Page 28 of Reeves

"Dad did like his arrangements."

Ms. Landry's hands pause in the soapy water. "That he did."

The kitchen feels smaller than I remember. The smell of dish soap mixes with coffee, familiar and uncomplicated.

"Can I get you anything else, Mr. Reeves? Breakfast?"

"No, thanks. I'll manage." I finish the coffee in three swallows. "It's good seeing you, Ms. Landry."

Her smile is small but genuine. "It's good having you home."

I don't correct her. With her, it doesn't feel like a trap.

I head back to my room for my gym bag, deciding where to go. There's one place in the city where I can move withoutbeing noticed, where no one knows the Stone name or cares about it.

I grab my keys and head for the door.

The Creston House rises between ancient live oaks, its pale façade catching the golden glow of the morning light. The place looks the way my mother always imagined it. Everything was considered, from the restored trim, tall windows, the wide front porch, rebuilt down to the smallest detail.

Mom had a thing for preservation. Old buildings, forgotten neighborhoods, anything with history buried under years of neglect.

She bought this house when it was barely more than a sagging relic and planned every inch of how to bring it back.

She died before any of that happened.

My father finished it. Now it sits on the historic registry, open for tours during the week, the kind of place preservation societies point to when they talk about protecting the past.

But that’s only half the story.

Beneath it, my father built a bunker. Reinforced walls, independent power, enough supplies to last months. A contingency plan in the middle of the city.

Part tribute to my mother’s dream. Part fortress for everything he built after she was gone.

I park at the curb and stare up at the clapboard exterior. The memories surface anyway—my mom in overalls, paint in her hair, pointing out details I didn’t care about. I’d pretended to listen just to see her smile.

The key still hangs on my keyring. The front door groans open, releasing stale air and old wood.

I head for the back study and slide the bookshelf aside. The keypad accepts my code with a soft beep. The door unlocks with a hiss.

The stairwell lights flick on as I descend. By the time I reachthe bottom, the air is cooler. Another code, another door, and I step into Dad’s underground kingdom.

“Functional art,” he called it.

Functional paranoia is closer.The pool room hums with circulation systems. Water gleams under perfect lighting, undisturbed and waiting. The chemical smell fills my lungs, familiar and clinical.

I change quickly and slide into the water. The cold shock is perfect against my skin. I push off the wall and stretch into the first stroke.

Push, pull, breathe. Push, pull, breathe.

By the fourth lap, my thoughts finally quiet. There's only movement, only water.

On the fifth lap, my right shoulder catches. The old injury wakes up, sending a warning flare down my arm. I adjust automatically, shifting the angle of entry, pulling with more core rotation to take pressure off the joint.

Ten laps in, the burn intensifies. I keep going. Fifteen. Twenty. The form holds, but the pull isn’t clean anymore. It never is once the shoulder starts talking.

When I finally pull myself from the water, sweat mixes with chlorine on my face despite the cool air. I roll my shoulder once, feeling the familiar grind. It’s not sharp enough to stop me. It never is. Just enough to remind me that there’s a version of this where it doesn’t hold up forever.

My gym bag sits on the bench. I dig through it for the orange prescription bottle, tap three pills into my palm, and swallow them dry. The bitter taste barely registers anymore. It’s part of the routine now, same as the laps.