Page 119 of Keller

The pattern repeats. The pattern always repeats.

She got close on purpose. Was the fall in front of the carriage staged? Did she know who I was before the gala, before any of it? She targeted me because I was access to my family’s business. Because proximity to me meant proximity to the family. To the business. To October.

Every conversation we had runs through my head again, becoming suspect. I try to recall every time she steered the topic back to my brothers, my work, and my father.

She was working an angle, building a case, and using me to build it.

The alternative is worse. The alternative is that she did care for me in the beginning and chose the job anyway, knowing how much it would betray me. That would mean she held me in her bed and then walked into work and wrote memos about my family.

No. The first version is cleaner, easier. It was strategy from the start. Professional distance disguised as intimacy.

I can live with being fooled. I can't live with being chosen and then discarded.

The elevator reaches the garage, the doors opening onto concrete and blinking fluorescent light.

My car waits in the reserved space. Black. Silent. Empty.

I slide behind the wheel and sit there, leaving the engine off, resting my hands on my thighs.

My phone alerts in my pocket, but I don't check it. It's either one of my brothers asking where I went, or West with another problem I don't have the space to navigate.

The phone buzzes again, so I pull it out and look at the screen. It's from Quinn. I click on her name, curious what she has to say.

Hey, you. Missing you. I hope you have a better day today.

I stare at her name until the screen goes dark.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I could respond, pretend I don't know. I could play the same game she's been playing and see where it leads.

But I'm not built for that. I read people and assess risk. What I don't do is lie to people I let into my bed.

Apparently, that courtesy isn’t universal.

I swipe away from her message without responding and scroll through my recent calls instead. The name I’m looking for sits halfway down the list.

Charlton Grant.

I study the name, memorize his ten digits, and the 912 area code. I have a direct line to answers I've been circling for most of my life.

The rage builds. It's quiet at first, a low hum beneath my ribs. Then it sharpens and focuses, searching for a target.

Two women. Two secrets. Two times I let someone close enough to hurt me.

My mother kept secrets. Quinn kept secrets. Both of them stood in front of me and let me believe I understood the ground I was standing on.

That part is on me.

My finger moves to a different contact. Stone Aviation. The line picks up on the second ring.

"Mr. Stone. How can I assist you?"

"I need the G650 ready this afternoon to go back to Savannah."

"Of course, sir. What time would you like to depart?"

"As soon as possible."

"We'll have her fueled and waiting."