Chapter 36 Quinn
THIRTY-SIX
Quinn
The deck chair cushions sink beneath me as I shift my weight, trying to find a comfortable position. My hand rests on the curve of my stomach where the fabric of my sundress stretches differently than it did just two weeks ago.
The late July heat wraps around us, thick but bearable. Cicadas hum somewhere in the oak trees.
Leah lifts her wine glass and takes a slow sip. Her eyes flick down to my midsection for just a second before meeting mine again.
"I can't believe you haven't told Keller."
I rotate the stemmed glass in my hand. Sparkling grape juice. The bubbles rise and pop against the surface.
"I've only known for three months myself. I've barely had time to process it."
"Quinn, you're starting to show. It's time."
"I just reached the point where I know I'm keeping this baby. No matter what he says or thinks or wants." I set the glass on the armrest. "That decision is mine."
Leah nods, offering no argument. "It is. But he also deserves to know."
The cicadas fill the silence between us.
"I never said I wasn't going to tell him. I just need to get to the right place. When I tell him isn't going to change anything."
"Fair. I just want you to be okay. I can't imagine having this hanging over you is good for you or my baby girl," she says, reaching over to rub my belly.
"I'm nervous." The admission feels strange in my mouth. "We haven't spoken in ninety-eight days."
Leah raises an eyebrow.
"Not that I'm counting."
She doesn't smile. She knows me too well for that.
"He sent attorneys after me." I stare at the condensation dripping down my glass. "Pressured me to withdraw my recommendation after all this started. I assume he hates me even more now that I refused."
"Does that change anything for you?"
"No. It doesn't change my course. Not the investigation. Not this." I touch my stomach again.
Leah swirls her wine. "How are you feeling about tomorrow?"
"I'm so ready to be done with the Bureau." A breath escapes me. "I can't leave fast enough."
"I never thought I'd hear you say that."
"I'm burned out. I was too deep in it to see clearly, but Nate saw it." I lean back against the cushion. "He kept nudging me toward Southern Stars. I thought he was being pushy, but he was right."
"You were meant to build systems, Quinn. Not just audit them."
Something loosens in my chest at her words.
"Southern Stars is my rebirth." I watch the light shift through the leaves overhead. "For the first time in months, I can see a path forward. A place where I can create stability for this baby and for me.”
Leah reaches across the space between our chairs and squeezes my hand.
"You're going to be an amazing mother."
The hurt is still there, buried beneath the calm. Keller's face when he walked out my door, the sound of it closing behind him. But it's bearable now, and I'm feeling really hopeful about my future. I miss him, but it no longer guts me.
Eight faces around the conference table turn toward me as I stand at the head of the room, the digital presentation glowing behind me on the mounted screen.
"Let's start with the current grant structure." I click the remote, advancing to the first slide. A flowchart fills the screen.
"Right now, we have three separate approval pathways depending on grant size. That creates inconsistency and slows down disbursement."
Margaret Lowenstein, our finance director, leans forward in her chair. Her pen hovers over her notepad.
"I'm proposing we consolidate into a single-tiered system." I point to the screen. "Grants under ten thousand dollars require program director approval. Ten to fifty requires my sign-off plus one board member. Anything over fifty goes to full board review."
"What about emergency situations?" Kirk Walsh asks from the far end of the table. He handles veteran outreach. "Sometimes we need to move fast."
"Good question." I advance to the next slide. "Emergency disbursements under fifteen thousand can bypass standard review with documented justification and retroactive approval within seventy-two hours. But documentation is non-negotiable. Every dollar needs a paper trail."
Heads nod around the table. I feel the weight of their attention, not skepticism.
This is different from the Bureau. There, I analyzed systems other people built, and everything was institutional. Nothing with the government has a human touch.
Here, I get to create something from the foundation up. And everything lives and breathes.
"Now let's talk about sustainability." Another click. "We currently rely on three major donors for sixty-two percent of our operating budget. That's a vulnerability."
I walk them through my proposal. We need to focus on diversified funding streams and a planned giving program targeting estate bequests. Corporate partnerships with quarterly reporting requirements are a must.
Each element connects to the next.
"Carmen, I need you to pull the last five years of donor retention data by next Friday." I glance at the communications coordinator. "Kirk, I want a list of corporate employers with veteran hiring initiatives. We're going to approach them about matching gift programs."
"Timeline for the matching gift outreach?" Kirk asks.
"Initial contact list by the end of the month. First meetings scheduled before September."
I advance through two more slides covering accountability frameworks. Quarterly performance reviews are tied to measurable outcomes. Beneficiary tracking that protects privacy while demonstrating impact. Grant recipients are required to submit progress reports at thirty, sixty, and ninety days.
"Any questions before we move to the scholarship fund audit?"
Silence. Then Margaret speaks. "This is comprehensive, Quinn. Really well thought out. We sure are lucky to have you at the helm."
I allow myself a small nod. "We're building something that will outlast any single administration. These systems need to run whether I'm here or not."
The meeting continues for another forty minutes. I assign seven follow-up tasks with specific deadlines. Everyone leaves with clear next steps.
The door closes behind the last staffer, and the room falls quiet. Just me and the empty chairs and the presentation still glowing on the screen.
I press my palm flat against the table. Solid. Real.
My other hand moves to my stomach.
We're going to be okay.
The hallway stretches quietly ahead of me as I walk back to my office. Late afternoon sun cuts through the blinds in slanted bars, warming the hardwood floor. My heels click a steady rhythm against the boards.
Inside my office, I settle into my chair and pull the stack of folders toward me. Grant applications, a budget variance report, and the scholarship committee minutes from last week.
My hand drifts to my stomach without thought and rests there as I go through everything. The curve is different now, fuller beneath my palm. I leave my hand where it is while I flip open the second folder.
Application for transitional housing assistance. Veteran, age 34. Two kids.
I make a note in the margin.
-Needs income verification.
-Check timeline against current waitlist.
The baby shifts. It's a flutter, nothing more. I'm getting used to these small movements now, the way my body tells me someone else lives inside it.
The third folder contains a request from a veteran's spouse for a job training program. She wants to become a medical billing specialist while her husband recovers from his third surgery. I read through her personal statement twice.
I just want to contribute again, she writes on her application.
I understand that feeling.
Fatigue pulls at the edges of my focus. It's not the bone-deep exhaustion from the first week, but something softer.
I roll my shoulders and reach for my water bottle. The cold helps.
Outside my door, footsteps pass, and I hear Carmen call goodbye to someone down the hall. Doors open and close as the building empties little-by-little.
Somewhere between the positive test and now, fear turned into something else. Acceptance, maybe. Or readiness.
I organized my whole life into compartments. Work here. Family there. Feelings locked away where they couldn't compromise anything.
But this, sitting in my office with the sun going down and my hand on my belly, feels different. The compartments are dissolving. The walls between who I am and who I'm becoming are thinning.
Southern Stars isn't where I landed when everything fell apart. It's where I'm choosing to build my future.
Silence settles around me.
I close the last folder and set it on the approved stack. The building hums with emptiness. Just the soft whir of the air conditioning and the distant sound of traffic on the street below.
My phone sits on the desk. I've been avoiding looking at it for the past hour.
The sky outside has deepened to purple. Streetlights blink on one by one along the avenue. I watch them through the window, counting each small burst of orange light.
My hand moves to the phone. Picks it up. Sets it back down.
I unlock the screen, scroll to contacts, and his name sits there between Katie from college and my dentist's office. Keller Stone. There's no photo, just letters on a screen.
Ninety-eight days since he walked out my door. Ninety-eight days since I heard his voice crack when he said love without loyalty means nothing.
I wonder if he still believes that.
My thumb hovers over the call button. I watch it there, suspended above the glass. My breathing stays even. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The same rhythm I use before a presentation or before anything that requires me to be steady.
This requires me to be steady.
I could wait another day, another week. I could let the bump grow larger, let the decision feel more urgent. But waiting won't make the words easier or his reaction more predictable. It won't change the fact that he deserves to know.
The baby shifts. A gentle reminder that this isn't just about me anymore.
I press the button. The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times. My heart beats against my ribs.
Four rings. Five.
Then his voice fills my ear. It's the same distant recording he probably made years ago
"You've reached Keller Stone. Leave a message."
The tone sounds.
Silence stretches, my own breathing through the speaker. The weight of everything I need to say presses against my throat.
Start talking.
"Keller." My voice comes out steadily. "It's Quinn."
I pause. Not because I don’t know what to say, but because saying it means I can’t take it back.
"It's been a while. I know things ended badly between us, and you probably don't want to hear from me, but there's something I need to talk to you about. Something important."
I swallow.
"I'm not going to say this in a voicemail, so please call me back. When you're ready."
I end the call and set the phone down on the desk.
I lean back in my chair. The leather creaks. Outside the window, the streetlights cast orange pools on the empty sidewalk. I see a woman walking a small dog past the building. Their shadows stretch and shrink as they pass each light.
The voicemail is out there now. Traveling through invisible channels. Sitting in his phone or his cloud or wherever messages wait when the person they're meant for isn't ready to hear them.
I don’t try to imagine where he is. Whether he listens immediately or lets it sit. Whether he deletes it or replays it twice.
Those choices are his.
The baby shifts again. It's a small movement, a tiny adjustment in the space we share.
Soon you'll have a voice too. Soon you'll fill silences instead of waiting in them.
I push back from the desk. Stand slowly. My body has a new weight now, new balance points. I'm learning to move with them instead of against them.
I gather my bag. Slip my laptop inside. Check that I have my keys. Normal motions. End of day routine. As if this were any other Tuesday.
But walking toward the door, the truth settles into my bones.
The next time his voice fills my space, whether through that phone or across a room, nothing in my life will remain compartmentalized. The walls I built between who I am and who I love and what I carry inside me will finally come down.