Darla looked away.
“But you need somebody willing to tell you the truth.”
The door closed.
Darla stood alone.
For the first time in years, there was nobody in the room telling her she was right.
While Darla struggled with the consequences of the video, Evan visited the company's oldest production facility.
It stood in a renovated industrial district outside New York City, occupying several brick buildings that had once supported a much larger manufacturing operation.
The factory wasn't glamorous.
Its loading docks needed repairs.
Some machinery was decades old.
The lighting was functional rather than fashionable.
But when Evan walked through the main production area, he immediately recognized something he'd been looking for.
Skill.
Real, difficult, irreplaceable skill.
A woman in her fifties examined a complex garment panel beneath a bright inspection lamp.
Nearby, a patternmaker adjusted a paper template.
A technician tested a specialized sewing machine.
At another station, several employees worked on hand-finished jackets requiring extraordinary precision.
Evan approached the factory manager.
“How long has she been doing that?”
The manager looked toward the woman inspecting the garment.
“Twenty-six years.”
Evan nodded.
“Has she trained anyone to replace her eventually?”
The manager hesitated.
“We've struggled to find people willing to learn.”
Evan studied the workstation.
“How long is the training?”
“Years, if you want someone truly excellent.”
Evan turned toward him.
“Then we should be investing in apprenticeships, not treating the skill as something we can replace overnight.”
The manager looked surprised.
“That's not what headquarters has been telling us.”
“I know.”
They continued through the building.
Employees watched Evan curiously.
Some recognized him from the airplane video.
Others had read about the acquisition.
A few whispered as he passed.
Evan didn't mind.
He had visited enough factories to understand that workers rarely trusted a new owner simply because he gave a pleasant speech.
Trust required follow-through.
At the quality-control station, he met a woman named Gloria Harris.
She was sixty-one, Black, and had spent thirty-eight years working in garment manufacturing.
Her hands were steady.
Her eyes were sharp.
And she possessed a reputation for detecting flaws most automated systems missed.
The factory manager introduced them.
“Gloria, this is Mr. Cole.”
She looked at Evan.
“I know.”
He smiled.
“Good morning.”
She returned the smile cautiously.
“Morning.”
Evan examined the jacket resting on her table.