Page 69 of Keller

I step back through the beads into the sharp scent of detergent and night air.

In the car, the bag rests on the passenger seat. I didn't think I would be able to eat after that intense meeting with Marcus, but the smell is making my mouth water.

The windows are down. Humid air moves through the car as I merge onto St. Charles. Oak branches reach overhead and block the last of the evening light in patches.

Marcus's voice replays in my head. I grip the steering wheel with one hand. The other rests near the console. My thumb taps against the leather without rhythm.

He emailed me a spreadsheet I want to study more closely at some point. If I hadn't made plans, I'd be buried in it now.

Red is his hotel stays. Blue is documented travel dates for your father.

I think about the photos Cain found. My mother's face, the way her eyes looked at Charlton Grant. Neither of them were posed or formal in any of them. They couldn't have been more comfortable with each other if they'd tried.

Warm.

How far do I want to push this?Far enough to know without needing to make up a narrative. I'm old enough now to be able to process the truth.

I will likely still never tell any of my brothers, but something about it, about finding the photos, the receipt, the hotel key, feels like a sign. It's time to know what was going on before my mother's death.

I already can't let myself close to anyone. I already don't believe in love. Because it has shaped who I am so definitively, knowing the truth of it won't hurt me anymore. Nothing could hurt me more than what I heard that night, and the news I woke up to the next morning.

SEVENTEEN

Keller

Mardi Gras Economics:Carnival generates hundreds of millions of dollars annually for New Orleans through tourism, hospitality, and event production, much of it driven by krewe-led parades and private balls. Behind the pageantry lies a complex financial ecosystem sustained by membership dues, sponsorships, and city coordination.

By the timeI turn off St. Charles, the sky has slipped into that violet hour New Orleans does better than anywhere else. The air still holds the day’s heat, thick enough to cling to skin, but without the sun bearing down it’s almost tolerable.

March here doesn’t follow rules. One week it feels like spring. The next, summer elbows its way in early. Today leaned hard in that direction.

Quinn’s block is all narrow lots and raised wood-frame houses, most of them painted some version of faded blue, pale green or pink with black shutters. A row of camelback-stylehouses sits shoulder to shoulder, each porch just high enough off the street to require three or four shallow steps.

I ease the car along the curb and cut the engine. A streetlamp hums overhead and in the distance dogs are barking, but otherwise, it's a relatively quiet New Orleans street.

Her porch light is already on, casting a warm yellow glow over the narrow steps and the two potted ferns flanking the door. The iron railing is old and slightly uneven, the scrollwork more practical than ornamental. Nothing about the house feels staged or curated. It feels used. Kept. Cared for.

It suits her.

I grab the two bags from the passenger seat, basil and lime rising through the paper as the night air settles around me. The car double-beeps when I lock it. A neighbor’s television hums faintly through an open window a couple of houses down.

Before I knock, I catch my reflection in the dark glass beside the door. My jacket's still on, shoulders tight and my expression too controlled.

I exhale once and loosen my grip on the bags. Whatever Marcus uncovered can wait until morning.

I lift my hand to knock. The door opens before my knuckles land a second time.

Quinn stands there barefoot, hair loose around her shoulders, the ends still damp. She’s in a soft T-shirt and nothing about her looks like she's trying too hard. And it's hot as fuck.

“You’re early.”

“By maybe a minute,” I say. “I’m not sure that qualifies.”

The corner of her mouth lifts. “Fair. I might be projecting. I was scrambling. I'm glad you're here. Come on.”

She steps aside to let me in. The hardwood is cool under my shoes. A candle flickers on the coffee table, citrus layered with something floral. Books are stacked in uneven piles on the sidetable. A throw blanket rests over the arm of the couch like it was used this afternoon and never put away.

I hold up the bag slightly. “Elephant Thai. The lady who helped me was full of unsolicited wisdom. Who knew Thai came with life lessons.”