Page 89 of Keller

And all the while, calling me William and thinking I wanted to do business with him.

And here is Quinn. Warm in a way that doesn't demand anything. Present in a way that pulls me forward instead of backward. And honest.

Two threads.

One tied to questions I've carried for seventeen years, to a mother who died with secrets and a father who never spoke of what happened before my mom left that night.

The other thread pulls toward something alive. Something that doesn't live in the past.

I type a response.

Landing in a couple hours. I'll call you when I get back.

I hit send before I can overthink it.

The pilot appears at the lounge entrance of the waiting area. “The plane check is done, and then it will take the crew a little time, but we should be ready to go shortly. You’re welcome to board now if you like.”

I pocket the phone and stand.

Charlton Grant will still be in Savannah tomorrow. Next week. Next month. He's not going anywhere. He's built a life designed to stay.

I'm not done with him. I don't know what the next steps are for me, so I'll just marinate in today for some time. I’m not sure what I want to do with this.

And I don’t want to think about it anymore today.

I board the jet and settle into my seat. The engines start their low hum. Through the window, the Georgia coast stretches flat and green toward the horizon.

I came looking for a man in a photograph. I found someone real, someone with a voice and a handshake and a philosophy about revealing what buildings already know.

The past has a face now.

TWENTY-THREE

Quinn

Masking as Liberation:Within many krewes, masking allows members to temporarily shed public identity, stepping into costume and character during parades and private balls. This ritualized anonymity creates a sanctioned space where status can be concealed, roles can shift, and the boundaries between spectacle and self briefly dissolve.

Chairs scrape back,and laptops snap shut. Someone makes a joke about surviving another budget cycle. I slip out before anyone can pull me into a side conversation. It’s 3:24, and I’m not staying a minute longer than necessary.

My phone is already in my hand when I hit the hallway.

The hallway smells like recycled air and the faint remnants of someone's microwave lunch.

I reach into my bag and fish out my phone. The screen lights up.

One message, and it's from the one person I was hoping to see on my screen when I pulled out my phone.

Landing in a couple hours. I'll call you when I get back.

Heat rushes through my chest before I can process the words. My lips curve upward.

Footsteps echo behind me. Agent Ramirez rounds the corner, file folders tucked under his arm.

I flatten my expression. Press my mouth into something neutral.

"Mercer."

"Ramirez."