Chapter 32 Quinn
THIRTY-TWO
Quinn
Tableau Scenes: At traditional krewe balls, tableau scenes present staged, motionless performances in which members appear in elaborate costume to embody mythological, historical, or thematic figures.
These living portraits serve as the artistic centerpiece of the evening, reinforcing hierarchy, symbolism, and the carefully curated narrative chosen by the krewe.
I don't know how long I stay there.
The wall clock in the living room ticks. At some point, the sound filters through the fog in my head. I lift my face from my knees and blink at the clock face.
10:47.
I'm late for work.
The realization hits dully, like hearing news about someone else. I should care. I should be panicking. Instead, I just stare at the numbers and feel nothing.
I stand. The sudden motion sends my head spinning, my temples still throbbing. My stomach rolls, threatening to empty itself. I grab the doorframe and wait for the dizziness to pass.
I can't go in today.
The thought settles into place, simple and true. I cannot sit at my desk and analyze shipping manifests or walk past Martin's office and pretend everything is fine.
I can't function.
I find my phone on the kitchen counter, my fingers clumsy as I pull up Martin's contact and dial.
"Martin Dupré."
"Martin, it's Quinn." My voice sounds thin. Scratchy. "Sorry for the late call this morning, but I'm sick. I've got a migraine I can't get under control."
A pause. "You okay? You sound rough."
"Just need to sleep it off. I should be good by tomorrow, God willing."
"Take care of yourself."
I hang up before he can say anything else.
The silence rushes back in, filling every corner of the house. I pull a blanket from the back of the sofa and wrap it around my shoulders. Immediately, I think about sharing this blanket with Keller while we watched Lincoln Lawyer.
I sink into the cushions and stare at the wall.
The absence sits beside me, heavy and unavoidable. I keep my eyes fixed on a spot where the paint meets the ceiling, and I don't let myself think about anything at all.
An hour passes. Maybe more. The light through the windows shifts, growing stronger as morning slides toward noon.
Finally, I stand and decide to shower again. The hot water runs over my skin, washing away the dried salt on my cheeks, the tension in my shoulders. I stay under the spray until my fingers prune, as if I can scrub away everything that happened. As if I can reset the day and start over.
I pull on some soft pants and a worn t-shirt. I don't look in the mirror.
In the kitchen, I sit at the table with my phone in my hand. I realize I never had any coffee and wonder if that will help my headache.
The first sip tastes like mud.
I sit back at the table again, armed with hot mud and my phone. The screen glows, waiting. I scroll to Leah's name and stare at it.
My thumb hovers over the call button for a few seconds before pressing it.
The phone rings once. Twice.
"Quinny? Hey, I was just thinking about you. Want to grab lunch?"
I open my mouth to answer, to say something normal, to pretend I am fine.
Instead, my voice cracks.
"Leah." Her name comes out broken. "He left."
The line goes quiet for half a beat.
"I'm on my way. Are you at home?"
She doesn't ask questions or hesitate. I hear rustling on her end, keys jingling, a door closing.
"Yes, but you don't have to—"
"Quinny, shut up. I'm already walking to my car."
The call ends.
I sit at the kitchen table and wait. The bright sun filters through the curtains all cheery, like the break in the weather is something to celebrate. It's too peaceful for the wreckage inside me. I prefer the rain.
Twenty minutes later, her knock comes, and then I hear her jiggle the knob. It's locked from the outside.
I walk over and open the door. Leah stands on my porch in yoga pants and an oversized sweater, her black hair pulled into a messy bun. I envy the job that allows her to wear yoga pants if she wants.
She steps inside and wraps her arms around me.
I don't cry again. I think I'm empty. But I hold on to her, and she holds on to me, and neither of us speaks for a long moment.
"First, I'm going to make us both a hot peppermint tea. That always helps me," she says, pulling out a box of tea bags. "Then, we talk."
She moves into my kitchen with the ease of someone who has been here a hundred times. Because she has. I watch her fill the kettle and find the mugs.
I sit on the couch. She brings two cups and settles beside me, tucking her legs underneath her. I hold it between my palms while it steeps.
"Okay. Start from the beginning."
I open my mouth, not yet sure where to start. So I go back to the beginning, reminding her that I told her I shouldn't be with him in this situation. We go through the whole sequence of events, so she knows how it escalated.
Once I get to what I found at work, her jaw drops, but she doesn't say anything. I tell her what I had to do, how I even slept on it, but ultimately couldn't unsee what I saw.
"So when you filed it, he found out?"
"I guess. I honestly don't know how he found out, especially so quickly, but he did. And I was na?ve to ever think he wouldn't. And besides that, the point is, I did it."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"He came here this morning early. I was still in my robe." I stare at the steam rising from my coffee. "He was so angry. So hurt."
Leah listens. She doesn't interrupt.
"He looked at me like I was a stranger, like everything between us was something I made up." My voice catches. I force it steady. "I told him I loved him."
The words hang in the air between us.
I take a breath and try again. Clearer this time.
"Had y'all said those words to each other before?"
"No."
"And what did he say back when you told him you were in love with him?"
"That love and disloyalty don't co-exist. He said love is a joke."
"Shit."
"What I wanted to say to him is that if the company did nothing wrong, they have nothing to worry about, but this could lead to finding whoever is responsible for his dad's murder.
It's all just part of a process. I made a preliminary recommendation based on specific anomalies.
That's all it was. Not a task force. Not formal charges. "
"And you believe that was the right call."
"Yes." The word comes out firm. Certain. "Professionally, I did the right thing. The data supported the recommendation. The compliance gaps were real."
"But?"
I close my eyes.
"I thought I could keep them separate. The investigation and what we had. I thought I could compartmentalize."
"You always think that."
Her voice is gentle, not like she's trying to hurt me. I know that.
I look at her. "What do you mean?"
"Quinny, you've always drawn hard lines. Black and white. Right and wrong. Professional and personal." She sets her mug down and turns to face me fully. "But life doesn't work that way. Love definitely doesn't work that way."
"I know. But what could I have done?"
"I honestly don't know. I'm not sure you could have done anything different. Maybe if you'd told him before he was blindsided by it? I don't know."
"I couldn't have told him, ethically."
"I guess it just depends where your priorities are."
I don't answer. My throat's so tight that it's like I can't swallow.
"I underestimated the fallout." I press my palms against my eyes. "I thought I could control it. Keep it contained. I didn't expect it to hurt this much."
"Of course it hurts. You love him."
We sit in silence for a moment. The midday light has shifted, casting longer shadows across the floor.
"Even if nothing criminal comes out of this," Leah says quietly, "the scrutiny alone is going to put pressure on him. On his whole family."
"I know."
"And you can't undo the recommendation?"
"No." I shake my head. "I can only stand by its integrity. And accept the consequences."
"Even if the consequence is losing him."
The words land in my chest. I feel them settle there, sharp and permanent.
"Yes."
Leah reaches over and takes my hand. Her fingers are warm against mine.
"Then that's what you do. You stand by your work. You accept the outcome. And you give yourself permission to grieve what you lost."
I nod. I don't trust my voice.
We sit together as the light continues to fade. At some point, Leah refills her tea. Mine is still three-quarters full.
We don't talk about Keller anymore. She tells me about a disaster at a charity auction last week, a caterer who showed up with the wrong menu, and a client who threw a champagne glass at a wall. I listen. I even manage a small laugh.
When she finally stands to leave, the house has gone dim around us.
"Call me tomorrow," she says at the door. "And the day after that. And the day after that."
"I will."
She squeezes my hand. Holds it for a moment longer than necessary.
Then she's gone.
The house falls quiet.
I carry my tea to the deck, as if it's my anchor keeping me upright. I've barely drunk any, but I keep holding onto it.
The sky stretches wide above the rooftops, caught somewhere between gold and the first hints of deep blue. The air is cooler than it was before the storm, brushing against my bare arms, raising goosebumps along my skin.
I lean against the railing facing the house. It's almost exactly the same place I stood beside Keller that last night, wine glasses in hand.
I don't look at the spot where he was standing. I let it sit at the edge of my vision, a shape without weight. A space where someone used to be.
I didn’t choose this assignment. It landed on my desk because I’m good at what I do. I notice patterns other people overlook, because someone trusted me to follow the evidence wherever it led.
I didn’t choose to fall in love either.
Keller stepped into my life without warning. He pulled me out of the street. He looked at me across a ballroom full of strangers and shifted something in me before I had time to guard against it. None of it was strategic. None of it was calculated.
And yet this is where it ended.
An official inquiry will move forward now. Attorneys will be hired. Records will be requested. His family’s name will sit under scrutiny that may ultimately amount to nothing more than process and documentation.
I can’t undo that.
The compliance gaps were real. The anomalies were documented. The recommendation was justified. If the same file crossed my desk tomorrow, I would reach the same conclusion.
That truth doesn’t make this easier to sit with.
I keep turning it over in my head, searching for the version of events where I could have handled it differently.
If I had told him sooner. If I had drawn a harder boundary.
If I had stepped away before it mattered.
I don’t know whether any of it would have changed the outcome, but the not knowing is its own kind of punishment.
The house is too quiet. His absence presses into the corners of it. I keep glancing at my phone, expecting a message, some interruption to this ending. The screen stays dark.
Maybe this is what choosing integrity costs.
Or maybe I convinced myself there were only two choices when there might have been another way.
The investigation will continue. With or without my happiness. With or without his forgiveness.
I told myself I could build a life that held both ambition and love if I was disciplined enough.
Tonight, that belief doesn’t carry the certainty it once did.