Chapter 31 Quinn
THIRTY-ONE
Quinn
Private Carnival Balls vs Public Parades: While parades unfold on public streets for the city at large, many krewes reserve their most elaborate rituals for invitation-only balls held behind closed doors.
This dual structure preserves exclusivity within the organization while projecting spectacle outward to the public.
My eyes open before the alarm. Gray light seeps through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the ceiling. I stare at them, counting the lines, waiting for my brain to catch up with being awake.
For the first morning in days it isn't raining, but that does nothing to lift my spirits.
The dull ache hits first behind my eyes.
My mouth is dry, and my jaw hurts from clenching it all night. The sheets are twisted around my legs, evidence of restless sleep I barely remember.
I don't move. I just lie here and let the fragments come.
I texted him twice yesterday. He never doesn't answer. He knows. I know he knows. I just don't know how. Not only has the task force not even been formed, but no one has been briefed, which means Stone Intermodal hasn't been informed.
Besides that, my job is layers down. It just doesn't make sense that they would have figured all of this out. But that's the only thing that explains his silence. And it's ripping me apart.
I roll over and push myself to sitting. I take a breath and hold it, then let it out slowly as I pep myself up to put one foot in front of the other until it becomes second nature again.
I've faced crime scenes, testified under oath, and made hard calls that kept me awake for days afterward. This is not new territory. This is professional work with personal consequences.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up, but there are no messages. No missed calls.
The silence is pointed.
I set the phone back down and force myself to stand. The bathroom is twelve steps away. I count them.
The shower runs hot. I step under the spray and let it beat against the back of my neck. Steam fills the small space, and I close my eyes, trying to scrub away the nausea that sits at the base of my throat.
Compartmentalize. Dress. Go to work. Proceed as usual.
My hands shake as I reach for the shampoo. I think about two nights ago, when he washed my hair after we ran in together when the rain caught us, how tender he was. My chest aches at the thought.
I rinse my hair and turn off the water. The silence that follows threatens to make me crazy.
I wrap my head in a towel, then pull on my robe.
A knock cuts through the quiet, and I nearly jump. I freeze mid-step, pulse spiking. My hand grips the edge of the bathroom counter as I look in the mirror to try to compose myself. I'm murky, and the edges are unclear due to the steam, but I don't wipe it.
No one knocks on my door at this hour. No one.
I tighten the robe belt and walk toward the front door. My bare feet leave damp prints on the hardwood. Through the frosted glass panel beside the door, a figure stands motionless. I don't have to see him fully to know it's him.
Maybe he got caught up in something yesterday and last night. Maybe he traveled again, and he's here to apologize for missing me yesterday.
My hand hesitates on the knob, and then I open the door.
Keller stands on my porch in charcoal pants and a navy sweater. His glasses catch the morning light. His hair is neat, combed back from his face, and he looks like he got about as much sleep as I did.
He doesn't step forward.
His jaw is set, and his shoulders are squared. His hands hang at his sides, fingers slightly curled. Everything about him is off and stiff and wrong.
The space between us is physical. Solid. Like something I should move out of the way to touch him.
"Keller," I say tentatively, almost like a question. A plea.
He doesn't respond right away. His eyes move over my face and then lock on my eyes. I remember I have a towel on my head and quickly pull it off, letting my wet hair fall on my shoulders.
"Can you come in?"
I step aside and gesture for him. He doesn't answer with words, but crosses the threshold and stops in the middle of my living room. He turns to face me and stands there, hands in his pockets now, watching me close the door.
He is obviously here to say something, so I wait for him. The silence stretches. Ten seconds. Twenty.
"A federal inquiry into executive compliance conduct around the time of my father's murder has been approved." His voice is flat. Measured. "Your name is attached to the preliminary recommendation."
The words land like stones dropped into still water. I feel the ripples spread through my chest.
"Keller."
"Don't. I only came because I want to know why you did this to me."
I take a breath. My lungs are tight.
"This was assigned to me before I ever met you, before the gala. Even after I met you, I didn't realize it was connected to you." I keep my voice steady.
"It was assigned to you? What was assigned to you?" His face contorts in a way I've never seen on him, like the words are dripping out of him.
"It was a broad pattern review of Stone Intermodal operations. I was tasked with combing through your father's company and checking for any anomalies that might indicate some connection to your father's murder. I was specifically told to conduct the audit quietly."
He doesn't react.
"What the fuck, Quinn?"
I don't know what to say right away. I'm dizzy, so I lean against the doorframe to the hall and cross my arms.
"I know."
"You know. That's nice." He is seething, and nothing I say right now will fix this.
"You said you didn't know it was my father at first. When, exactly, did you come to realize you were fucking me and trying to gather information to indict my family?"
The question cuts me deep. My chest tightens.
"After that first night at your loft." I hold his gaze. "That morning at the office, when I was looking up Stone Intermodal, I came across an article with you and your brothers."
"Isn't that quaint? So you knew after that night, huh?"
Heat rises to my face. Not embarrassment. Something sharper.
"I tried to end it after that. You asked me to dinner, and I told you I couldn't. I tried to keep my distance."
"You did." He nods once. "Then I guess you changed your mind."
He's right. I never should have done this, I know that. I knew then, too, but I couldn't help myself.
"I thought I could separate it. I thought the investigation would stay focused on operational patterns, not the family. Not you."
"Operational patterns are my family, Quinn."
"I realize I hurt you. That was never my intent."
He takes a single step closer.
"I want you to tell me the truth right now, Quinn. No bullshit. I need you to do the right thing and tell me. Did you approach me because of the investigation?"
"No, I swear. Keller, please believe me.
I honestly didn't know until after I stayed at your loft.
" The words come out desperately, but I hope he knows I'm not lying.
"I didn't somehow orchestrate almost getting trampled by a horse.
And you came up to me at the gala. All of that was fate, was something outside both of us pulling us together. "
Something shifts in his face. There's a momentary crack in the composure, then it seals shut again.
"And the recommendation? Was that personal?"
"Of course not. It was purely based on the rubric the Bureau has for these sorts of things. I didn't want to, but my hands were tied. Trust me, I didn't want to do that."
"You're just so good at your job, right?" His rhetorical question isn't meant to praise, but to cut.
"I didn't target you or your family. I do take pride in my job, but I can tell you, I didn't take pride in any of this."
He is quiet for a long moment. The morning light through the windows has grown brighter, harsher. It catches the angles of his face and the rigid line of his shoulders.
"You could have told me."
"No. I couldn't."
"Why?"
"Because telling you would have jeopardized my career. Because telling you would have compromised the integrity of the review. Because the moment I disclosed my assignment to a subject's family member, I would have violated every professional boundary that matters."
"Subject's family member." His voice is quiet. "Is that what I am to you?"
"That's not fair."
"None of this is fair."
The silence between us thickens. I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears.
"Keller, I love you."
The words come out without warning or planning. I hadn't even put that notion into words until this very moment. It knocks the wind out of me for a second.
Keller absorbs them. His expression doesn't change. There's no relief or warmth.
"Love doesn't coexist with secrecy."
"Keller."
"If you trusted me, you would have told me."
"I couldn't."
"You chose not to."
"That's not what this was."
"Then what was it?"
I open my mouth and then close it. The answer tangles in my throat because, frankly, I don't know how to put into words an impossible choice that isn't really a choice.
"Everything I said to you was true. Everything I felt was real. The investigation and what we have are separate."
"They're not separate." He shakes his head slowly. "They can't be. You knew who I was. You knew what your assignment meant for my family. And you kept coming back."
"Because I couldn't stay away."
"That's not a reason. That's a selfish, shitty excuse."
The words sting as they settle under my skin.
"I love you," I say again. "That's the truth, Keller. The way this happened, that we met under these circumstances, is fucking shitty, I agree with you. But it doesn't change the truth."
He looks at me for a long moment. His eyes are dark behind his glasses. The hurt is there, underneath the composure. I see it in the way he holds himself, the way his fingers curl and uncurl at his sides.
"Love without loyalty is meaningless to me. As a matter of fact, love is meaningless to me. What does it even mean if you'll betray the person you love? Love is a joke, so you telling me that means nothing."
"I was loyal to you."
"You were loyal to your job."
"I can be loyal to both."
"Not when you're tasked with taking me down, and that trumps everything else." He steps back. Toward the door. "You can't."
The distance opens between us. The way he says all of this, the way he is so absolute and calm about it, sends a chill through me. A lump rises in my throat as my mind races for anything that will convince him to stay.
"Keller, please."
"I don't want to do this again." He reaches for the doorknob.
"Do what? I'm done with that role. Please, we can fix this. Please don't leave."
"The secrets, the explanations, the compartmentalization." His jaw tightens. "I've lived that life. I won't choose it a second time."
Lived what life?
He opens the door.
I want to reach for him. I want to close the distance, grab his arm, make him stay. Make him listen.
But I don't move.
He pauses at the threshold. Half in, half out. The morning light falls across his face.
"Goodbye, Quinn."
He steps through, and he pulls the door shut behind him.
The click of the latch sounds louder than it should in the quiet house.
I stand in the entryway. My robe is still cinched at my waist, and my damp hair clings to my neck.
The sunlight coming through the window is too bright. It hurts my eyes. It feels wrong, all that warmth when everything inside me has gone cold.
I lean my forehead against the door. The wood is smooth and cool against my skin. I turn and press harder, feeling the pressure build behind my eyes.
My knees buckle.
I don't decide to sit. I just slide down, my back scraping against the door until I hit the floor. The hardwood is cold through the thin fabric of my robe. I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them.
The first sob catches me off guard.
It comes out ugly. Loud. A sound I don't recognize from my own throat. My breath hitches, and stutters, and then another sob rips through me, and another. I can't control it. I can't stop it. My chest heaves, and my face crumples, and I cry like something inside me has broken open.
This is not graceful grief. This is not quiet tears sliding down my cheeks. This is my whole body shaking. This is snot and spit and gasping for air that won't come fast enough. This is collapse.