Chapter 1 #2
Staff members move like ghosts around the edges of the room, setting up floral arrangements and adjusting chairs. I'm sure they're preparing for tomorrow's gathering of mourners who never really knew my father.
Ms. Landry approaches and hugs me immediately. She's been running the household since before I was born. Her posture remains straight despite her seventy-plus years. Her eyes hold the same measured assessment they always have.
"Welcome home, Reeves. It's been too long." Her voice carries the formal tone that always separates staff from family.
"Thanks." The word falls short, inadequate.
She gestures toward the staircase. "Your room is prepared. Dinner at seven if you'd like to join your brothers. I know Cain and Keller are coming."
I nod, already moving toward the stairs. No offers to take my bag. She knows better.
The grand staircase curves upward, with family portraits lining the ascent. Generation after generation of Stone men with the same jaw, same eyes. Different clothes, same expression.
My old bedroom appears frozen in time. The same queen bed with a navy comforter. The bookshelf is still filled with military history texts. My desk is positioned to face the door, not the window. The place smells clean but unused.
I drop my bag on the bed and move through the space without thinking. I check the closet first, then the bathroom. Window latches secure. Under the bed is clear. Desk drawers are empty except for old school supplies. The nightstand contains nothing but a Bible and a reading lamp.
My fingers trail across the dresser top. There's not a speck of dust. Someone cleans this room regularly despite its emptiness.
I unpack with mechanical efficiency. Three shirts. Two pants. Toiletry kit. I tuck my combat knife between the mattress and box spring out of a force of habit. I won't need it while I'm here.
The silence presses against my eardrums. There are no helicopter rotors or radio chatter. No boots on the gravel. Just the occasional distant sound of staff preparing for tomorrow's memorial.
The hallway outside pulls my attention. My father's study door stands open. Wrong. That door was always closed.
I step into the hallway. The study looks smaller than I remember. Bookshelves line the walls, crowded with business texts and framed photos. Robert Stone at charity galas, political fundraisers, and Krewe events where old money mingles with new wealth and power.
A silver frame catches my eye, partially hidden behind the others. I shift the front frame aside.
It’s the one from the Argentum gala from another lifetime. Charli stands beside me in a deep gold dress that matches the specks of gold in her hazel eyes. She’s looking at me instead of the camera, laughing at a joke I probably made about the pretentious assholes that live for these things.
My throat tightens as heat climbs up my neck.
I remember the crowd pressing in on all sides and the orchestra playing while she took my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor. I would have stayed off to the side and watched, but she didn’t give me the chance to think about it long enough to argue.
My fingers hover over the glass without touching it.
I remember exactly what she smelled like that night. What it felt like to pull her onto that dance floor with my hand at the small of her back. How she laughed when I missed a step and covered it badly.
I remember everything I told myself I'd forgotten.
I put the frame back before I can think too long about any of it.
Footsteps approach from behind, breaking the moment. The weight of a hand lands on my shoulder.
"Jesus—"
I pivot without thought, forearm driving into Cain’s collarbone and pinning him to the doorframe.
Cain bursts out laughing, unfazed. "Still jumpy, Big Bro."
I release him and step back. My jaw tightens. "Don't sneak up on me like that, dickhead."
Cain rubs his shoulder, grin never faltering. "Good to see you, too."
The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. My brother looks good in his fitted blazer, his shaved head gleaming under the study lights. The urban polish of NYC suits him.
His gaze drops to the photograph still clutched in my hand. He whistles low. "Ahh. Charli still has that effect on you, I see. Didn’t know she still stopped you in your tracks.”
"Fuck you. I was just looking at pictures."
"What was that, ten years ago?"
"No, dipshit. I would've been eighteen ten years ago. This was six. Maybe seven."
Cain shrugs. "Feels like forever."
He isn't wrong there. I slide the photo back behind the others, but leave the edge visible. A compromise I don't examine too closely.
"Didn't know it was still around."
Cain watches me, eyes more calculating than his casual stance suggests. “You still talk to Charli? She was a good one.”
My throat works before I answer. “Haven’t talked to her since I enlisted.”
He nods slowly. “She moved away, too, right? Where is she now?”
I have no clue what Charli is doing. We haven’t spoken since that last night, over six years ago.
“I’m honestly not sure.” I step away from the desk. “Speaking of moving, when are you going to show me this new house of yours? Let’s get out of here. Too many ghosts.”
Cain studies me for a beat, then claps my shoulder. “Yeah. Come on. Let’s relax before the craziness begins.”
The craziness started the minute the wheels touched down at Louis Armstrong.
Fourteen days.