Page 68 of Rhodes

I get up and go stand in front of the refrigerator without opening it.

I go back and pick up my phone.

I don't know what I'm looking for until I'm looking for it. Last fall, before Cain left for Nero, there was a developer putting houses in next to one of our facilities on the Gulf side, and the erosion off it was going to come back on us. Cain copied half the family on the whole chain, mostly out of spite. I read one line of it at the time and forgot the rest.

I find it. Eight months old, buried under four hundred emails I never opened.

There's a firm on it. Coastal and environmental consulting, an office over in Mobile, a phone number and a man's name in the signature block. And what happened is that they sent a letter asking whether the wetland line on that parcel had been drawn right, and somebody at the Corps decided it was worth another look, and the whole project sat down for six months while they sorted it out.

Nobody sued anybody. Nobody bought anything. A man asked a question, and the question got to be asked.

I sit down at the table.

This isn't money. She said no to money, and I am not offering her money. This is not Ridge, and it is not lawyers, and it is not a Stone landing in Charleston with a checkbook to make her father fold in front of her.

It's a question about dirt, asked by people who ask questions about dirt for a living. If the line is right, then it's right, and nothing happens. If it's wrong, then somebody looks, and the development is put on hold.

Time. That's the whole thing. That's all of it.

She'll still make her own case. She'll still stand in front of Banksie with her own paper and her own numbers and win it herself. I'm not doing it for her. I'm buying her the room to do it in.

I open a new message and put his address in. I’m just buying her an insurance policy.

Both bags are by the front door by the time I come out of my room. Mine and hers, side by side on the hardwood, and she's crouched over the smaller one, zipping a side pocket.

"Passport." I hold mine up, then slide it into my jacket.

"Front pocket." She pats the bag.

"Phone." She lifts it, waggles it, drops it into her back pocket. "Charger's in the outside sleeve so I'm not tearing the whole thing apart in security. See? I've done this before."

"I'm traveling with a pro."

She stands and shoves her hair back. "I'm going to head out a little early so I can swing by Jo's and drop something off. I'll take the Cruiser and leave it in long-term parking. That way it's not sitting out front for a week.”

"That's stupid."

She turns and gives me a flat look. "Excuse me?"

"Leave whatever it is you need to drop off on the porch and tell Jo to come by here. I've got a car and a driver coming any minute." I nod at the front door. "You're going to pay a fortune to park your Cruiser at the airport when there's already a ride pulling up to this house."

"Well, aren't you bossy this morning?”

"I get anxious on travel days." I zip my bag. "But I'm serious. We're leaving from the same house, going to the same airport. You want to burn two hundred bucks so you can drop something off?"

She opens her mouth, then closes it.

"You do have a point," she says. "I just didn't want to put you out by making you go with me."

"You won’t," I say with a shitty grin. "You're riding with me, and Jo's absolutely coming by. Every once in a while, I come up with a good idea."

A horn taps out front.

"That's us." I grab both bags before she can reach for hers.

"I can carry my own."

"I know." I carry them anyway, out the door and down the walk, and load them into the trunk the driver's already popped.