Page 120 of Keller

"Thank you."

I hang up and send a text to Clara. This time I don't ask. I tell her to find a pilot who can fly today.

I start the engine and pull out of the parking lot without looking at Quinn’s message again.

THIRTY-ONE

Quinn

Private Carnival Balls vs Public Parades:While parades unfold on public streets for the city at large, many krewes reserve their most elaborate rituals for invitation-only balls held behind closed doors. This dual structure preserves exclusivity within the organization while projecting spectacle outward to the public.

My eyesopen before the alarm. Gray light seeps through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the ceiling. I stare at them, counting the lines, waiting for my brain to catch up with being awake.

For the first morning in days it isn't raining, but that does nothing to lift my spirits.

The dull ache hits first behind my eyes.

My mouth is dry, and my jaw hurts from clenching it all night. The sheets are twisted around my legs, evidence of restless sleep I barely remember.

I don't move. I just lie here and let the fragments come.

I texted him twice yesterday. He never doesn't answer. He knows. I know he knows. I just don't know how. Not only has the task force not even been formed, but no one has been briefed, which means Stone Intermodal hasn't been informed.

Besides that, my job is layers down. It just doesn't make sense that they would have figured all of this out. But that's the only thing that explains his silence. And it's ripping me apart.

I roll over and push myself to sitting. I take a breath and hold it, then let it out slowly as I pep myself up to put one foot in front of the other until it becomes second nature again.

I've faced crime scenes, testified under oath, and made hard calls that kept me awake for days afterward. This is not new territory. This is professional work with personal consequences.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up, but there are no messages. No missed calls.

The silence is pointed.

I set the phone back down and force myself to stand. The bathroom is twelve steps away. I count them.

The shower runs hot. I step under the spray and let it beat against the back of my neck. Steam fills the small space, and I close my eyes, trying to scrub away the nausea that sits at the base of my throat.

Compartmentalize. Dress. Go to work. Proceed as usual.

My hands shake as I reach for the shampoo. I think about two nights ago, when he washed my hair after we ran in together when the rain caught us, how tender he was. My chest aches at the thought.

I rinse my hair and turn off the water. The silence that follows threatens to make me crazy.

I wrap my head in a towel, then pull on my robe.

A knock cuts through the quiet, and I nearly jump. I freeze mid-step, pulse spiking. My hand grips the edge of the bathroom counter as I look in the mirror to try to compose myself. I'mmurky, and the edges are unclear due to the steam, but I don't wipe it.

No one knocks on my door at this hour. No one.

I tighten the robe belt and walk toward the front door. My bare feet leave damp prints on the hardwood. Through the frosted glass panel beside the door, a figure stands motionless. I don't have to see him fully to know it's him.

Maybe he got caught up in something yesterday and last night. Maybe he traveled again, and he's here to apologize for missing me yesterday.

My hand hesitates on the knob, and then I open the door.

Keller stands on my porch in charcoal pants and a navy sweater. His glasses catch the morning light. His hair is neat, combed back from his face, and he looks like he got about as much sleep as I did.

He doesn't step forward.