Chapter 8 Keller #2
"Do you recognize him at all? Does it even matter? I guess not, except that they are pictures of our mother."
"No, I don’t, and I don't think they matter. It was probably something Dad put up there years ago and forgot about it."
I keep my tone even. I don't believe what I'm telling him, but this has been my secret to keep all these years. These photos, the hotel receipt, and the key. They all must be what led to the fight that night that I never told any of my brothers about.
Cain doesn't seem to be reading too much into them, which is good. That's how it needs to be. None of them should be burdened with what I know about that last night.
"What should we do with it? I can't stomach throwing away photos of Mom, even if they don't mean anything to us."
"I'd like to keep them, if you're okay with it. I like seeing her in these candid shots." I rub my finger over the top of the box, remembering the one on top of her in mid-laugh. I don't tell him I want to find this man.
"I texted Ridge earlier about it. Figured he might want to do something with it."
"What did he say?"
"He hasn't written back. I just asked him what he wanted me to do with them."
"Tell him they were just old photos and I'm keeping them."
Ridge doesn't need this. He's already carrying enough weight running the business and keeping everything on track. And there's nothing here that changes the outcome. She's gone. My father's gone. Whatever happened between them is buried with both of them.
Cain studies my face.
"Hey, let's take a rain check on that beer. I just remembered I'm supposed to meet West." I pick up the box and tuck it under my arm.
"Okay. I need to head to the gym, anyway. Ridge has me working ten and twelve-hour days. I need to burn off some of these beignets."
I stop near the door, but don't turn around. "You’d better get in there and get your reps in. You don't want to lose that NYC body you worked so hard for."
"Fuck you, dickhead."
"I'll pass," I retort. We've always had a relationship where we can give each other a hard time without taking it personally.
"Keller, you good? You seem quiet all of a sudden."
"Oh, yeah, I'm good. Just thinking about work."
The words come out flatly, and I know he can read right through me, even if he doesn't know what is weighing on me. I just hope he doesn't connect it with the box. More than anything, I want to downplay that.
I climb the stairs without looking back. The motion lights trail behind me as I reach the top and push through the false panel. The house above is colder now, somehow. Mom didn't live long enough to see the renovation she envisioned.
I walk to the car and set the box on the passenger seat. The engine turns over smoothly as I pull out of the driveway and head back toward the city.
The photographs sit next to me, daring me to explore further. I don't look at them again, but my mind starts racing with a plan to get to the bottom of them.
Traffic crawls through the Quarter, strings of taillights bleeding red across wet pavement. I keep one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift. I press and release the O/D button on the side, a nervous habit.
By the time I pull into the garage beneath my building, my jaw aches. I've been clenching it without realizing. I cut the engine and sit for a moment in the quiet.
I grab the box and head inside.
The elevator ride up is silent. When the doors open, I step into the loft and set my keys on the counter. The city spreads beyond the windows, lights flickering to life as dusk settles into night.
I place the box next to my keys and stare at it for a beat.
I move the box to the counter and leave it there. Ridge is already carrying enough and has been since October running the business.
Cain would worry at it until it became something bigger than it is. Wells would start digging and never stop.
This doesn’t need an audience.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find the number I need.
Marcus Devlin. I've used him before for background checks on players who show up with too much cash and not enough history when Wells wasn't immediately available.
He's thorough, discreet, and expensive enough that he doesn't need to take shortcuts.
Two rings, and he picks up.
"Keller Stone. How the hell are you? It's been a minute."
"I'm hanging in there. Listen, I need something done."
"All right. Talk to me."
I open the box and lift out the hotel receipt. The date stares back at me.
"Hotel Asbury, seventeen years ago. Any chance we can find a guest list from a specific date?"
"Might be a stretch, but that's not too far back that records couldn't possibly have been scanned into a database. I won't know until I start digging."
I give him the date and tell him I want to find a specific man, whose name I don't know. I recite the physical details, including the signet ring and the scar.
Marcus is quiet for a second. Then he speaks.
"I'll see what I can find out for you. Why not use your brother's systems? Wells has access to more databases than I do."
"This stays off family networks. I don't want any internal chatter or digital trail tied to us."
Another pause that's longer this time. Marcus knows better than to ask why.
"Understood. Starting points will be archived guest lists and corporate registries from that period. Hotel changed ownership twice since then, but records exist if you know where to look. Let's just hope seventeen years isn't too much."
"How long do you think it will take?"
"Give me a few days."
"Thanks, man. I appreciate you."
I end the call and set the phone down. I flatten my hand against the counter and hold it there until the cool stone steadies me. This is simple. Facts. Names. Dates. Whatever happened that night didn’t end with the fight. It didn't end with a semi on a dark stretch of highway.
If there’s more to it, I’ll be the one to see it.
I breathe in through my nose and let it out slowly.
The loft is too quiet now. There's no hum of conversation or background noise to fill the space, so I grab the remote to my Sonos and turn on my Florence and the Machine playlist. "Cosmic Love" cuts through the air. The slow build of it steadies something in my chest.
I turn back to the box and slide the lid off. The photographs have shifted from the drive over. Some of them are turned slightly, faces half-covered.
I straighten them carefully.
My mother looks back at me from seventeen years ago, caught mid-laugh in a moment I wasn’t there to see.
I lift the clearest photograph and carry it toward the window. The city light catches the gloss, sharpening what the box had dulled.
He’s clean-shaven. Strong nose, slightly crooked. The scar near his brow is thin and pale, not fresh. Years old by the time this was taken.
The ring is harder to make out. I study it. The design is too small to make out clearly, but the shape is distinct. It's a crest of some kind. Family, maybe, or institution.
I pick up another photograph. Same man, same ring. His hand rests against my mother's back. The angle of her body leans toward him.
I set both photographs side by side on the counter.
Who were you?
The question sits in my mind, clear and cold. Not angry. Not bitter. Just there.
If my father confronted him, I never saw it. If he buried this instead, it wasn’t by accident.
I step back and cross my arms. The city spreads beyond the glass, lights flickering in high-rises and hotels, and street corners below. Somewhere out there, this man could still exist. Older now, undoubtedly, and completely unaware that his face sits on my counter.
Marcus will find him. And when he does, I'll have a name, somewhere to start to piece together the pivotal event that changed the course of my life.
My phone screen lights up on the counter. I glance at it, thinking it could be a message. But it isn't. It's just the motion sensor registering my proximity. The screen glows white and then dims again.
I pick it up anyway. Quinn's thread sits at the top. Her last message stares back at me.
sorry—can't tonight
I lock the screen and set the phone down beside the photographs.
I let the screen go dark again. One of the questions on this counter can be solved with money and patience. The other would require me to ask for something.
If she wanted another night, she would have said so. I don’t press when someone steps back.
My eyes move back to the two photos on the counter. The man’s face is etched in my mind. This, at least, is something I can go after.