Chapter 17 Reeves
SEVENTEEN
Reeves
The Children: They appear at the edges of the procession, not knowing the deceased, only knowing the sound, and that they are supposed to follow it.
My shoulder wakes up before I do.
The dull ache spreads from the joint down my arm as I shift against the pillows. Yesterday at the beach pushed harder than I anticipated. Building pirate traps with a five-year-old involves more digging and lifting than I expected.
I sit up slowly, testing the range of motion. The stiffness runs deep. Not surface-level soreness from overuse. This is the grinding reminder that my body carries damage I can't fix with willpower alone.
Fucking pool isn’t open. If I want to swim, I’ll have to drive back over to the Creston House. I debate whether it’s worth the trip, but I know it's the best way to loosen up my shoulder.
I grab the pill bottle. Two ibuprofen tablets go down harder than normal because my mouth is dry as shit. The bitter coating sticks to my tongue. I need some water.
Sleep didn't come easily last night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Benjy's face tilted up at me while he rattled on about pirates and traps and recon. I didn’t know it was possible to feel that attached to a kid that fast.
I roll my shoulder again, working the joint loose. The ache stays constant. Lieutenant Kaplan's words echo in my head about degenerative damage. Fucking bullshit.
I stand and walk to the window overlooking the garden. The camellias my mother planted still bloom in neat rows along the brick path. Everything is maintained exactly as she left it, after all these years.
How has it been seventeen years since she died?
I pull clothes from the dresser, going for dark jeans. I throw a plain T-shirt on the bed. It's the same uniform I wear when I want to blend into civilian life.
But yesterday wasn't about blending.
Charli's house carries the unmistakable weight of a life built with intention. Toys are organized in baskets. Library books are stacked on the coffee table. Photographs stuck to the refrigerator with alphabet magnets. Every detail speaks of roots.
It's those invisible ties I've spent my entire life running from. The same ones that terrified me when she started talking about marriage and futures and staying in one place.
My phone sits silent on the nightstand. No messages. No expectations.
Benjy assumes I'll be there because that's what comrades do. They show up.
Not if. When.
The realization pushes through me more heavily than my expectation to report for duty.
I grab a towel from the bathroom counter and run cold water over my face. The image in the mirror stares back at me with my father’s jawline and my mother’s eyes.
The same eyes that looked up at me from Benjy’s face yesterday.
I spent most of yesterday being careful, watching Charli’s reactions, and taking my cues from her. I made sure I didn’t step past whatever boundaries she’s still figuring out.
But Benjy doesn’t think in boundaries. He thinks in missions.
She should know I’m willing to do more if she wants that, but she can't unless I let her know.
I dry my face and walk back into the bedroom. The house is quiet around me. Ms. Landry must already be out somewhere.
The phone sits on the nightstand.
I pick it up.
I’m not great at messages like this. Military communication is simple. I work in bullet points and clear objectives and defined parameters.
Texting the mother of my son about pirate traps on the beach requires a different kind of precision.
I type slowly.
I didn't want to put you on the spot last night, but if Benjy is still planning to hunt pirates today, I'm free and would be happy to help if I wouldn't be imposing.
Too formal.
I delete it.
I start again.
I realize Benjy might be expecting me at the beach today. I didn't want to make plans without checking with you first, but I'm available if he still wants to work on the pirate trap.
I read it twice. It's clumsy, but honest.
I hesitate for a second before I tap it. The message disappears into the quiet morning.
Now I wait.
Three minutes later, the phone dings with Charli’s response.
He’s been talking about it all morning. We’re at the house now, but we can head to the beach in about an hour if you want to make the drive again.
I read the message twice.
Benjy woke up planning. Based on how much he kept going on yesterday, he’s probably walked Charli through the new trap design ten times already.
I set the phone on the dresser and walk to the window again. The garden spreads out below, perfectly maintained. Every hedge trimmed. Every flower bed weeded. The kind of order that requires constant attention.
Her message isn’t a demand. It isn’t pressure. Just information, offered in Charli’s careful way.
She keeps opening the door, and it's up to me whether I want to walk through it. I can’t decide if that makes this easier or harder.
I change out of my jeans into shorts. I work my arm in slow circles until the stiffness fades enough to pull the shirt over my head.
Two more ibuprofen go down with water from the bathroom tap. The pills rattle in the bottle when I set it back on the counter. There aren’t many left. Hopefully enough to get me back to base before I run out. If not, I’ll have to switch to the over-the-counter stuff, which barely touches the pain.
I grab my keys from the nightstand and pause at the bedroom door.
The hallway stretches toward the stairs, the same path I walked every day growing up. My parents built this house when I was a baby, and we never left. The carpet has been replaced twice, but the layout has never changed. The same family photos still line the walls.
Some places carry too much history to let them disappear.
A memory surfaces before I can stop it.
I’m standing in this exact spot the morning after Mom’s funeral. I’m twelve years old, and the house is all wrong, even though we are all here.
Keller is sitting at the top of the stairs with his back against the wall. He’s been there since breakfast. Maybe longer. I want to sit next to him, but neither of us knows what to say.
None of us does.
Dad moves through the house as if nothing happened. Phone calls, meetings, quiet conversations with men in suits. Everything continues, like routine might hold the world together.
I stand in this hallway, waiting for someone to explain what comes next. I cry for someone to say anything that makes sense of the space she’s left behind.
No one ever does.
The memory fades as quickly as it came.
Ms. Landry appears from the kitchen with a coffee mug in her hand. I guess she is here after all. Damn, she's quiet.
“Heading out early today?” she asks.
“Yeah. I’ll be gone most of the day.”
She nods without asking questions.
“Drive safe.”
The morning air hits my face when I step outside. It's warm already. The kind of Louisiana heat that builds all day until evening storms break it apart.
I climb into the Hummer and start the engine. The radio crackles to life, some news station discussing traffic patterns. I turn it off and sit there in the silence, only the hum of the engine for ambiance.
The drive to Bay St. Louis will take forty-five minutes on a Saturday. That's long enough to change my mind six times. Long enough to overthink every word of Charli's message and every possible outcome of showing up.
But not long enough to forget the image of Benjy pointing down the beach yesterday, explaining where we'd build the next trap.
I shift into reverse and pull out of the garage. As I pull onto the road, the rearview mirror reflects the Stone family estate growing smaller behind me.
For once, I'm not running toward something to escape what's behind me. I'm driving toward a five-year-old who believes I keep my word.
The beach parking lot is nearly empty when I pull in. There are just a few scattered cars and one weathered pickup truck with fishing gear in the back. The sun sits high already, casting sharp shadows across the sand.
I spot them immediately.
Charli stands near the water's edge in a yellow sundress, her hair caught by the breeze. Benjy is close by, animated, engaged.
I climb out of the Hummer and walk toward them across the soft sand. The sound of me approaching draws Benjy's attention first.
His head snaps up, and his face breaks into a wide grin.
"Reeves!"
He jumps to his feet and runs straight at me, sand flying from his swim trunks. The enthusiasm hits me square in the diaphragm. There's no hesitation or shyness. Just pure excitement that I showed up.
"I started it already! I figured out the perfect spot, and I made the outline. I think I know exactly where they'll try to sneak past us."
The words tumble out so fast I can barely follow them. He grabs my hand and tugs me toward his work area.
"See? Look at this. I made it way bigger than yesterday, and I put it right here where the sand is hard but not too wet. The pirates can't see it coming."
I crouch down beside him and study the rough circle he's scratched in the sand. Maybe three feet across with several smaller marks radiating outward.
"Tell me about these lines."
"Those are escape routes. Pirates always have backup plans, right? So I figured out all the ways they might try to get away, and we can block them with more traps."
"What about high tide? Will it reach this spot?"
"Nope. Mom and I checked the water line from yesterday. This is totally safe."
I glance toward Charli.
She’s standing about ten feet away, watching us, arms loosely crossed. I can see her blue-and-white striped bathing suit through her sheer dress. The loose fabric shifts with the wind, outlining more than it hides before settling back against her.
For a second, I forget what Benjy is saying.
Our eyes meet.
She looks at me differently today. Yesterday, she was measuring every word I said to him, watching for signs that I might overstep.
Today she’s watching to see what I’ll do next.
Not guarded. Not pulling back.
Waiting.
Benjy keeps explaining the trap layout, tracing new lines in the sand while he talks, but I’m aware of her in a way that makes it harder to focus. The shift of her weight in the sand. The way her gaze doesn’t move off me right away.
I force my attention back to him.
"So what's the plan?" I ask Benjy, refocusing on his eager face.
"First, we dig the main trap deeper. Then we make it look like treasure is buried inside. Then we build the smaller ones along the escape routes so they can't get away when they fall for the big one."
"Sounds like you've thought this through."
"I thought about it all morning. I even drew pictures."
He pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket. Crayon drawings of circles and arrows and stick figures wearing pirate hats. The planning is detailed for a five-year-old.
"This is good work. Real tactical thinking."
Benjy beams at the praise.
"Mom said you know about strategy and stuff because you're in the military."
I look toward Charli again. She's moved closer now, near enough to hear our conversation clearly. Her expression stays neutral, but I catch something softer in her eyes.
"Your mom's right. Strategy matters when you're trying to catch pirates."
"Or bad guys?"
"Or bad guys."
"Do you catch bad guys?"
"Sometimes. When they're hurting people who can't protect themselves."
"Like bullies?"
"Exactly like bullies."
Benjy nods seriously, processing the connection. Then his attention shifts back to the trap project.
"Okay, so should we start digging?"
I stand and brush sand from my hands. "Let's do it."
The work falls into a rhythm as Benjy kneels at the edge of the hole, scooping handfuls of sand with a determination that reminds me of myself at his age. Every movement purposeful.
"Pack the sides tighter," I tell him. "Loose sand collapses."
He follows my instruction without question, patting the walls with his small palms until the structure firms up. Then he looks at me, waiting for approval.
"Better. Now we need bracing."
I scan the shoreline for driftwood pieces the right size. Benjy scrambles to his feet and starts collecting sticks without being asked. Smart kid. Sees the next step before I explain it.
Charli works quietly beside us, arranging rope and palm fronds across the trap opening.
Her movements carry the same careful precision I remember from watching her organize study notes in college, only now I’m close enough to see the sand clinging to her skin, the way her focus doesn’t waver even when I’m right there.
"This piece should work," she says, pointing to a weathered branch half-buried in the sand.
We both reach for it at the same time.
Her fingers brush mine when we grab opposite ends. The contact lasts maybe two seconds before we both pull back, but the sensation lingers. Her hand used to fit against mine like it belonged there.
She clears her throat and focuses on adjusting the rope pattern. I turn back to Benjy before I linger on it too long, showing him how to wedge the driftwood supports against the trap walls.
"Angle them like this. See how they hold each other up?"
"Oh. Like building blocks but with sticks."
"Exactly."
He positions each piece with the same intense focus he brings to everything. Tongue poking out slightly when he concentrates. Green eyes narrowed in assessment. The expressions mirror my own so closely that it's unsettling.
Charli laughs at a joke Benjy says about pirate treasure maps, and the sound catches me off guard. It's light and genuine, like I remember. Not like the carefully guarded woman from Thursday night and yesterday.
It's the same laugh that used to make me stop whatever I was doing just to listen.
She sits back on her heels, checking our progress. Sand dusts her knees and forearms. A few strands of chestnut hair have escaped her ponytail and blow across her face in the sea breeze.
She’s still stunning. Maybe more than she used to be, if that's even possible.
"Is it deep enough now?" Benjy asks.
I measure the hole with my eyes. About eighteen inches across and maybe a foot deep. It's surprisingly solid construction.
"Looks good. Now we camouflage it."
"With the palm fronds?"
"Right. But we need to make it look natural. Like they just fell there."
Benjy studies the materials with scientific intensity. He arranges and rearranges the branches until they look random. Testing each placement with his finger to make sure the coverage stays complete.
Charli adjusts the final rope tie, and we all sit back to admire the finished work.
"That's perfect. Pirates won't see it coming," Benjy announces with satisfaction.
He jumps up and walks around the perimeter, inspecting our construction from different angles. Charli stands and brushes sand from her dress, shielding her eyes from the sun as she watches him.
For a moment the three of us move around each other like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
The recognition hits me hard enough that I stop breathing for a second.