Page 78 of Keller

Clara handles logistics for the family. She's Ridge's assistant, but since he uses the jet the most, she handles all of the scheduling for all of us.

I pull up her contact and type a message.

GM. Sorry for the early text. I need the jet for a day trip to Savannah. Meeting with a potential new player for the tables. Last minute. Requesting pilot for full turnaround, departure options as soon as possible.

I send it and set the phone down.

The highway stretches ahead, straight and empty. I drive faster than I should, the speedometer climbing past seventy. The engine hums. The city blurs past my windows.

About fifteen minutes later, as I'm walking through the parking garage to the elevator, my phone alerts.

Pilot available. Wheels up at 9:30 if that works. He'll wait on standby for your return. Hangar 7. Anything else you need?

That works. Thank you, Clara. Nothing else.

I take the private elevator up to the fifth floor, leaning against the cold back wall as it rises. The doors open onto my open space.

I drop my keys on the cement countertop and walk to the bathroom. The lights come on automatically. I strip off yesterday's clothes and step into the shower.

The water is hot. I let it run over my shoulders and down my back, steam rising around me. I close my eyes and think about what I know.

Charlton Grant. He's fifty-five years old now. Thinking about his age makes me realize my mom would be fifty-six right now. I wonder what she would be like at fifty-six. I think about her hair graying, lines on her face. She died so young that she never had to experience any physical signs of aging. A sharp pain races through me at the thought.

I shut off the water and step out. I wipe the mirror clear with my hand and look at myself.

My eyes are tired. My jaw needs a shave, but there is no time. I grab a towel and dry off, then walk to my closet.

I choose a charcoal gray, almost black, and a white shirt with no pattern. Then I grab my narrow black tie.

At the mirror by my dresser, I button my cuffs. The fabric is smooth and crisp against my wrists. I straighten my collar and reach for my tie.

That is when I see it.

A faint mark on my collarbone, just below where the shirt will cover. It's red, and it hits me the moment Quinn bit me as her body convulsed around me.

I stare at it for a long moment, running my finger over it.

Who knew Quinn was a little tiger in bed? I smile to myself. A little piece of her to carry with me that no one will know is there except me.

I finish knotting my tie and check my watch. Plenty of time to reach the hangar. I grab my wallet, my phone, and my keys. I slide my glasses into place.

The elevator doors close behind me.

The hangar doors slide open as I pull up, metal groaning against metal. Morning sunlight floods the concrete floor in a wide stripe, catching dust motes in the air. The jet sits on the tarmac beyond, white and sleek, its engines silent.

I park the Range Rover in the designated spot near the office and kill the engine. For a moment, I just sit there, hands on the wheel, watching the ground crew move around the aircraft.

I grab my phone and step out of the car. The air inside the hangar smells like jet fuel and metal. My boots echo on the concrete as I walk toward the plane.

The pilot meets me at the base of the stairs. Gray hair, weathered face, calm eyes. He has flown for us for years. Never asks where we are going or why.

"Mr. Stone. We're cleared for departure whenever you're ready."

"Good. Let's not waste time."

He nods and heads back up the stairs ahead of me.

I climb the steps slowly, one hand on the cold railing. The metal vibrates faintly under my fingers. At the top, I pause and look back at the hangar. The Range Rover sits small and dark against the gray concrete. Beyond it, through the open doors, I can see the city skyline catching the morning light.