Page 104 of Keller

The routing anomalies belong to the trafficking task force. Robert Stone's murder belongs to homicide. The compliance failures belong to my preliminary review. Three separate investigations are running on parallel tracks.

I'm the only one standing at the intersection.

I could categorize it as inconclusive and bury this right where it sat before.

The thought forms clearly. Rationally. I could note the wire in my working file. Flag it as unexplained but not necessarily irregular, and move on to the override metadata I still need to review. Then someone else could pick up the thread later, if anyone ever does.

That's what a careful investigator would do. Follow the mandate and stay in her lane.

I stare at the screen, my heart racing.

Keller's face surfaces in my mind, the way he looked this morning before he left.

He has nothing to do with this wire. Nothing to do with his father's death, the routing anomalies, or the dormant trust. He runs poker tables. He stays away from the shipping side.

But his name is Stone. And if this is something, he will absolutely be affected.

My cursor moves away from "Send,” and I select "Save Draft" instead.

The message folds itself into my drafts folder. Time-stamped. Waiting, neither sent nor deleted.

I'll revisit after I review the metadata again.

That's what I tell myself.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Quinn

Women’s Krewes:Iris, Muses: Krewes such as Iris, founded in 1917, and Muses, established in 2000, highlight the growing presence and leadership of women within Carnival. Through parades, philanthropy, and signature throws—like Muses’ hand-decorated shoes—these organizations expanded traditions once dominated by all-male societies.

A familiar,soft tone pulls me out of sleep.

"Alexa, off," I say to the Echo on my nightstand, turning off the alarm.

It takes me a couple of minutes to pull myself fully from sleep. My phone sits beside it. I pick it up to see it's 6:47 AM. There is a text notification from Keller that was sent forty minutes ago. I click through to read it.

Table ran late. Didn't want to wake you. Hope you got some rest.

Three sentences, the kind of text a man sends when he's tired but thinking of you anyway.

I read it again anyway.

The memory of his mouth on me surfaces before I can stop it. The caring patience of it, the way he looked at me before he touched me, as if waiting for permission.

Oh, god, and the way he held me afterward like there was nowhere else he needed to be.

I press my lips together and force the thought away. Tears well in my eyes. I'm in a terrible position, and neither option is easy.

The ceiling above me is blank and indifferent. Morning light creeps across the wall. A car passes outside. Somewhere down the block, someone slams a door. The city moves forward without hesitation.

But the draft is still sitting there.

I sit up in my bed, arranging the pillows behind me, and pull my knees to my chest, resting my forehead against them.

After a few minutes of wallowing in my impossible predicament, I decide to get up and into the shower. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a moment, feet on the cool floor.

My reflection stares back from the mirror across the room. Hair tangled, expression unreadable. I'm a woman who made a choice and now has to live with the consequences.