Chapter 7 Reeves
SEVEN
Reeves
The Tuba: Carries the low note underneath everything else in the procession. You feel it before you hear it.
I push through the back door still warm from the run, sweat cooling across my shoulders as the late-morning air gives way to the quiet inside the house. The sun is already high enough to throw bright light across the kitchen windows.
Being home has loosened the edges of my routine. On base, I’m usually up before dawn. Here, sleeping until nine almost counts as indulgent.
My shoes thud softly across the hardwood as I cross the kitchen. The house creaks in the same familiar places. Nine months since my father died, but the rhythm hasn’t changed.
The scent of coffee reaches me before I see her.
Ms. Landry stands at the sink with her back to me, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow as she rinses dishes. Her silver hair is pulled into the same tight bun she has worn for as long as I can remember.
She speaks without turning around.
“Morning, Mr. Reeves.”
I smile a little. She always did have a way of knowing when one of us was moving through the house.
"Morning." My voice sounds rough.
She dries her hands on her apron. "I can't believe you still do those morning runs. My knees can hardly walk up the stairs."
"Never broke the habit." I pour coffee into the mug she’s already set out. Black, no sugar. "How's the pool restoration coming? Thought I'd get a swim in."
Ms. Landry sighs, turning back to the sink. "Those contractors found problems with the plumbing when they pulled up the tile. Your father always said that section of the house had issues. They're behind schedule now by at least two weeks."
I lean against the counter. "Figures."
"Your brother Ridge wanted it done before the memorial, but some things can't be rushed."
The gym downtown will be packed with regulars. People who'll recognize me, ask questions. I roll my shoulders, feeling the tightness there.
"Your father always swam at Tulane's pool when ours was down," she says, glancing over her shoulder. "He had an arrangement with their athletic department."
"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 without being 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 facade 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 reach the 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.
My phone vibrates against the bench as I towel off, the screen illuminating in the artificial light.
Ridge's name flashes on my phone screen. I tap the notification, reading his message.
My meeting moved up. Can you come to the office around 1 so we can talk for a bit? I'll have about 2 hours.
I glance at the clock on the wall. 11:17. Plenty of time for twenty more laps before I'd need to head out. My shoulder throbs in disagreement.
Instead of texting back, I hit call. Ridge answers on the second ring.
"I'm at Creston." My voice echoes in the empty pool room. "I can finish my laps and then come in."
"That's right. The pool at Dad's is still out of commission." The background noise tells me he's walking somewhere in the office.
"Yeah. Fucking sucks. Ms. Landry said the pool restoration is behind schedule."
"When isn't it?" A door closes on his end, muffling the office sounds. "Listen, I just had some time open up, and I was wondering if you could come in so we can sit down and actually talk. I feel like every time we try, someone messes it up."
"Sure. I can be there, but I'll be coming straight from here. Don't expect me in a suit."
"God forbid the mighty SEAL operator conform to office standards." The edge in his voice softens with familiar sarcasm. "As long as you're wearing pants, I don't give a shit what you wear."
"No promises on the pants."
Ridge snorts. "Don't be late. My schedule's tight today."
"Roger that." The military acknowledgment slips out before I can catch it.
"Later, asshole." He hangs up before I can respond. Dick.
I toss the phone back on my towel. My shoulder screams for a break, but twenty more laps won't kill me. Pain is just data, that's what my BUDS instructor always said. I slide back into the water and push off the wall.
I finish the set and pull myself out of the pool. Water streams down my body, pooling at my feet. The pain in my shoulder has upgraded from complaint to protest. I pop two more pills.
The bunker shower is almost like a spa. Maybe Cain was onto something, and I should be staying here instead of rooming with Ms. Landry.
I'm dressed in five minutes, my hair still damp as I climb the stairs back to the land of the living. The sun is coming down hot today. My shirt sticks to my back before I reach the car.
Traffic crawls through the Garden District, but opens up as I hit the business district.
Stone Intermodal headquarters rises ahead, a gleaming tower of glass and steel overlooking the Mississippi. My father's vision made concrete. Literally. The building casts its shadow over the river, just like he wanted.
I pull into the executive parking garage, the gate recognizing my car automatically. Whatever Ridge needs, it's not just small talk. He doesn't waste time on social niceties. The shoulder pain lingers as I step out of the car, but the swim has steadied me.
Time to step back into the world I left behind.
The security desk flashes my temporary badge with efficient boredom. I nod thanks and head for the elevator bank, watching the crowd part slightly around me. Maybe it's the military posture, or maybe it's the Stone face. Either way, no one makes eye contact.
The elevator whisks me upward, glass walls revealing the sprawling city below. Fifty floors in forty seconds.
Ridge's assistant stands when I step into the reception area. "Mr. Stone, your brother is expecting you."
I follow her through the glass door into Ridge's corner office. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Mississippi like a painting. Everything is sleek surfaces and sharp edges. No family photos, no personal touches. Just power made visible.
Ridge rises from behind his desk. "Well, look what the cat dragged in. And on time. I'll be damned."
"Traffic was light." I take a seat across from him, noting how his chair sits higher than mine. Another power move, I'm sure.
"Thanks for coming in." Ridge leans back, lacing his fingers together. "How was the bunker?"
"That place is pretty sweet. I forgot how cool it is. Dad thought of everything."