Page 115 of Keller

"You can't put those wet clothes back on. You're going to have to go commando, though. I don't have any panties that will fit you."

That makes him smile.

I step into the bathroom and turn on the hot water.

The shower is small. Steam fills the bathroom quickly, softening the light. I strip down and get in, calling for him to join me. He walks in already naked, and I have to catch my breath.

Instead, he lowers his forehead to the curve of my shoulder and stays there. His breathing expands slowly against my back, deep and controlled, and his thumbs move in absent circles along my hip bones as though the simple motion helps him think.

After a moment, he reaches for the shampoo.

“Let me,” he says quietly.

I nod and tilt my head slightly, and he works the lather into my hair with careful fingers. He moves slowly, methodically, as though there is nothing in the world more pressing than making sure the soap reaches every strand. When he tips my head back to rinse, his hand shields my eyes from the spray. The gesture is small, practical, and unexpectedly intimate.

He washes my shoulders next, then my arms, his touch steady and unhurried. There is no edge in him tonight, no urgency or escalation. The tension that followed us in from the deck has softened into something quieter.

A chill runs through me, even in the hot shower. I've never had someone touch me so tenderly.

When he finishes, he steps into the spray himself and rinses quickly, efficiently, as if his own comfort is secondary to the simple fact that we are here together.

I step out first and grab two towels, handing him one. He wraps it around my shoulders first and rubs gently at my hair before drying himself with the second one.

Back in the living room, we settle onto the couch beneath the same throw from the night before. He reaches for the remote and starts the next episode of Lincoln Lawyer, as though returning to a fictional courtroom is easier than staying inside his own head.

I curl into him and rest my cheek against his chest. His hand finds my waist automatically, his thumb brushing slow, distracted arcs against my side while the opening credits roll.

I like that he smells like me.

The window where he might have said more about Savannah, about October, about the way all of it presses in on him, is closed now. Whatever opened on the deck has been carefully folded away again. I hold onto the fact that he let me see even a portion of it.

He trusted me, but the thought doesn't bring comfort. Trust implies safety, and I’m not entirely safe for him. And that completely breaks me.

On the screen, the defense attorney makes his opening argument. Keller’s breathing gradually evens beneath my ear. His body relaxes, inch by inch, until the weight of him is less guarded.

He believes this is the one place untouched by whatever is weighing on me. He believes I exist outside the orbit of all the noise around him right now.

Lightning flickers faintly against the dark sky, the storm now a distant rumble instead of a crack overhead. Keller tightens his arm around me in his sleep, drawing me closer without waking.

I lie there against him, very still, listening to his steady breathing and praying to any deity that will listen to please make this all go away for him. For us.

If this inquiry expands the way I know it can, there will be subpoenas and depositions and names attached to decisions, even if no one in the family is ultimately found to have done anything wrong.

And if it ever traces back to the analyst who flagged the pattern, no explanation will make this look like anything but betrayal.

He shifts slightly, his hand tightening at my waist.

I close my eyes and pretend, just for a moment, that none of it will reach us.

THIRTY

Keller

The Krewe of Bacchus and Celebrity Kings:Founded in 1968, the Krewe of Bacchus popularized the tradition of selecting nationally recognized celebrities to serve as its annual king. By blending Hollywood prominence with Carnival ritual, Bacchus expanded the reach of krewe culture beyond local legacy, amplifying spectacle while preserving structured pageantry.

The meetingat Stone Intermodal headquarters takes place at the top floor of the building, all glass and steel and carefully controlled silence. The view of the Mississippi from this high makes it look tame.

The rain softens it, putting a gray filter on everything.