Page 32 of Keller

"Just sitting around the bunker. Come by and let's have a beer."

"See you in ten."

The sun dips behind the trees as I drive towards The Crestor House, the old house on the historic registry, my father bought a while back and renovated back to its glory. It was my mother's idea and her pet project.

The house sits quietly in the fading light. I pull into the driveway and kill the engine. The oak trees out front cast thick shadows across the lawn. Spanish moss sways in the breeze.

I walk up the steps and unlock the front door. The air inside smells faintly of furniture polish and that old smell that every old house has, but you can't quite put your finger on where it comes from.

I move through the foyer and toward the door leading down into the bunker. I cross to the back hall and stop at the closet near the stairs. The false panel sits flush against the wall.

We built this bunker years ago. Dad's idea. Fortified concrete walls, independent ventilation, supplies for months. Ridge calls it paranoid. Cain calls it a playground.

I head down the stairs. The motion lights kick on automatically, illuminating each step. At the bottom, the steel door stands ajar. I push it open and step into the main room.

Cain leans against the counter in the kitchen area, holding a bottle of water. He glances up when I enter, then smirks.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in."

"How's it going? You're still mooching off the bunker instead of getting your own place?"

"I'm house-sitting, asswipe."

"You're squatting."

I cross my arms and stare at him. Cain just grins wider.

"There are worse places to leech off family."

"Don't you want your own place? This is fun for a minute, but do you really want to live underground? Christ, it's like you're a vampire."

"I'm looking, I swear. It's hard moving from Manhattan back here. I have to ease into it. Plus, this place has quiet, security, and comes with vegetables."

He gestures toward the hydroponic garden, glowing green and purple under the grow lights in the corner. Rows of lettuce, herbs, and tomatoes thrive in their vertical beds. The hum of the pumps fills the silence.

"Buy your own house, dickhead. Stop pretending this is your personal dorm."

Cain laughs and takes another drink. He sets the bottle down and straightens.

"Speaking of houses. I was clearing some stuff out of Dad's office yesterday. Found a box on the top of his bookshelf with a bunch of pictures of Mom in it. It was a little surreal. Do you ever wonder how things would be if she were still here?"

"Every day. What kind of pictures?"

"I don't know. Candid shots. There were a few other things in there, too. A note written on hotel stationery and an old key. Probably things Dad saved that reminded him of her."

His tone shifts. He's still casual, but I can tell seeing them has him thinking about our parents, who are both gone now. The teasing drops away.

"Where is it? I want to see."

Cain walks down the hall into Dad's office, and I follow him. He grabs an old orange shoe box off the desk and pulls off the top.

I stare at it. It's an old Nike box. My heart thuds in my chest. It's so ordinary and heavy all at once.

"See if you can make anything of it."

I step closer. My hand scoops out the stack of photos, and I shuffle through them. Our mother stands close to a man I don't recognize. There must be twenty or thirty photos, and all of them show her with the same man.

In the first one, his hand rests at the small of her back. In the second, she laughs toward him, her face turned at an angle that feels too intimate for a friend or colleague.