Page 44 of Keller

“I am not in the business of half-truths. I am in the business of managing risk.”

There is a small shift in her expression at that. I think she finally hears the distinction.

“If you want specifics,” I add, “you can ask. I will answer. I don't lead with a full résumé when I meet someone for the first time. I guess I'm private like that.”

The bartender moves past us, wiping down the counter farther down the bar. Another acoustical version of a song comes on, one I recognize this time. It's "The Shape of You," by Ed Sheeran.

Quinn shifts on her stool, angling toward me more fully. "So how does someone end up running high-stakes poker tables? Just curious. That's an interesting career."

"My father started it years ago as a sort of pet project. He liked playing cards with his friends. It was never meant to be a business, necessarily. I took over when I was twenty-two and expanded it."

When I say “my father,” her fingers tighten slightly around her glass. It is subtle, but I catch it. She inhales through her nose before answering.

"Do you like it?"

"I do. I enjoy meeting people, reading people, and the elegance of the game. There's something about it that is very old-world, in a way."

She traces the condensation on the side of her mug, pushing water droplets to the bar.

"What about you?" I ask. "Did you always dream of auditing for the government?"

She pauses and then shifts in her seat. “Not exactly. But it suits me. I’m patient. I like going down rabbit holes and pulling at threads.”

“I can see that,” I say.

Her smile spreads slowly this time, unguarded.

“So you read people for a living,” she says. “And I look for inconsistencies for a living. That feels like a dangerous combination.”

“Or complimentary. Depends on how you look at it.”

She tilts her head. “I like that perspective. You're right.”

The bar thins gradually as we order our second drinks and easily banter. We laugh together a lot. She's funny, in a dry way, and I appreciate her sense of humor.

I smile to myself at the way she twirls a strand of hair beside her face from time-to-time. It doesn't seem like a nervous tic, more of a comfort thing.

She listens intently and asks questions that keep the conversation going.

A thin bracelet catches light on her left wrist. Sterling silver, worn smooth at the edges. Letters engraved along the flat surface are too small to read from where I sit.

"What's the inscription?" I ask.

She glances down at her wrist. Her thumb brushes the metal without thinking.

"My mother's name," she says. "Eleanor."

I nod. "It's pretty. It caught my eye."

"She wore it, and it became mine after she died. I've only taken it off a few times since I was fifteen."

The words land without drama. Her voice stays level, but something beneath it shifts. Not grief exactly. Something quieter.

I don't fill the space with apology or sympathy. Those words don't help. I know that much.

"My mother died when I was eleven," I say.

Quinn meets my eyes. She doesn't reach across the distance to touch my arm or offer comfort I didn't ask for.