Page 88 of Keller

His grip is the same as before. Firm. Steady. His eyes hold mine without wavering.

I came expecting to find a villain. Someone whose guilt would be written across his face. Instead, I find layers and discipline. A man who builds things that last, which is admirable.

Just like she would have admired.

I release his hand and turn toward the elevator. The doors close and the jazz fades. I stare at my reflection in the polished brass panel as the car descends.

Fourteen floors. Thirteen. Twelve.

My jaw aches from clenching.

Eighteen-year-old son. And no recognition in his eyes. They say I'm a spitting image of my mother. I guess Charlton doesn't see that.

The lobby opens. I walk through without stopping. The driver waits at the curb. He opens the rear door and I slide inside and say nothing.

The car pulls away from the hotel. The Savannah River disappears behind us.

The car moves through the historic district. I watch the squares pass through tinted glass. Monterey. Madison. Lafayette. Each one a green pause in the grid of streets.

I don't reach for my phone to call Marcus, or draft a message demanding answers or planning next steps. I'm not sure what I want to do with what I learned today. Anything? Nothing?

What did I gain in that dining room? Not a confession. Not a crack in the facade. Not the satisfaction of catching a man off guard.

I gained dimension.

Charlton Grant is not a villain from a cheap novel. He doesn't twirl his mustache or avoid eye contact. He doesn't overcompensate with charm or stumble over his words when family comes up.

He spoke with the ease of a man who has nothing to hide. If there was an affair, it wasn't reckless. Of course there was an affair. What else could it have been?

The thought settles in my chest. Uncomfortable and heavy.

My mother was not a woman who made careless choices. She didn't stumble into situations. She assessed. She decided. She moved with purpose.

If she was with Charlton Grant, she chose him. And he, apparently, chose to build something permanent with someone else.

The car turns onto the airport access road. Industrial buildings replace the historic facades. The transition is abrupt, like stepping out of a museum into a parking lot.

"Should be at the terminal in about five minutes, sir."

I nod but don't respond.

The private terminal is quiet. Two other jets sit on the tarmac, but the lounge is empty. I sink into a leather chair near the window and finally pull out my phone.

Three messages.

One from West about Tuesday's lineup and one from the pilot confirming our departure slot.

And one from Quinn.

I tap the screen.

Hope your trip is going well. I found a documentary about card sharks on Netflix. Thought of you. Let me know when you're back?

It’s a small thing. A light, curious, and easy text. The kind of message that expects nothing but invites everything.

I read it twice.

The contrast hits harder than it should. Moments ago, I sat across from a man who might have slept with my mother while his own child was learning to walk. I watched him discuss preservation philosophy and wine pairings like we were best buds from boarding school.