Page 129 of Keller

I don’t know what that will accomplish. I only know I am done standing still.

The anger has nowhere else to go. Quinn is in New Orleans. I walked out of her house, and I'm not going back. My brothers don't know what I know about our mother. My father is dead.

Charlton Grant will do.

I cross the street.

The lobby hits me like a wall of cold. The air conditioning is aggressive, almost clinical, and the contrast to the humidity outside makes my skin prickle. Polished floors and a reception desk with fresh flowers mirror the outside aesthetic. It's the kind of space designed to make clients feel they're in capable hands.

The receptionist looks up. Recognition flickers across her face.

"Good afternoon. May I help you?"

Before I can respond, a door opens to my left.

Charlton steps out mid-sentence, his attention still directed at his phone. He's wearing a pale blue shirt, sleeves rolled twice at the forearm, exactly the way I remember. His posture is perfect. His voice is measured and unhurried.

He finishes the call, and then he turns to see me.

"Mr. Baker." A slight pause. Mild surprise, quickly smoothed over. "I wasn't expecting you in town today."

That calm. That goddamn composure. The same steady tone he used over lunch when he talked about his son, his wife, his careful life built on intention and discipline.

The same man who fucked my mother while she was married to my father.

I close the distance in three strides before he can finish his sentence.

My fist connects with his jaw before the receptionist can finish standing.

The crack of knuckles against bone echoes off the polished floors. The sound bounces back from the high ceiling. Charlton staggers sideways, his shoulder hitting the wall. His hand shoots out to brace himself. The receptionist gasps somewhere behind me.

I stand over him, breathing hard. My chest heaves. My pulse pounds in my ears. Years of questions rush to the surface. Years of watching my father turn bitter and cruel bubble up inside. Years of wondering what broke my mother before the accident took her overwhelm me.

All of it focused into that single strike.

Charlton straightens slowly. One hand goes to his jaw as he works it back and forth. A red mark blooms across his cheek where my fist landed. His eyes meet mine.

He doesn't swing back. Nor does he raise his voice.

"What the hell was that for?"

The question is even and measured, as if I'd spilled coffee on his shirt instead of splitting his lip.

"For my mother." The words come out rough. "For my father. For my entire fucking family."

His brow furrows. The confusion looks genuine.

Good. Let him squirm.

"My name isn't William Baker." I take a step closer. "It's Keller Stone. Eleanor Stone was my mother."

The change in his face is immediate. His eyes sharpen, and the polite detachment drops away. Something flickers behind his expression.

"Keller. We met at the Argentum building. I can't believe it's you."

"You had an affair with her." I keep my voice low, but the words carry. "You fucked a married woman who had six children at home. You humiliated my father. You were the reason she carried a secret that destroyed her."

Charlton's jaw tightens. He presses his thumb against the side of his index finger. That small grounding gesture I noticed at lunch.