Chapter 23 Quinn
TWENTY-THREE
Quinn
Masking as Liberation: Within many krewes, masking allows members to temporarily shed public identity, stepping into costume and character during parades and private balls.
This ritualized anonymity creates a sanctioned space where status can be concealed, roles can shift, and the boundaries between spectacle and self briefly dissolve.
My phone is already in my hand when I hit the hallway.
The hallway smells like recycled air and the faint remnants of someone's microwave lunch.
I reach into my bag and fish out my phone. The screen lights up.
One message, and it's from the one person I was hoping to see on my screen when I pulled out my phone.
Landing in a couple hours. I'll call you when I get back.
Heat rushes through my chest before I can process the words. My lips curve upward.
Footsteps echo behind me. Agent Ramirez rounds the corner, file folders tucked under his arm.
I flatten my expression. Press my mouth into something neutral.
"Mercer."
"Ramirez."
He passes without slowing.
I wait until his footsteps fade before looking at the screen again.
He left before six this morning. The note he left in the kitchen said he had an early flight, so I assumed he wouldn't be back before tomorrow at the earliest. Now he's already headed back.
A day trip. Private flight out and back in under twelve hours.
He didn't have to tell me. He didn't have to promise anything. He could have waited until he landed, or until tomorrow, or not at all. We don't have rules. We haven't defined what this is.
But he's thinking about me. Before he's even touched down. Before whatever pulled him away is finished.
Something warm and buoyant settles over me, loosening the tightness in my neck the meeting left me with.
I read his message a third time. I can't help but wonder what a meeting out of town for a man who runs private gambling tables looks like. Does he go to poker conventions to learn the latest tricks in the business?
Or does he go to Vegas to gamble himself on a day trip?
Keller Stone is allowed to have a life I don't know about. We've been on a handful of dates and spent two nights together. He owes me nothing.
But I don't like not knowing. It's instinct, carved into me by years of training. Details matter. Gaps in information are where problems hide.
I lock the screen without responding. He's in the air, anyway.
I tuck the phone back into my bag and head for the elevators to meet Leah at Audubon Park. We're going for a run, and I could use the miles.
The humidity hits the moment I step outside. Thick and wet, like the air has weight. It settles over my shoulders before I even reach the curb.
I catch the St. Charles streetcar just as it rattles up, green and humming. The wooden seats creak under shifting bodies. At least half of the people on here are Tulane students I track due to their backpacks.
We ride it down beneath the canopy of live oaks. I lean my head back and watch the light flicker through the branches in long stripes across the windows.
The ten-minute ride is exactly what I needed to clear the meeting from my head.
I hop off near Audubon and walk through the St. Charles entrance. The park is different from downtown—quieter, shaded, wide loops of gravel and packed dirt curving under ancient oaks. Joggers pass with headphones in. Someone walks two golden retrievers that are clearly walking him instead.
I spot Leah near the iron fence, one leg propped on the base of a lamppost, a coral workout set practically glowing against all the green.
"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?” She switches legs without looking up.
"Sorry I'm a little late. The budget meeting ran over."
"Gave me time to people watch." She straightens, shaking out her arms. "Ready?"
We start moving along the paved loop, falling into the flow of runners. A pair of Tulane kids jog past us in matching neon shirts that read, "TULANE BID DAY," arguing about something that sounds like an exam they both forgot about.
Leah angles us toward the inside of the loop, cutting across a stretch where the oak branches knit overhead and filter the light into shifting patches across the pavement. Spanish moss hangs low enough that I have to duck slightly as we pass beneath it.
Leah glances sideways. Her eyes narrow.
"You're smiling. You are never smiling at the end of a work day, especially after a budget meeting."
"No I'm not."
"You absolutely are." She jabs a finger toward my face. "You're totally getting some on the regular, aren't you?"
I keep my gaze forward. My cheeks feel warm, and it has nothing to do with the run.
"Maybe."
"From glasses guy?"
"His name is Keller."
"From Keller." She draws out the syllables. "You finally got out of your way. That's my girl."
We turn onto a quieter street. Shotgun houses line both sides, their paint faded and peeling. A cat watches us from a porch railing, unbothered.
"We've been seeing each other more. He spent the night with me last night."
"You're going to have to give me more than that, Quinny. We have three miles, no need to keep it short."
"Honestly, it's been building since you and I talked. Little by little, as much as I've been fighting it, I can't help how much I like being with him."
"Love is inconvenient like that."
"I wouldn't call it love, but, yeah. It could get sticky if things go sideways with my analysis of Stone Intermodal, but I can't stress about that any more. Let the chips fall where they may."
"Nice pun. Okay, so tell me about last night and your pajama party. I'm guessing the no-pajama party…"
"You're dumb. He brought over Elephant Thai take out."
"Immediate winner there. I'd marry just for that. Keep going."
We pass a church with stained glass windows catching the afternoon light. Blues and reds spill across the cracked sidewalk.
"So we settled on a new series to watch together. Lincoln Lawyer. I started it a while back but never got into it, and I thought he might like it."
Leah snorts. "Uh, huh. Now you have a show together. Things are progressing quickly."
My stride falters for half a second. I recover, but she catches it.
"You're totally cooked." Her grin stretches wide.
I exhale. The words sit right there, waiting. I've been holding them back for days, turning them over, examining them from every angle.
"He's such a good guy, Leah. I mean, the fact that I'm looking into his family's company, that they could be corrupt, possibly even somehow linked to his father's murder, feels so wrong. It doesn't even exist in the same lens that I see him through." The admission comes out quieter than I intend.
Leah slows her pace. I match her.
"Those two things are not connected, Quinn. You've got to stop that. I can't say it enough, but you need to just enjoy him. Whatever happens with his family's company, with your job, that's out of your hands."
"Actually, it isn't. But I get what you're saying. I'm looking for things, not creating them. If his brother did or didn't or does or doesn't do things that warrant an investigation, that is what it is."
"Exactly."
"You're right. I'm cooked." I look at her. "I can't stop thinking about him, wondering when I'll see him again. I held back for so long, and now it's like I'm falling at warp speed."
Her expression softens. She bumps her shoulder against mine without breaking stride.
"Then lean in, baby, and enjoy the ride."
I smile to myself, excited about all of it. She's right. I need to be all in and enjoy him and us and whatever this is that's happening.
We pass a corner store with iron bars over the windows. The smell of po'boys drifts from somewhere nearby.
Leah raises a brow. Her breathing comes faster now, cheeks flushed from the pace.
"What is going on with the investigation? I thought you said last time you talked you thought everything seemed to be lining up?"
The mood shifts. I feel it in my shoulders, the way they tighten without permission.
"That was my feeling for a day or two, but things shifted. I mean, nothing definitive, but not absolved. Something is up, but I can't tell if it is Stone, or someone that works there."
"Well shit. Hopefully you will be able to clear them sooner than later and you can move onto another project and you and glasses guy can live happily ever after. He'll never even know what you've been up to these last few weeks."
"Keller. His name's Keller."
We round a corner. An old man sits on a bench, fanning himself with a newspaper. He watches us pass without interest.
"I keep hoping I can close it cleanly, find some reasonable explanation. Document it and move on."
Leah's breathing steadies as we slow our pace. Sweat glistens on her forehead.
"You want it to be nothing."
"I would prefer not to be auditing my boyfriend's family."
The words leave my mouth before I can catch them. Leah stops running.
I take three more steps before I realize she's not beside me anymore. I turn back. She stands in the middle of the sidewalk, hands on her hips, grinning.
"Your boyfriend."
"That's not what I meant."
"That's exactly what you said." She points at me. "Boyfriend. Direct quote."
"It was a slip."
"A very telling slip." She catches up, her grin stretching wider. "Quinn Mercer has a boyfriend. An actual boyfriend. Someone call the papers."
"You're being dramatic."
She bumps my shoulder. "You said it. You can't take it back."
I don't try to. The denial sits on my tongue, but I can't push it out. Because it doesn't feel wrong. Because maybe I want it to be true.
"I might add, you're not denying it, either." Leah's voice softens. "That's new."
"We definitely haven't defined anything. I told you I like him, we're spending a lot of time together, he said he would text me when he gets home today. These all lined up would pass an analysis test. Semantics."
"Whatever. Patterns equal proof. Just saying."
We pick up the pace again. My lungs burn and my legs ache, but my mind keeps circling back to that word.
Boyfriend.
Simple. Loaded. True.
We talk a little more about Keller, about the fact that he left me a note this morning before flying out and how he has been so patient with me as I've had my unspoken spirals and pushed and pulled.
Then we moved onto other things like the annoying new hire in her office and her ex showing up in her DMs. I'm glad for the change in subject, but Keller never leaves my mind.
We loop back to where we started and I check my watch. "Twenty three minutes. Not bad."
Leah slows to a walk, hands on her hips, chest heaving.
"Okay. I need to process something."
I match her pace. My calves burn. Sweat drips down my spine.
"Process what?"
"This man flew somewhere today." She gestures vaguely at the sky. "On a private jet. And he's flying back. The same day."
"He said he had a meeting."
"A meeting." She laughs, breathless. "Quinn. Normal people have meetings on Zoom. They drive to Baton Rouge. They do not charter aircraft for lunch."
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. She's not wrong.
"His family has money. You knew that."
"I knew it in theory. But hearing you say it out loud?" She shakes her head. "Argentum galas. Preservation architects. Day trips by jet. It's a different universe."
We pass the iron fence where she was stretching earlier. A pigeon pecks at something near the base of the lamppost.
"He doesn't act like that, though. Honestly, I wouldn't even know where he comes from except that I'm actually digging into the Stones."
Leah tilts her head. Waiting.
"When I'm with him, he's not showing off. He doesn't name-drop or wave his money around." I search for the right words. "He's grounded and present."
"Like what?"
"My orange juice preference. No pulp."
She blinks. "That's weirdly specific."
"Exactly." I stop walking. Turn to face her. "That's what I mean. He pays attention. Not to impress me. Just because he wants to know."
Leah studies me for a long moment. The evening light catches the gold in her earrings.
"I'm really happy for you, friend." She smiles, soft and genuine. "Just remember, you deserve happiness and love. Don't fight it and make work your priority. Okay? Life's too short."
The words settle somewhere deep. I don't know what to say back. We hug at the corner before she heads toward her car. I turn and walk back to the streetcar.
I count the blocks without thinking about it. My legs are tired but my mind is clear. I pull my phone out of my waistband and wipe off the sweat before tapping the screen. I have one missed call from Keller Stone fifteen minutes ago.
My pulse kicks up. I didn't feel it vibrate against me while we were running. It must have been in one of her interrogation moments.
I hit callback and he answers before the first ring finishes.
"Hey." His voice is warm but worn. Tired around the edges. Behind him, I hear the hollow echo of a large space. Footsteps. Distant announcements.
"Hey yourself." I lean back, my shoulder pressing into cool pleather seat. "Are you back?"
"Yes, we had to circle for thirty minutes because every airplane in New Orleans was coming in at the same time. Wheels down about fifteen minutes ago. Heading to the car now."
"Glad you made it back in one piece."
"You hungry?" His voice shifts. Lighter now. "I know it's short notice, but I could eat."
I glance down at myself. Sweat-damp leggings cling to my thighs. My hair is plastered to my neck. I smell like humidity and exertion.
"I just got back from a run with Leah. I'm not exactly dressed for anything formal."
"Who said formal?" I can hear the smile in his voice. "There's an oyster bar on the river. Paper napkins, cold beer. You can wear whatever you want."
I picture it. Raw oysters on ice. Lemon wedges. His knee bumping mine under a wooden table.
"If you can tolerate casual, I'd love to."
"Casual is perfect." Something rustles on his end. A car door opening. "I'll pick you up in thirty."
"Thirty minutes." I push off the seat back. I glance at my watch. I should be home in fifteen, which won't give me enough time to shower, but at least I can change. "I can work with that."
"Then it's a plan."
I’m not ready for the call to end. Hanging up now would feel abrupt, like stepping out of a room before the conversation is finished.
"How was your day?" I ask after a moment of silence. "Where did you go, anyway? I was surprised to see your note this morning about a flight."
There is a pause, long enough that I hear him clear his throat and the faint click of a radio coming to life in the background.
"It was productive. I'll tell you about it later."
The word productive is neutral enough to mean almost anything, whether it is work, family, or something older and more complicated than he is ready to explain over the phone.
Whatever it is, he's not ready to open it up over the phone, and I decide I can wait.