Page 85 of Keller

This is quieter, the home of a man who has roots here.

"Sir? Everything all right?"

"Fine." I keep my voice flat. "We're good here."

I give him the second address. It's the one Marcus gave me where his office is. I want to see where he works.

The car winds through the historic district. Every block looks staged for a magazine shoot. Wrought iron balconies. Window boxes spilling with ferns. Couples walking small dogs on leather leashes.

"Coming up on your left, sir."

I lean forward.

Grant Preservation and Adaptive Design occupies a corner lot on a tree-lined street. The building is two stories of old brick, the color of dried clay. It's an original, not a reproduction. The mortar joints have been repointed with care, matching the era. Tall windows span most of the ground floor, mullions painted a deep forest green that doesn't compete with the brick.

The signage is small. Brass letters are mounted beside the entrance. There's no logo or tagline. Just the name.

"Pull to the curb."

The driver eases to a stop.

Through the front windows, the interior spreads out in full view. No blinds. No frosted glass. Nothing to hide.

Drafting tables occupy the center of the workspace. Four of them, arranged in pairs. Large-format drawings are pinned to cork boards along the far wall. The midday sun pours through the windows, casting long rectangles of light across the polished concrete floor.

I can see two people working at separate tables. A woman with dark hair pulled back, bending over a set of plans with a pencil. A younger man in a blue Oxford, laptop open beside a roll of tracing paper. Neither looks up at the car idling outside.

Shelves line one wall, filled with books, binders, and what look like sample materials. Stone. Wood. Metal finishes.

This is not a front or a vanity project funded by something else. This is a working firm. The space speaks of process. Of patience. Of projects that take months or years to complete.

I sit back against the leather seat.

I'm not sure what I expected to find, but this makes my stomach turn for some reason. My jaw tightens.

The woman inside straightens, rolls her shoulders, and reaches for a coffee mug on the edge of her table. Ordinary. Unremarkable. The kind of moment that happens a hundred times a day in a hundred offices.

"Sir?"

I check my watch. Twelve fifty-three.

"The Chatham Club, please."

The driver pulls away from the curb. I watch the building shrink in the side mirror until we turn the corner, and it disappears.

TWENTY-TWO

Keller

Social Capital in Carnival Circles:Beyond parades and balls, krewe membership often functions as a network of influence, connecting business leaders, politicians, and legacy families through shared ritual and access. In many cases, relationships forged within Carnival circles extend far beyond the season, shaping alliances that carry weight throughout the city’s power structure.

The elevator opensonto the fourteenth floor. Soft jazz drifts from hidden speakers. The hostess greets me with a practiced smile.

"Mr. Baker. Mr. Grant is expecting you. Right this way."

I follow her through the dining room. White linen tablecloths and polished silver catch the light from tall windows that frame the Savannah River below. A cargo ship moves slowly upstream, its wake spreading in long white lines across the brown water.

And then I see him.