Page 61 of Keller

Instead, when the shipment arrived, Ridge Stone alerted Customs and Border Patrol. He did not reroute it quietly. He did not bury it. He handed it over and stood beside federal agents while they announced the seizure.

That is not how a company behaves when it is protecting a narcotics pipeline.

I lean back in my chair and let the pieces settle into something less catastrophic than they first appeared.

I'm not here to dismantle a family because of one clustered override. I'm here to determine whether there is a credible basis to escalate this into a formal inquiry.

Right now, I don't have that.

I have an operational anomaly. I have a mid-level credential attached to three pre-arrival reroutes. I have one shipment that later proved illicit, and two that did not.

That suggests fracture. Not a conspiracy.

Keller runs private tables. He operates in a different sphere entirely. If there were executive-level corruption tied to Robert’s death, it would be visible higher in the chain than this.

There is no indication of that here.

The distinction matters.

Because if this is an internal vulnerability rather than institutional rot, then the assignment remains what it was meant to be: a quiet audit.

And Keller… Keller has never been the subject of my review.

Maybe I don't have to treat him like collateral damage, and shut anything down before we even allow ourselves to explore whatever this is between us. It's like I've been anticipating something before it is even there.

And maybe there's nothing there, anyway.

My phone buzzes. Leah's name lights up the screen.

Coffee? I'm dying in this sales meeting and need an excuse to escape. Save me.

I glance at the clock. Almost eleven. I have been staring at shipping records for three hours.

Perfect timing. Would love to. Rosies?

Beat you there.

I grab my jacket and badge.

The coffee shop sits three blocks from the federal building. Close enough for convenience, far enough that I rarely see colleagues. Leah found it two years ago, and we have been meeting here ever since.

The espresso machine hisses behind the counter as I slide into the booth by the window. Mid-morning light cuts through the glass, warming the worn wooden table. The place smells like roasted beans and cinnamon.

Leah arrives four minutes later, her black hair swept up in a messy bun, gold earrings catching the light. She drops into the seat across from me and exhales.

"Ha. I beat you. How about that?"

"I swear to God, five people stopped me on my way out. I can't even sneak out for a fucking coffee without being attached. I'm going to start screaming."

"That bad?"

"Worse." She flags down the server and orders a vanilla latte. "You look weird."

"Thanks."

"Not bad, weird. Distracted, weird." She tilts her head, studying me. "And that's not your spreadsheet face. I know your spreadsheet face. This is something else."

Of course she notices.