Page 100 of Keller

I stay awake, unable to fall back asleep. My mind races.

The ceiling above me holds no answers. Shadows shift as a car passes outside, headlights sweeping briefly across the wall.

Savannah is a world away, not the shadow that consumed me only hours ago. The linen tablecloth, the wedding ring, the eighteen-year-old son who existed as an infant when Grant was with my mother.

I shoved it all into a box somewhere between the airfield and this bed.

But now, in the dark of night, it demands my attention. I needed to see him, to watch his face and hear his voice and measure the man against seventeen years of questions.

But tonight I choose her.

Quinn shifts in her sleep, burrowing closer. Her fingers curl against my chest.

I match my breathing to hers and let the rhythm pull me toward something like peace, even knowing morning will not be this quiet.

TWENTY-SIX

Quinn

The Zulu Social Aid & Pleasure Club:Founded in 1909, Zulu emerged from New Orleans’ Black mutual aid traditions and evolved into one of Carnival’s most iconic parading organizations. Known for its hand-decorated coconuts and community roots, Zulu reflects how krewes can serve not only as social societies but as pillars of cultural identity and resilience.

My desk chaircreaks as I settle into it, adjusting the lumbar support the way I always do. The office smells like toner, and the familiar clack-clack of the Xerox machine printing and sorting copies completes the office ambiance.

My body remembers last night. Not the weight of his arm or the warmth of his chest behind me, but the way he knelt in front of me like there was nowhere else he would rather be. The way he took his time. The way he looked at me before he touched me, as if asking a question he would not move past without permission.

I have not let a man do that since college, since the one time it turned clinical and careless and left me wishing I could disappear inside my own skin.

Last night was not that.

Last night I let him, and I stayed. And I freaking loved it.

A slow ache lingers between my thighs, but it is not discomfort. It's an aching, but the good kind.

I close my eyes and force it away. I have to focus on work, or I'll get absolutely nothing done.

I set my coffee down and boot up my computer. The login screen glows blue in the dim morning light. My fingers move across the keyboard, entering credentials I could type in my sleep.

Keller has his game night tonight, and then a meeting in Houston tomorrow. I won't see him until Thursday at the earliest.

I miss him already.

The thought catches me off guard, but I push it aside, too, and click through to the secure federal review system.

Focus.

The working file on Robert Stone loads. I scan the summary page, reorienting myself. Shipping manifests, routing amendments, and David Parsale's interview notes are all saved in the file. The organizational chart with its neat hierarchy of names and titles opens on the desktop.

I pull up the variance reports from October 10th through 13th to review again, to see if there is anything else there that might tell me where to look. The three containers still bother me, one of which ended up being the one Customs and Border Patrol intercepted with fentanyl precursors. It was rerouted forty-eight hours after Robert Stone took a bullet.

Why? And who directed it?

Someone gave that order. Someone who didn't put their name on the paperwork.

Parsale claims verbal instructions from the executive office, and there’s no documentation to confirm his assertion. But Kree believes him, and everything else backs up his story.

But Ridge Stone exposed the shipment himself and cooperated with federal agents. That behavior doesn't track with someone trying to hide illicit cargo.

I scroll through the executive tier again. Chief Operating Officer. Chief Financial Officer. Vice President of Operations. Vice President of Logistics.