Page 130 of Keller

"Did your father ever tell you about our meeting after your mom's death?"

The question cuts through my momentum. I blink.

"No. What does that have to do with anything?"

"Your father contacted me after she died."

I don't answer. I don't have an answer. My father never mentioned Charlton Grant. My father wasn't the talking type. He buried it in a box in his office and let it rot.

"It's not what you think." Charlton lowers his hand from his jaw. "Give me ten minutes. There's a café down the street. Neutral ground."

"Why the hell would I listen to anything you have to say?"

"Because you flew here twice to find out." His gaze holds mine. "And because you deserve the truth, even if it's not the one you came looking for."

I want to hit him again. I want to walk out and never look back. Instead, I stand there, fists clenched, considering it.

"I need to get something from my office." Charlton gestures toward the door behind him. "I'll meet you there. It's two blocks that way on the right."

He disappears inside.

I turn, ignoring the receptionist, and push through the front door. The humidity wraps around me again. The street noise floods back.

I walk in the direction he indicated. My knuckles throb, a dull ache that pulses with each step.

I flex my hand. The skin across my knuckles is red but not split. I hit him cleanly.

The heat presses down on my shoulders. My shirt sticks to my back. Every breath is labored, heavy with moisture that coats my throat. I pass storefronts with their windows reflecting the midday glare. A woman with a stroller crosses to the other side of the street when she sees my face.

I must look like hell.

A block down, I spot a café tucked between a bookstore and a florist. The door is propped open with an A-frame sign advertising cold-pressed juices and the best espresso on the East Coast. A fan whirs somewhere inside, pushing cool air into the street.

I hadn't fully decided if I wanted to hear him out, but step through without thinking.

The smell hits me first. Citrus and coffee. The contrast is comforting. Blenders whir behind the counter. Two women chat at a corner table, their voices soft and unhurried. A teenager scrolls through his phone near the register.

Normal. All of it. Completely normal.

I order a juice. I don't even register what it is. The girl behind the counter takes my card, swipes it, and hands me a cup. I move to the window and stand there, watching the street.

The punch replays in my mind. The way Charlton's head snapped sideways. The crack of bone against my knuckles. The sound echoing off those polished floors.

He didn't swing back. That bothers me more than it should.

An unwanted memory surfaces of Quinn laughing when the lid popped off her juice cup after our run in Jackson Park. I can see in my mind's eye the way she tried to catch it and missed.

The sound of her laugh, the refreshing cackle, hits me next.

No.

I push it away. She doesn't belong here. She doesn't get to intrude on this. Whatever we had, whatever I thought we had, is dead.

I take a drink from my cup. It's mango, sweet and cold. It does nothing to lessen the heat in my chest.

I watch Charlton as he enters. His jaw has already started to swell, a purple bruise forming where my fist landed. But his posture remains steady.

He holds his shoulders back and his chin level as he scans the room. He spots me by the window and walks over without hesitation.