Isla rubbed her eyes and sighed. Being a spokesperson wasn't exactly on her list of favourite things to do. But still, better her than Robert.
His files were all over her office, stacked in piles on the floor and on her desk. She'd pulled out those relating to the Wellman project and settled on the sofa to review them. She'd been through them twice already and hadn't found any irregularities. Maybe the accidents really were an unfortunate coincidence or in the very least, didn't relate to the firm's work.
Knowing that was wishful thinking, she scoffed. Goddamn Robert. What had he gotten them into?
A quiet knock took her attention. Gordon leaned in through her office doorway. "Got a minute?" he asked.
"Sure."
He wove his way through the stacks of files and sat next to her on the sofa. "How are you doing?"
"I'd be better if I didn't have to deal with the media."
"These Robert's files?" he asked, waving a hand around the office.
"Yeah," she nodded. "I figured I should review them before meeting the PR firm."
"It may all come to nothing, you know. We can't say anything about ongoing litigation, and so far there's absolutely nothing tying us to the Wellman accident — it's just supposition on Marian Leo's part."
"I've been wondering about that." Isla folded her hands over the open file on her lap. "Marian's too smart to commit slander. Is there any chance, no matter how remote, that she actually has something?"
"No."
"You sound pretty sure about that."
Gordon smiled. "I am. Look, I know Robert's been distracted lately, and God knows he can shoot his mouth off — but he's not incompetent."
She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Have you ever heard of a company called Spinnaker?"
A flicker of something passed his eyes, so fleeting she wondered if she'd seen anything at all. "No, why?"
"Marian approached me on the street the other day and asked about it."
He turned in his seat to face her more directly. "Apart from all this with Marian and Robert, how are you?"
She shrugged. "I'm fine."
"When I first heard about the building collapse, and about those poor people who died, I couldn't help but wonder . . . I worried that it might bring back memories."
Isla sat taller and avoided his gaze.
"It wasn't your fault. Louise knows that."
"Don't talk about my mother." She flipped through the pages on her lap, pretending to read them.
Gordon laid a hand on her arm. "Isla, dear . . . 9/11 was so long ago. There was nothing you could have done."
"I could have kept my breakfast date," she said and pulled her arm away.
He slumped a little in defeat and after what seemed an eternity, he stood and straightened his jacket. "I'll leave you to your work then."
A few minutes after he left, she received a text from Eve.
8:00 p.m., February 14. Jeremy's Restaurant in Manhattan.