He thought about Earl Hutchkins, about two whistleblower calls in one afternoon. About Patricia's voice when she'd said a documented coercion chain. Yes, he said the process is working. She seemed satisfied by that and moved on to a detailed discussion of the tomatoes and what she thought they should make with them. And Marcus let her lead and laughed where it was funny and offered opinions when asked.
And by the time they got back to the truck, the sky had turned that specific Georgia late afternoon gold. That always made him feel against all reasonable evidence that things were going to be all right. The following week moved fast. Monday, Patricia met with Hutchkins for a second full session. Tuesday, two more Callaway Regional employees contacted her office.
A a dispatcher named Lena Graves who had been told to alter delay records on three flights and a junior mechanic named Theo Park who had been instructed to backdate inspection entries. Wednesday, the NTSB released a preliminary statement confirming that the hydraulic system failure on flight 1,147 was consistent with an inspection that had been logged but not performed. Thursday, the story moved from regional aviation news to national broadcast. Marcus' name was in every version of it. He did not do additional interviews.
Patricia had been clear on and that the statement stood. The documentation spoke. The investigation was running and anything he added to the public conversation at this stage created unnecessary exposure. He stayed in Mon, did his charter flights, picked up Zoey from school, cooked dinner, and let the machinery of the truth do what the machinery of the truth is designed to do when it finally gets sufficient fuel. Diane was the constant through all of it.
Not in a dramatic way, not in the way of movies where the love interest materializes at critical moments with meaningful speeches. In the way of real life, she was next door. She was available. She texted to check in and respected when he needed quiet. And twice that week, she showed up at his door with food and no agenda.
And he let her in and they sat and talked about things that weren't the investigation because he needed that. He needed to remember that he was a whole person with a life that existed outside of all of this. On Wednesday evening, she came over and they sat on his porch after Zoe was in bed. And she said, "Without any preamble, the library got three calls this week from reporters asking if anyone knew Marcus Reed personally." He turned to look at her. "What did you say?" "I don't work at the reference desk," she said mildly.
"I catalog acquisitions. Nobody asked me." He relaxed slightly. But Marcus, she said, turning to face him more directly. I want you to know something. When this gets bigger, and it's going to get bigger and people start asking about your personal life.
I'm not going anywhere. That's not pressure. It's just information. He looked at her. Diane, I'm not asking you for anything.
She said firmly. I'm telling you a fact. There's a difference. She paused. You need to know who's actually in your corner, not who shows up when things are going well, who's there when they're complicated.
He held her gaze and the thing that had been building between them for months, patient, unhurried, built out of shared dinners and honest conversations and a drive-in movie and a hand across a seat in the dark. Was right there in the space between them, not demanding anything. Just present. I know you're there, he said quietly. Good, she said.