Chapter 8 Keller
EIGHT
Keller
Carnival Courts: Many elite krewes present a formal royal court at their annual ball, composed of maids, dukes, and ceremonial attendants chosen from established families within the membership.
These courts serve as highly choreographed displays of lineage, tradition, and social standing within krewe society.
The light cuts through the loft at a low angle, throwing long rectangles across the concrete floor. I lean against the counter in the kitchen and pull up a text from Quinn.
The message is glaring. Three words in a tiny gray bubble.
sorry—can't tonight
The fact that it's all lowercase with no punctuation isn't lost on me. Before, she was flirty. This is dry, not offering an alternative. That's it. No.
I read it twice. My jaw tightens. I force myself not to make any more of it than it is. She can't, that's it.
It doesn't matter, anyway. I have no business getting too attached to someone.
What bothers me now is not that she said no. It's that I'd counted on yes.
I push off the counter and cross to the windows. The city sprawls below, rooftops and balconies catching the last of the late afternoon sun. My reflection stares back at me in the glass, dark eyes behind black frames.
This is fixable. I just need to shift my focus.
I pick up my phone again and pull up West's number. Two rings and he answers.
"Yeah."
"Tuesday's game. Walk me through the lineup."
There's a pause. West knows me well enough to catch the shift in tone. He doesn't comment on it.
"We've got the usual six. Plus the new guy. The one from Abu Dhabi."
"Tell me about him."
"Minor royal with a courtesy title. He travels under a diplomatic passport, but he's not an official anything. Discreet holdings in Europe. Showed up in Monaco twice last year. No defaults. No political noise."
"Temperament?"
"Drinks but doesn't get sloppy. He usually has at least two women on his arm. Plays aggressive when he's up and folds fast when he's not. Local vouch came from Sinclair."
Sinclair's solid, so that goes a long way with me.
"Who's watching him?"
"I am."
"Good. Keep him on the south side of the table.
Never next to Hollis. And I want Wells to pull his financials before Tuesday to make sure he can put the money where his mouth is.
These Middle Easterners always like to act like they are big rollers, but are one-and-done.
I don't want that kind of player at our tables. "
"Already called him and he's on it."
"What about the buy-in?"
"He wired it on Friday, and it cleared Monday morning."
I adjust my glasses and stare out at the rooftops. The numbers and logistics settle into place. Risk is manageable when you know the variables. People are harder to predict, but money always follows patterns.
"Anything else?"
"No. That's it."
"All right."
West hangs up without another word. I set the phone back down and breathe out through my nose.
Work steadies me. It always has. The tables, the players, the calculations. That's where I'm in control. Where things make sense.
Quinn is what doesn't make sense.
I grab my keys off the counter and head for the door. I need to move. Staying here just means staring at my phone and making up narratives that aren't there. I'm not sure where to go yet, but I'm going somewhere.
The elevator ride down is silent. I step out into the parking garage and unlock my Range Rover with a beep. I climb in and throw my phone in the cup holder.
I adjust the radio to The Ten Spot, just as my phone rings. I grab it, not sure who I hope it is. I'm disappointed to see it's my brother, Cain.
"What's up, Bro?"
"Checking on my big brother. I was wondering if you had an open space on your tables."
"Hell, no. Not for you. You don't have enough money."
"Shit. You know I'm good for it."
"No, not this week. Hey, what are you up to? Was thinking about dropping in on you."
"Just sitting around the bunker. Come by and let's have a beer."
"See you in ten."
The sun dips behind the trees as I drive towards The Crestor House, the old house on the historic registry, my father bought a while back and renovated back to its glory. It was my mother's idea and her pet project.
The house sits quietly in the fading light. I pull into the driveway and kill the engine. The oak trees out front cast thick shadows across the lawn. Spanish moss sways in the breeze.
I walk up the steps and unlock the front door. The air inside smells faintly of furniture polish and that old smell that every old house has, but you can't quite put your finger on where it comes from.
I move through the foyer and toward the door leading down into the bunker. I cross to the back hall and stop at the closet near the stairs. The false panel sits flush against the wall.
We built this bunker years ago. Dad's idea. Fortified concrete walls, independent ventilation, supplies for months. Ridge calls it paranoid. Cain calls it a playground.
I head down the stairs. The motion lights kick on automatically, illuminating each step. At the bottom, the steel door stands ajar. I push it open and step into the main room.
Cain leans against the counter in the kitchen area, holding a bottle of water. He glances up when I enter, then smirks.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in."
"How's it going? You're still mooching off the bunker instead of getting your own place?"
"I'm house-sitting, asswipe."
"You're squatting."
I cross my arms and stare at him. Cain just grins wider.
"There are worse places to leech off family."
"Don't you want your own place? This is fun for a minute, but do you really want to live underground? Christ, it's like you're a vampire."
"I'm looking, I swear. It's hard moving from Manhattan back here. I have to ease into it. Plus, this place has quiet, security, and comes with vegetables."
He gestures toward the hydroponic garden, glowing green and purple under the grow lights in the corner. Rows of lettuce, herbs, and tomatoes thrive in their vertical beds. The hum of the pumps fills the silence.
"Buy your own house, dickhead. Stop pretending this is your personal dorm."
Cain laughs and takes another drink. He sets the bottle down and straightens.
"Speaking of houses. I was clearing some stuff out of Dad's office yesterday. Found a box on the top of his bookshelf with a bunch of pictures of Mom in it. It was a little surreal. Do you ever wonder how things would be if she were still here?"
"Every day. What kind of pictures?"
"I don't know. Candid shots. There were a few other things in there, too. A note written on hotel stationery and an old key. Probably things Dad saved that reminded him of her."
His tone shifts. He's still casual, but I can tell seeing them has him thinking about our parents, who are both gone now. The teasing drops away.
"Where is it? I want to see."
Cain walks down the hall into Dad's office, and I follow him. He grabs an old orange shoe box off the desk and pulls off the top.
I stare at it. It's an old Nike box. My heart thuds in my chest. It's so ordinary and heavy all at once.
"See if you can make anything of it."
I step closer. My hand scoops out the stack of photos, and I shuffle through them. Our mother stands close to a man I don't recognize. There must be twenty or thirty photos, and all of them show her with the same man.
In the first one, his hand rests at the small of her back. In the second, she laughs toward him, her face turned at an angle that feels too intimate for a friend or colleague.
I flip to the next photo. The background shows the entrance to a hotel I know by name. The Asbury. It's a high-end place and known to be discreet. It's the kind of place people go when they don't want to be noticed.
I set the photographs aside and lift the layer beneath. A folded hotel receipt with her name printed at the top. The date reads two weeks before she died.
There's also a room key card, plain white plastic with a magnetic stripe. And finally, a slip of paper with a room number written in my father's handwriting.
I stare at it for a long moment. The numbers don't blur or shift, but seeing all of this stuff together like this sucks the air out of the room.
"Do you know who that is?"
Cain's voice pulls me back. I glance up at him. His expression is careful, watching me.
I pick up the first photograph again and study the man. He's wearing a signet ring on his left hand, and there's a scar near his eyebrow. His posture is angled toward her in a way that suggests comfort.
"I don't know. He might be one of the historians she worked with on one of her projects."
The photographs don't shock me. They confirm what I already know.
I was ten years old, sitting on the staircase in the middle of the night because raised voices woke me. My father's voice carried through the house like a bullhorn. He was always so loud, especially when he was angry.
I remember my mother crying. The word cheating cut through everything else.
I remember he called her a slut, and she told him he was cruel. Both of those words stayed with me. In that moment, and in the days that followed, that is how I came to understand my parents.
My father could be cruel, a truth I knew intimately in my life with him before and after that night. I never knew my mother to be what he called her, but I know that word has suffocated me since that night.
She told him she was leaving, and he told her to get the fuck out. He literally spat out the word at her, and then I heard a door slam.
She was gone.
"He's probably dead now, too, the poor bastard. It's almost eerie finding them."
The next morning, a police officer stood at the door. My father answered. Ridge came downstairs first. I stayed on the landing, watching.
She'd been t-boned by a semi-truck on the way out to our cabin in Slydell. I never told anyone else, but I blamed my father for her death.
I close the box gently and clear my throat. My hands remain steady.
"Yep, I think you're right."