Page 37 of Keller

I sit back in my chair and read it again, slower this time, letting the structure of it settle into place.

A week ago, he was just a stranger at a gala. Then he became the son of the murdered man. Then, an employee of the company I’m quietly reviewing.

To add insult to injury, he’s also the operator of private tables where money and influence circulate under controlled conditions and carefully curated guest lists.

Nothing I have reviewed ties him to container routes, vendor disbursements, or the shipping irregularities I’ve been mapping for days. His professional sphere runs alongside the port, not through it, and the distinction is clear in the data.

That does not mean the lanes never intersect. Influence rarely stays contained to one room.

I close the browser and rest my hands flat on the desk, grounding myself in the cool surface.

I cannot decide yet whether this makes my involvement with him simpler or more complicated. The ethical line still exists. It has simply shifted from where I first drew it.

It’s just not where I first drew it.

I grab my bag and head for the door. I'm going to be late to meet Leah. It's our wine-and-paint night. She texted me three reminders this afternoon and threatened to show up at my office if I bailed.

The hallway is quiet. My footsteps echo against the tile. I take the stairs instead of the elevator. My legs need the movement.

The studio sits on Magazine Street between a bakery and a yoga studio, its front windows fogged from bodies and heat.Through the glass, I can see rows of easels and a chalkboard that reads Tonight: Mississippi at Dusk in looping pastel.

Leah is already inside when I arrive, waving me over with a paint-streaked hand.

“I was starting to think you really were going to ghost me,” she says as I slide into the seat beside her.

“I would never.”

“You say that. I saw the hesitation dots in your last text. And you're going on ten minutes late.”

"Sorry, bestie. I couldn't get out of that damn office. But I'm here now. And I will never ghost you. Pinky promise."

The room smells like acrylic paint and boxed wine. Twenty strangers stand behind easels, following along as an instructor with purple glasses explains how to “let the water move organically.”

Someone in the back of the room laughs, cutting over the instructor’s voice. A few people at their table lean in toward each other, heads close, giggling. I glance over out of habit and then turn back to my canvas.

Leah follows my gaze and gives me a look. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Not relaxing. Keep your eyes and ears here, with me. This is our date night, remember?”

I pick up a clean brush, dip it in the blue paint, and put a dot on Leah's hand. We laugh, and all is right with the world.

I drag a thin line of darker blue along the top edge of the sky, trying to mimic what the instructor just did. My line comes out too straight, too deliberate. The river on my canvas looks like a blueprint.

Leah’s river looks like actual water.

She has the blue bleeding into purple, gold threaded through it like the last light of day. When she adds another stroke, she doesn’t hesitate. She just lets it run.

“How are you doing that?” I ask, nodding toward her canvas.

“If you stop fighting it,” she replies, then reaches for the bottle and tops off my glass like it’s part of the lesson. "The paint does it for you."

The instructor moves to the front of the room and starts talking about reflection and how the river should “hold the sky.” I try, but my hand keeps tightening around the brush. I paint the horizon line again because it isn’t level enough. Leah watches me do it twice, then leans closer.

“You must be buried with the new job,” she says lightly, blending a streak of violet into the top of her sky. “You’ve been quiet this week.”

“I have been busy,” I reply, keeping my eyes on the horizon line I’ve redrawn twice.