Chapter 13 Quinn #2
My stomach flips. He remembered. A throwaway comment from a bar conversation the night we met, and he remembered.
"Good memory."
"Selective memory." His dark eyes hold mine. "Some things are worth remembering."
The compliment lands without weight. He doesn't linger on it or watch for my reaction. He just states it and moves on, sipping his juice.
A woman walks by with a small dog on a leash. The dog strains toward our table, nose twitching at something he's picked up near us that he likes. She tugs him away with an apologetic smile.
"I have a meeting in an hour." Keller checks his watch. "I should head back soon, as much as I'd rather hang out with you."
"You work weekends?"
"I'm always working," he says matter-of-factly without complaint. "The tables don't run themselves, and the players don't keep banker's hours."
"Can I see you tomorrow?"
The question catches me off guard. There's no preamble or elaborate setup. As much as I tell myself we should keep our distance, I realize I like spending time with him, and I want to see him again.
I take another sip of my juice to buy time. The cold spreads through my chest.
"There's actually a movie I've been wanting to see." The words come out before I can stop them. "The Housemaid, the one with Amanda Seyfried and Sydney Sweeney. Have you heard of it? It's playing at the Prytania."
His eyebrows rise slightly. "Is that a chick flick? I'm not up on the latest movies, I have to admit."
"No, definitely not a chick flick. It’s a psychological thriller." I brace for the skepticism. The dismissal that usually comes when I mention my taste in films. "I read the book last year, and now I have to see the movie. I think you'll like it, if it's anything like the book."
"Well, you sold me. I'd love to. Should we check times?"
I blink. "You're an easy sell. I've already looked because I was thinking about going by myself. Can you do four tomorrow?"
"Consider me open to conversion." He finishes his juice and sets the empty cup aside. "Four o'clock it is."
"Fun. I'm excited to not go see it alone. My bestie has bailed on me twice, so I'm not waiting on her anymore."
We stand. He reaches for both cups, tossing them in the recycling bin near the door. As he steps around my chair to head toward the sidewalk, his fingers rest briefly at my elbow. The touch is light. Deliberate. And one before I can react.
"I won't bail on you. Promise."
I think that is a veiled reference to me bailing on him, although I never committed. But he said it tongue-in-cheek, and there is something about our gentle ribbing that has me feeling like a teenager.
I remember the way he was so attentive the night we went back to his loft. I shake it off because I'm still trying to decide if letting this go further is even a good idea.
He walks away, disappearing into the flow of pedestrians heading toward the streetcar stop. I watch him go until he rounds the corner.
My apartment smells like lavender and steam when I step out of the shower. The bathroom mirror is fogged over, and I wipe a streak across it with my palm. My reflection stares back, cheeks flushed from the hot water.
I check the clock on my bedside table and see it's only 11:12.
I wrap the towel tighter and pad into my bedroom. The hardwood is cool under my bare feet. Sunlight slants through the blinds in narrow bars.
I catch myself smiling at nothing.
Stop it.
But the flutter in my chest won't settle. I think about the way his fingers brushed my elbow yesterday, the way he remembered I don't like pulp, the way he agreed to a psychological thriller without hesitation or judgment.
I know I'm playing with fire, but I can't make the logical choice when he's so damn cute and funny. Every part of my brain screams that this is reckless, that I should have let things end with the run. That's what friends do.
Friends don't make follow-up plans every time they see each other.
I pull on yoga pants and a loose t-shirt. Movie attire comes later. Right now, I have hours to fill, and idle hands make me restless.
I walk over to my home office, which is really a small desk against the wall in a closet, a corkboard covered in notes and clippings that have nothing to do with work. Personal stuff. Reminders to call my dad. A photo of my sister at her high school graduation, her smile wide and unguarded.
I sit in my chair, and the leather creaks. My laptop hums to life.
Focus.
The giddiness fades as muscle memory takes over. I log into the encrypted portal, entering my credentials and waiting for the two-factor authentication. The system loads slowly, with security protocols stacking.
The preliminary review of Stone Intermodal fills my screen.
I remind myself, again, that I am not investigating Keller. His name appears nowhere in these files. His role in the family business is separate from the freight operations. The gaming tables exist in a different ecosystem entirely, one that falls outside my current assignment.
I refresh my inbox, and new messages populate the queue. Most are routine. Interdepartmental updates, scheduling confirmations, and a reminder about mandatory compliance training.
One subject line catches my attention.
Port Authority Liaison—Q3/Q4 Variance Summary
I click it open. The message is brief and professional. Attached is a spreadsheet that the liaison flagged for review. Several October manifests were amended after initial clearance. Normal fluctuations happen, but amended post-clearance documents warrant a second look.
I download the attachment.
Columns fill my screen. Container IDs, original clearance timestamps, amendment timestamps, routing changes, and authorization codes. The data is dense but organized. I scroll methodically, eyes scanning each row.
My heartbeat steadies. My breathing slows.
Most fluctuations align with seasonal norms. There's the normal holiday shipping increases volume, weather delays creating backlog, and necessary port congestion shifting routing.
Then my eyes catch on a cluster tied to the same terminal and the same narrow window in October.
Terminal 4. October 10 and 11.
Three containers cleared through primary customs inspection without issue. The documentation is complete. No inspection flags, no secondary holds, nothing that would have required additional scrutiny at the time of arrival.
I scroll across to the amendment column.
Amendment timestamp: October 13. Routing change: reassigned post-clearance to a third-party bonded warehouse.
I sit back in my chair and look at the dates again.
Sometime between the late night of October 12 and the early morning of October 13, Robert Stone was murdered.
The routing changes were made in the early morning of October 13. Someone took the time, in the middle of what looked like an unexpected traumatic loss, to change three shipments that had just been cleared the day before. When he was still alive…
I force myself not to jump ahead of the data.
Post-clearance amendments are not inherently suspicious.
Containers get rerouted for storage constraints, customs backlog, insurance disputes, mechanical issues, or any number of administrative reasons.
The port handles thousands of units a week.
Movement is constant. Adjustments are routine.
But three containers from the same terminal, cleared just before, all reassigned off-site within hours of the CEO’s death? That is not routine. That is at least worth a second look.
I scroll further. There is an authorization code attached to each amendment, but no executive notation and no linked internal memo explaining the shift. Just the amended routing, the timestamp, and a system’s override marker.
I copy the container IDs into a separate document and pull up the summary sheet again. Weight, declared commodity, origin port, consignee. Nothing on the surface contradicts the paperwork. Nothing screams mislabeling or concealment.
If I want to see who initiated the reroute, I will need the underlying edit logs from the port authority’s secured system. That requires a formal request, supervisory sign-off, and a documented reason for pulling deeper audit trails.
That is not something I can justify from my kitchen table on a Sunday afternoon. But I can ask for it first thing in the morning and likely have it before I leave for the day.
I close the spreadsheet and lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling for a long moment before I let my gaze drop back to the screen. The port authority liaison’s email is still open in the background, the attachment minimized at the bottom of the monitor.
I had been smiling ten minutes ago, thinking about this afternoon. About the way Keller said he hadn’t been to a movie in years. About the way he agreed anyway.
I told myself this was manageable, that I am not investigating him, and my job is a discreet review of a corporation, not a man. Not all of the Stones.
But his last name is not theoretical. It's on the building, on the shipping manifests, and on the folder sitting in my desk drawer.
In three hours, I am supposed to sit beside Keller Stone in the dark and pretend I have no intimate knowledge about his family beyond what he's shared, when the truth is, I'll be requesting a formal inquiry into that week.
For the first time since I opened this review, I am not sure I can separate the two.