Chapter 18 Ridge
EIGHTEEN
Ridge
Haunted History: With centuries-old cemeteries, historic mansions, and mysterious legends, New Orleans is one of the most haunted cities in America, drawing ghost hunters and curious visitors alike.
“You know where my father’s house is, right?”
“I do. Why are you staying there? Don’t you have your own place?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. Her fingers rest in her lap, knuckles pale where she’s pressing them together.
“After everything lately,” she says, “he’s not pretending anymore. He wants me where he can see me.”
I don’t like the way that lands. I don’t say that either.
I slow the car as I turn onto Audubon Place, easing off the gas like I’m approaching a checkpoint instead of a street I know well. The gate sits open this early, iron pulled back just enough to invite anyone foolish enough to test it.
“You don’t need to go in,” Coco says. “You can let me out here, and I’ll walk. His house is only a few houses in.”
“I’ll take you up,” I say. “It’s early.”
“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t.” She finally looks at me. “If you drive through that gate, it will get noticed. There are cameras and neighbors who treat curiosity like a hobby.”
“I don’t hide,” I say.
“I know,” she says quietly. “That’s why I’m asking you to stop.”
The house is visible now through the trees. Long drive. Lights still off. The kind of place that looks dormant even when it’s fully awake.
I slow to the curb just outside the gate.
“Last night,” she says, not looking at me, “wasn’t nothing.”
I feel that land. I don’t let it move me.
“It was a mistake,” I say.
Her head turns then. Just enough to look at me properly. “You didn’t act like it.”
I don’t answer her. She’s trying to bait me into something I don’t want to get into with her.
“And now?” she asks.
“Now I drop you off, make sure you get in safely, and we go our separate ways. You said you needed closure. That’s what last night was,” I say, rubbing a hand through my beard and turning to look out of the other window. “Before this turns into something we can’t walk back from.”
Her fingers tighten on the handle. For a second, I think she might push it. Push me. But she doesn’t.
She opens the door, steps out, and closes it with more force than necessary. Cool air slides in, sharp enough to cut through the lingering warmth in the car.
She doesn’t look back this time. It’s best this way.
I watch until she turns right and walks up the driveway of the third house in. I’m pretty sure that’s Laurent’s house. When she goes in through the garage, that confirms it.
I pull away.
Last night was not something I can repeat. Not with her or with the fallout it would cause. Want doesn’t outweigh consequence.
The phone rings before I make the turn.
“Stone,” I say.
“You awake?” Wells asks.
“I am.”
“I’ve been inside the Duvalls’ backend all night,” Wells says. “Three separate systems. Different shells. Same underlying structure.”
I ease into the next lane as traffic thickens, the city widening ahead of me. The wheel stays steady under my hands, even as something tightens behind my ribs.
“And?” I say.
“There isn’t a straight line,” he says. “There aren’t any direct messages or directives. Nothing you can point to and say this is the order. But it’s pretty damn clear they set everything up to get control of those routes. And the only man standing in their way had to go.”
I run all of this through my mind. Vin suggested as much, but now we have proof they had motive.
“They wanted entry to the Gulf routes Dad controlled,” he says. “They asked for it. He shut it down.”
I keep my eyes on the road.
“He didn’t just refuse,” Wells continues. “He made it clear they weren’t going to use them at all. Not directly. Not through partners. Not quietly.”
“And that didn’t sit well,” I say.
“And they didn’t stop there. Off-hour movements, small volume. Enough to test using them without drawing his attention. They never scaled it, because they couldn’t. He would’ve caught it.”
Traffic thickens. I ease into the flow without thinking.
“What changed?” I ask.
“Dad died,” Wells says. “And now those same routes are running at full capacity. They don’t have to hide it, now.”
That settles cleanly in my chest.
“So his death made use of that lane possible,” I say.
“Yes,” Wells says. “In practice, he was the only thing standing in their way. And he’s banking on the chaos of his death and no clear leadership to mean no one will stop him.”
“That’s motive,” I say.
“It’s motive,” Wells agrees. “It’s not proof they ordered the hit. But it’s a reason to want him gone, and a reason they benefit now that he is.”
I tighten my grip on the wheel, then let it ease again.
“Send me what you have so I can look at it in black and white,” I say.
“You already have it,” Wells says. “Before and after. Side by side.”
“Thank you, Wells. This is good work.”
“You bet. Now I’ve got to get some sleep.”
The line goes quiet.
I drive another block before I let myself breathe out fully. Her street is already gone behind me, folded back into the city like it never mattered.
Footsteps approach the booth. Vin slides into the seat across from me without asking, settling in like the space was always meant for him.
He’s been beside my family my entire life. First with my father, now with me.
He doesn’t waste motion or make small talk. He checks his phone once and sets it face down on the table. His hair is rumpled, his shirt unbuttoned an extra notch, the tie he usually wears nowhere in sight.
“Evening, Ridge,” he says, clearing his throat lightly. “You wanted to meet. Everything okay?”
He signals Beck for a drink, then lifts his eyes to mine and waits.
I set my glass down. “You look like you got the shit beat out of you.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Not far off.”
I don’t ask why. I don’t care to know.
“Wells pulled intel from the Duvalls this morning,” I say. “I want to go through it with you.”
Something in Vin’s posture tightens, subtle but immediate. “What did he find?”
I slide a slim file across the table, along with a jump drive. “Shipping routes. Financials. Encrypted traffic. It points toward Gulf operations my father used to control. Enough to suggest they’re pushing into lanes my father kept locked down. You were right.”
Vin flips the top page, eyes moving quickly. “I knew it. They’ve been pushing for expansion for years. Your father kept them boxed in. Now he’s gone.”
“I’m not moving yet,” I say. “Not until I’m sure. I’m not repeating the Boudreaux mistake. I also want that route back. Whether they had a hand in my father’s death or not, I’m not letting them keep it.”
“I looped Cain in,” Vin says. “He’s coordinating with suppliers while he preps to come down from New York. I’ll tell him to speed it up. Waiting too long carries its own risks.”
“Good,” I say as I take a sip and let it burn going down.
“What about Tripp? Have you made any decisions there?”
“In due time,” I reply. “If this ties back to Tripp, we’ll find it. When I can connect those dots cleanly, then I’ll make a call.”
Vin nods once, fingers tapping against his glass. “What else?”
I pause before answering. Not because I don’t trust him, but because the words carry weight.
“When I was in the bunker with Coco,” I say, “I found photos in one of my father’s desk drawers. Old ones. They’ve been there a while.”
His brow lifts slightly. “Photos of what?”
“People,” I say. “One of them had you in it. There’s a photo of the man who killed my father. The one with the birthmark.”
Something tightens briefly along Vin’s jaw, gone almost as soon as it appears. A breath passes. His expression smooths.
“Boudreaux’s guy,” he says after a beat. “I’ve crossed paths with him. We weren’t enemies back then. While our companies competed, there was overlap. It’s entirely possible we ran into each other on business.”
“That’s what I assumed,” I say. “I just want to understand why my father kept the photos.”
Vin’s gaze stays on mine. “Let me see them. I might recognize the setting, the timeframe. There were a lot of reasons I could’ve crossed paths with him. Something your father asked me to handle, maybe. The photos could jog my memory.”
I nod once.
“I meant to bring them,” I say. “They’re still on his desk. I’ll bring them tomorrow.”
“That works,” Vin says. He finishes his drink and sets the glass aside. “In the meantime, I’ll go through Wells’s intel with him. If there’s something actionable in there, we’ll find it.”
“Good.”
He meets my look without flinching, steady as ever.
We turn back to the report. The answer is buried in these pages somewhere. I just need the kind of confirmation that lets me act without hesitation.
The street outside the old row house turned millennial hangout is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels temporary. Neon from the bar sign bleeds across the wet pavement, blue light stretching and breaking in the cracks.
She said she’d be here. I don’t know if she expected me to listen.
I park down the block and leave the engine running. Shadows swallow the car where I sit, hands resting on the wheel. Every time someone passes on the sidewalk, my grip tightens without me telling it to.
I shouldn’t be here. I know that.
Still, I stay.
This place is familiar to her. Public. Controlled. If her father is letting her out at all, this is where she goes. It’s safer than most of the alternatives.
Or it should be.
I told her this morning we couldn’t keep doing whatever this is, that it doesn’t lead anywhere. I meant it when I said walking away now is the smarter option for both of us.
That logic still holds. The only problem is my body hasn’t agreed to it yet.
I tell myself I’m here to make sure she’s fine. One look, proof she gets to her car without trouble. Then I leave. She never has to know I was here.
The door swings open. My chest tightens before my thoughts catch up that it’s her.