.
Not through lawyers."
"You're not supposed to contact me directly."
"I know." A pause.
"I'm asking you to give me five minutes.
After everything — I'm asking."
Iris shifted on my chest.
I put my hand on her back.
"Five minutes," I said.
He was quiet for a moment, as if he hadn't expected me to agree.
"The board voted this afternoon," he said.
"Formal suspension pending the governance review.
Cord is managing operations in the interim." Another pause.
"I've been removed from the building."
I didn't say anything.
"The attorney general's office called my personal attorney this morning," Flynn continued.
"They have Camille's recording.
They have Gerald's documents.
They have—" He stopped.
"It's substantial.
My attorney is telling me to consider my options."
"That sounds like a conversation to have with your attorney."
"Nora." His voice dropped.
"I need you to understand something.
What I did — in that hallway — I know how it looked.
I know what the doctor heard.
But I was under pressure that you don't fully—"
"Flynn." I kept my voice quiet because Iris was sleeping.
"You checked your watch.
You told the doctor to update the records.
You got in your car and you texted her that it was done." I paused.
"I was on a ventilator.
And you were relieved."
Silence.
"I don't need you to explain it," I said.
"I need you to understand that I understand it completely.
There's no version of that hallway that I haven't thought through in the past two weeks."
"I'm not a monstrous person," he said.
The words came out with an edge of desperation that I recognized as genuine.
"I made decisions that were wrong.
I know that."
"You made a plan," I said.
"Over years.
That's different from a decision."
He didn't answer.
"The twins' names are Iris and Owen," I said.
"I told you that in the hospital.
I want you to say them."
A long pause.
"Iris," he said.
"And Owen."
"They're going to need a father who can look them in the eye someday and tell them the truth about who he was and what he chose.
I don't know if that's possible for you.
But that's what they'll need."
"Nora—"
"Your five minutes are up," I said.
"Speak to Renata's office tomorrow about a visitation framework.
The children deserve to know their father.
That's separate from everything else."
I heard him breathe.
"I'm sorry," he said.
It came out quietly.
Not the polished apology of a man managing a situation.
Something smaller and more real.
I believed it, actually.
I also knew that sorry was not the same as different.
"Goodnight, Flynn," I said.
I ended the call.
Iris made a small sound against my chest — not waking, just shifting.
I looked down at her face, which was still the face of someone very new to the world, someone who had not yet decided what kind of person she would be.
Owen made a sound from the bassinet.
Louder.
I smiled despite everything.
May you like
"I hear you," I said quietly.
"I'm here."
