Chapter 15 Quinn #2
"You did kiss! Please tell me it was in the dark theatre. I want to live vicariously through you."
"No, sorry to disappoint. I was too into the movie. But he walked me to my door when he dropped me off, and it was hot and steamy. Better than the theatre, if you ask me."
"You let it end there? Y'all have already slept together, why are we going backwards?"
"You know why. Once I found out he was a Stone, it just felt off."
Leah leans back in her seat, wrapping both hands around her cup. Steam curls between us.
"But you keep seeing him, right? Drinks, runs, walks in the park, juice bars. You sound like a suburban newlywed couple."
"We've been hanging out. Yesterday was the first time we've kissed since… You know."
"But you're still seeing him. After sleeping with him. I don't care how much you kid yourself, you don't do that in that order unless there is more there."
I don't answer right away. I sip my coffee loudly, as I think about what she's saying. I know she isn't wrong, but I'm not ready to admit it to myself, much less say it out loud to someone else.
"You sound different."
"What do you mean?"
"When you talk about him." She pauses, choosing her words. "There's something in your voice. It's softer."
"I'm always soft."
"You sound like someone who had fun. Actual fun. Not obligation fun. Not networking fun. The real thing."
I stare at my coffee. The surface ripples slightly from the vibration of the espresso machine.
"I do have fun with him. Leah, I do like him. But I shouldn't."
Leah waits. She knows me well enough to know there is more.
"I like the way we don't have to try to come up with things to talk about. I like his dry sense of humor. I like that he remembered I don't like pulp in my orange juice."
Leah's expression softens. "That's a lot of likes."
"It's inconvenient."
"Since when is liking someone inconvenient?"
Since I started reviewing his family's shipping records.
I trace the rim of my mug with one finger. I honestly don't know how to answer that. I've already said way too much out loud for plausible deniability.
"Have you told him what you do? Like, specifically?"
"He knows I work for the federal government and that I conduct audits and compliance."
"But have you told him what you're actually working on right now?"
"Hell no. Of course not."
"Quinn."
"Discretion is part of my job. You know that. I cannot discuss active assignments with civilians."
"I feel so special." Leah's voice flattens. "But let's be serious. Is he an active assignment? Or, are you just creating reasons not to let yourself go there?"
"His family's company is absolutely the center of this assignment."
"Didn't you say he doesn't work for the company?"
"Yes." I think about the tiny glimmer of hope from this morning, that maybe Stone Intermodal isn't bad at all. God, I want to hang onto that and ride it into the sunset.
Or, maybe ride him. Goddamn it, Quinn. Stop it.
Leah sips her latte. She's got that look. I just gave her all the ammo she needs to blow up my current reasoning to keep him at arm's length.
"Could you walk away? If the data pointed somewhere real?"
The question hangs between us. Outside, a streetcar rattles past, and I chew on my bottom lip.
Could I?
I think about Keller's hands on my waist. The way he looked at me in the theater, checking my reaction to a scene instead of the screen. The coffee he made me without asking. The run in the park.
Leah sighs. She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.
"I just want you to live life, Quinny. Work isn't what it's all about. The world isn't black and white, right and wrong. You know that, I know you do. You've got to get out of your own way."
"I know."
"I should get back." I pull my hand free and reach for my bag. "I've got a meeting at one with Marcus, and I have to get some stuff together I pulled this morning."
"Quinn."
"Yeah?"
"Let go. Okay?"
I nod as she stands and we both hug. God, do I want to. But I can't let go of the voice that tells me I need to remain clear-headed, to keep a boundary between us.
"Speaking of, don't let them crush you at work. We both need to have a better work-life balance, don't we?"
"I won't. That's why I needed to see you. This was a perfect reset."
We go our separate ways on the sidewalk. She heads to her car, and I walk the few blocks to my office.
The afternoon light has shifted by the time Martin closes the folder and rests both hands on the table.
The conference room air is stale, and the overhead light is brighter than I like.
He's read through my brief three times, asking pointed questions in between, circling the same sections as if repetition might reveal something I missed.
Finally, he looks up at me.
“If Ridge Stone wanted that shipment to go through,” he says evenly, “it would not have been turned over the way it was. Cooperation at that level is difficult to stage.”
I nod once. I had reached the same conclusion, but hearing him say it without hesitation steadies something in me.
“I couldn't agree more.”
He closes the file and slides it back toward me. “You’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing, Mercer. Keep following this. This is exactly why you're on this.“ He taps on the review I prepared.
"I think this answers a lot of questions. But it creates more. We need to know more about David Parsale."
"Already on it.”
When I step out into the hallway, the building hums with the low, end-of-day fatigue of fluorescent lights and distant conversations. I walk back toward my office without rushing, the file tucked against my side.
Martin does not hand out comfort. He hands out directions. Today, the direction is clear. Look closer at the employee, not the family.
That distinction settles somewhere beneath my ribs. It's not triumph, not relief in any dramatic sense. It's simply a recalibration.
If there were coordinated corruption tied to Robert Stone’s death, it would not look like this. It would leave a different imprint, financial maneuvering at the top. Executive-level communication and suppression.
Instead, I have three clustered overrides tied to one credential and one client who later proved illicit before Ridge forwarded it through Customs.
That is a thread, not a conspiracy.
And in a tiny but significant way, it loosens my concern about boundaries surrounding Keller.
The realization doesn't make me reckless. It gives me room. Room to continue doing my job without assuming that every interaction with him compromises it.
Room to stop bracing for evidence that has not materialized.
I reach my office door and pause for half a second before stepping inside.
For the first time since this assignment began, I do not feel like I am standing on the edge of something that will collapse the moment I let myself lean.
After another several hours of digging into my new target, my eyes are crossing. I'm at month five of twelve months back on his reroute habits. So far, nothing sticks out like the ones in October.
My eyes are starting to cross. I need to get out of here.
My phone rings, and Keller's name lights up the screen.
So I've been thinking about the grief counselor's basement. Do you think the director wanted us to notice the mirror or were we supposed to miss it?
I stare at the message. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth despite everything.
We were supposed to miss it. That's why the camera held on the flowers instead.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Flowers as misdirection. Ruthless.
I try to think of something clever to say. I'm smiling like an idiot, excited for the silly banter with him. Then another text from him comes up.
What are you doing tonight?
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. The cursor blinks.
Just finished work. Nothing planned.
I could bring take-out. Thai? That place you mentioned?
The line I have been holding wavers. Professional distance. Compartmentalization. The careful boundary between what I know and what I feel.
That’s perfect. 7 work for you?
I send the message before I can talk myself out of it.
His response comes fast.
See you then.
I power down my computer and gather my things, sliding my badge from its clip and tucking it into my pocket. The office feels smaller now, less suffocating than it did this morning.
The flagged file remains open on my desk, David Parsale’s name visible at the top of the page.
I close it, slide it into the drawer, and turn off the desk lamp.