Page 84 of Keller

Charlton Grant.The man in the photos with my mother. The name on the hotel receipt. In less than two hours, I'll be sitting across from him.

The wheels touch down smoothly with no bounce. The pilot knows his work.

I gather my phone and wallet, leaving everything else on the seat. The cabin door opens, and warm air rolls in. It's lighter than it was when I left New Orleans, less weight in the lungs.

A black SUV waits on the tarmac. The driver stands by the rear door, crisp white shirt, no tie. He nods as I approach.

"Mr. Stone. Welcome to Savannah."

I slide into the back seat. The leather seat is cool from the air conditioning. The interior smells like a new car.

"The DeSoto Hotel?"

"Eventually. I need to make two stops first."

He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. "Of course, sir. Where to?"

I give him the first address. Charlton Grant's home.

The car pulls away from the airfield and onto the main road. Spanish moss drapes from the oaks lining the boulevard. Every branch seems placed with intention. Even the moss looks curated.

Tracy Chapman plays low on the radio.Fast Car.The acoustic guitar threads through the quiet cabin.

You got a fast car. I want a ticket to anywhere.

I watch Savannah unfold through the tinted window. The streets are clean. Brick sidewalks, iron benches, and historic plaques on every third building.

New Orleans wears its age like a drunk uncle at a wedding. Loud and unapologetic. Savannah wears its age like the refined aunt with her dressed collar and rehearsed smile.

Everything here seems to be preserved on purpose. Maintained. Controlled.

Maybe we make a deal. Maybe together we can get somewhere.

The song ends. Something softer replaces it, but I tune it out as my chest grows tighter.

The driver turns onto a residential street. Narrower, quieter. Mature oaks form a canopy overhead, filtering the midday sun into scattered coins of light on the pavement.

"Slow down here."

He eases off the gas.

I study the houses. The front is restored townhomes, each with consistent architecture. They speak of money and taste, but none of them shouts.

The the single family houses start, each one bigger than the last. My guess is Mr. Grant lives on the water, and the real estate becomes more valuable the closer we get to it.

"That one." I point to the left. "Stop for a moment."

The car rolls to a gentle halt across the street from Charlton Grant's home.

Painted white brick façade, clean and unweathered. Tall windows with black trim and black shutters, perfectly symmetrical. Polished brass numbers are beside the door confirm it's his.

A small historical designation plaque is mounted near the entrance. Of course he lives in a historical house.

The landscaping is minimal but precise. Boxwoods trim out the house, and a round fountain is centered directly in front of the house. A single magnolia stands proudly to the side.

A bicycle leans against the iron railing by the steps. I don't think it's a showpiece because it looks too new and like something that's used.

I expected something different. A monument to ego. A statement of wealth meant to impress.