Chapter 33 Keller
THIRTY-THREE
Keller
Being in Savannah in the middle of the day is like breathing through a wet towel. The air doesn’t move. It presses against my skin until my shirt clings to my spine and the inside of my collar feels damp.
I haven’t slept. My eyes burn, and my jaw aches from clenching it through the night.
I stand across the street from Charlton Grant’s office building with my jacket folded over my arm because wearing it would be unbearable.
The brick facade has been restored with the kind of careful precision that wins awards and photographs in architectural magazines. Tall windows, clean lines, and a brass plaque beside the door, polished to a quiet shine, tie it all together for an aesthetically pleasing presentation.
I flex my fist and force my hands to relax, but they curl again without permission.
While I wait for him to come out, my mind goes back to her.
Ridge’s voice was measured when he said her name, almost detached. He had no idea I’d spent the last several weeks in her bed, on her couch, on her deck while she held the thread that could unravel my family. At least he didn’t know then. He will soon enough.
Wells can find anything. If there is a digital footprint tying me to Quinn Mercer, he’s already uncovered it. He likely knows I left her house that morning and walked straight into a boardroom where her recommendation was being dissected line by line.
I don’t need to replay the confrontation.
The moment crystallized the instant I heard her name.
Everything before it rearranged itself. Every conversation, every touch, every time I thought I saw something unguarded in her expression.
It all shifted into a different pattern, one where I was the only person unaware of the stakes.
She knew who I was after that first night. She admitted as much. She knew exactly what her assignment was and what it could become. And she kept going anyway.
The words she said this morning echo anyway.
I love you.
She said it like a lifeline. Like if she repeated it enough, it would outweigh the rest.
My mother used to smile at my father across the breakfast table in a way that made him soften.
I used to believe that meant something solid, something unbreakable.
Then the photographs surfaced, and the secrecy took on a different shape.
I learned early that what looks steady from the outside can fracture without warning.
I thought I'd finally separated the two things. I told myself that whatever happened between my mother and Charlton didn’t have to define how I moved through the world. I convinced myself I could let Quinn in without dragging all of that old suspicion behind me.
Instead, the two stories folded into each other.
My mother kept secrets I didn’t understand. Quinn kept secrets she insists were necessary. The details may differ, but the outcome is the same. I'm left standing on the outside of something that should have included me.
The first time I came to Savannah, I wasn’t sure what I expected. I needed to see him in person, to measure the man against the years of resentment I carried.
When I left, I convinced myself it was enough. He was smaller than the story I'd built. Ordinary. Whatever existed between him and my mother no longer felt like something that owned me.
Quinn made that easier, whether she knew it or not. Being with her showed me the past could stay in the past. I thought I had finally separated what happened before from what I could build now. I thought I had proof that I wasn’t doomed to repeat anything.
Then her name surfaced in that boardroom.
My mother's betrayal didn’t stay contained. It didn’t stay quiet. It folded forward and landed in my lap all over again.
My mother kept something from us. Quinn kept something from me. Different circumstances. Same outcome. I am the one standing outside the truth.
I'm not here to untangle that. I'm not here to evaluate whether my mother was innocent or guilty. I'm here because something in me needs to push back against the pattern instead of absorbing it.
I'm fucking done lying down and taking it.
If I can’t confront the woman who broke me with her betrayal, then I'll confront the man who was complicit.
I don’t know what that will accomplish. I only know I am done standing still.
The anger has nowhere else to go. Quinn is in New Orleans. I walked out of her house, and I'm not going back. My brothers don't know what I know about our mother. My father is dead.
Charlton Grant will do.
I cross the street.
The lobby hits me like a wall of cold. The air conditioning is aggressive, almost clinical, and the contrast to the humidity outside makes my skin prickle.
Polished floors and a reception desk with fresh flowers mirror the outside aesthetic.
It's the kind of space designed to make clients feel they're in capable hands.
The receptionist looks up. Recognition flickers across her face.
"Good afternoon. May I help you?"
Before I can respond, a door opens to my left.
Charlton steps out mid-sentence, his attention still directed at his phone. He's wearing a pale blue shirt, sleeves rolled twice at the forearm, exactly the way I remember. His posture is perfect. His voice is measured and unhurried.
He finishes the call, and then he turns to see me.
"Mr. Baker." A slight pause. Mild surprise, quickly smoothed over. "I wasn't expecting you in town today."
That calm. That goddamn composure. The same steady tone he used over lunch when he talked about his son, his wife, his careful life built on intention and discipline.
The same man who fucked my mother while she was married to my father.
I close the distance in three strides before he can finish his sentence.
My fist connects with his jaw before the receptionist can finish standing.
The crack of knuckles against bone echoes off the polished floors. The sound bounces back from the high ceiling. Charlton staggers sideways, his shoulder hitting the wall. His hand shoots out to brace himself. The receptionist gasps somewhere behind me.
I stand over him, breathing hard. My chest heaves. My pulse pounds in my ears. Years of questions rush to the surface. Years of watching my father turn bitter and cruel bubble up inside. Years of wondering what broke my mother before the accident took her overwhelm me.
All of it focused into that single strike.
Charlton straightens slowly. One hand goes to his jaw as he works it back and forth. A red mark blooms across his cheek where my fist landed. His eyes meet mine.
He doesn't swing back. Nor does he raise his voice.
"What the hell was that for?"
The question is even and measured, as if I'd spilled coffee on his shirt instead of splitting his lip.
"For my mother." The words come out rough. "For my father. For my entire fucking family."
His brow furrows. The confusion looks genuine.
Good. Let him squirm.
"My name isn't William Baker." I take a step closer. "It's Keller Stone. Eleanor Stone was my mother."
The change in his face is immediate. His eyes sharpen, and the polite detachment drops away. Something flickers behind his expression.
"Keller. We met at the Argentum building. I can't believe it's you."
"You had an affair with her." I keep my voice low, but the words carry. "You fucked a married woman who had six children at home. You humiliated my father. You were the reason she carried a secret that destroyed her."
Charlton's jaw tightens. He presses his thumb against the side of his index finger. That small grounding gesture I noticed at lunch.
"Did your father ever tell you about our meeting after your mom's death?"
The question cuts through my momentum. I blink.
"No. What does that have to do with anything?"
"Your father contacted me after she died."
I don't answer. I don't have an answer. My father never mentioned Charlton Grant. My father wasn't the talking type. He buried it in a box in his office and let it rot.
"It's not what you think." Charlton lowers his hand from his jaw. "Give me ten minutes. There's a café down the street. Neutral ground."
"Why the hell would I listen to anything you have to say?"
"Because you flew here twice to find out." His gaze holds mine. "And because you deserve the truth, even if it's not the one you came looking for."
I want to hit him again. I want to walk out and never look back. Instead, I stand there, fists clenched, considering it.
"I need to get something from my office." Charlton gestures toward the door behind him. "I'll meet you there. It's two blocks that way on the right."
He disappears inside.
I turn, ignoring the receptionist, and push through the front door. The humidity wraps around me again. The street noise floods back.
I walk in the direction he indicated. My knuckles throb, a dull ache that pulses with each step.
I flex my hand. The skin across my knuckles is red but not split. I hit him cleanly.
The heat presses down on my shoulders. My shirt sticks to my back. Every breath is labored, heavy with moisture that coats my throat. I pass storefronts with their windows reflecting the midday glare. A woman with a stroller crosses to the other side of the street when she sees my face.
I must look like hell.
A block down, I spot a café tucked between a bookstore and a florist. The door is propped open with an A-frame sign advertising cold-pressed juices and the best espresso on the East Coast. A fan whirs somewhere inside, pushing cool air into the street.
I hadn't fully decided if I wanted to hear him out, but step through without thinking.
The smell hits me first. Citrus and coffee. The contrast is comforting. Blenders whir behind the counter. Two women chat at a corner table, their voices soft and unhurried. A teenager scrolls through his phone near the register.
Normal. All of it. Completely normal.