Chapter 37 Keller
THIRTY-SEVEN
Keller
When Parades Are Called Off: City officials retain the authority to delay or cancel krewe parades due to severe weather, security threats, or public safety concerns.
In these moments, months of planning can be halted in hours, revealing how Carnival spectacle ultimately depends on forces beyond a krewe’s control.
Afternoon light cuts through the partially drawn blinds at the Stone Intermodal offices, striping the long table with gold bars. I sit three chairs down from Ridge, watching dust motes drift through the beams.
Outside counsel, a silver-haired woman named Patricia Vance, flips her folder closed.
"The federal investigation has formally concluded. There were no criminal findings within the scope of inquiry."
Ridge's shoulders drop half an inch, the only tell he allows himself.
Patricia continues, keeping her voice flat and professional.
"They reviewed eighteen months of shipping manifests.
Every executive override from August the year before through December received individual scrutiny.
Vendor contracts were dissected line by line.
The October period specifically was traced and retraced. "
Vin leans forward, elbows on the polished wood. "I told you it wouldn't stay limited to the fourth quarter. So we're clear."
"Within the parameters they established, yes."
Ridge nods once. "This could have gone differently."
"It could have." Patricia slides papers into her briefcase. "The scope remained narrow. That's not always the case with federal inquiries of this nature."
Vin glances at me, then back to Ridge. "For the record, the plan to challenge Agent Mercer's objectivity was shelved after Keller suspended the tables. We had to recalibrate."
The words land in my chest. After Keller suspended the tables. Like it was a chess move.
Patricia stands, smoothing her jacket. "Gentlemen, unless there's anything else, I think that concludes our business."
Ridge rises to shake her hand. "Thank you, Patricia."
The door clicks shut behind her, and silence settles over all six of us. The striped light has shifted, the gold bars now climbing the far wall.
Vin clears his throat. "We got lucky. Another few weeks of digging, and they might have widened the scope."
Lucky. Nothing about this ordeal has been lucky.
An expanded scope would have meant questions we couldn't answer cleanly, and gray areas that exist because the world doesn't sort itself into neat columns of right and wrong. Our father operated in those spaces. So do we, whether we admit it or not.
Ridge straightens his cuffs. "It's behind us, now."
Federal scrutiny leaves residue and invisible marks on every document they touched, every name they flagged, every pattern they noticed but didn't pursue. Nothing examined under that kind of attention is ever entirely erased.
We're clear, but we're not clean. We never have been, we're just good and covering our tracks.
My phone dings with a notification. I pull it out to see a text from West about the new chips order. Then I see the notification, reminding me of the voicemail from last night that I still haven't listened to.
I stare at it for another moment and then put my phone down. Ridge is saying something about next quarter, about rebuilding the player roster. Vin responds with projections and timelines.
I'm not listening.
"Keller." Ridge's tone sharpens. "Any thoughts?"
"No, I'm good. I'm glad we all survived this without the nuclear option." I'm still bitter he made me have to flex. He should have respected my request when I came to him.
I push back from the table. "I need to head out, though."
Ridge studies me, that assessing look he's perfected over years of reading rooms and reading people.
"Everything good?"
"Fine." I grab my jacket from the chair back.
I don't wait for his response. The hallway stretches ahead, my footsteps echoing on marble. In the elevator, I click her voicemail and listen, finally. I can't escape it forever.
I turn off the phone after listening. She sounded very professional, almost detached. I roll my shoulders and consider what she might have to talk to me about.
Hearing her voice pulled at something inside of me that I put on a shelf. Do I want to talk to her? I text instead.
Got your voicemail. Let me know when you want to meet.
Her response comes before the elevator reaches the lobby.
Neutral Ground, the coffee shop on Magazine tonight — 7?
I check my watch. That's in two hours. I give her a thumbs up on the text and pocket my phone
The elevator doors open. I step into the fading afternoon light.
The coffee shop sits on a corner of Magazine where the streetlights don't quite reach. I arrive at six forty-five out of habit. Never walk into a room without knowing its exits, its angles, and its blind spots.
The space is narrow and deep, exposed brick on one side, a chalkboard menu on the other. Jazz plays softly enough to blur conversations. Three couples are scattered at small tables. A man in the back corner is typing on a laptop.
I take the table near the window with a clear sightline to the door.
Neutral ground. Her words, her choice.
I order a black coffee and a latte for her to be nice. I sit down with our drinks and wrap my hands around the paper even though it's ninety-five degrees outside.
At six fifty-eight, the door opens, and Quinn walks in.
My chest tightens before my brain catches up.
She looks different. Not worse. Not better. Her hair falls loose past her shoulders instead of pulled back tight the way she wore it for work. She's wearing a soft gray sweater over dark jeans.
But there's something else, something I can't name yet.
She spots me and crosses the room. There's no hesitation in her stride or nervous energy in her hands.
She slides into the chair across from me. Her hazel eyes meet mine, and she doesn't look away.
"Thank you for meeting me."
"You said it was important."
"It is."
"I ordered you a latte. I know you don't like caffeine after lunch, so I got a decaf."
"Wow. Thank you. That was really thoughtful, Keller."
"I resigned from the Bureau."
That lands. I certainly wasn't expecting it.
"When?"
"Officially, two months ago. But I've been gone five weeks. I'm running Southern Stars now. The foundation."
I nod and wait. Surely she didn't ask to meet me to announce a career change.
"That's not why you called, though."
"No." She takes a breath, holds it, then releases it slowly. "I'm pregnant, Keller. I'm four months along. It's yours."
The words hit my ears, then travel to my brain. They stop there, unsure where to go.
Pregnant.
Four months.
Yours.
I don't move or blink. Mariah Carey keeps playing in the background, and someone laughs at another table.
Four months.
She's known for weeks. Months.
"Four months." My voice comes out like someone else is saying it. I do the math and realize that means a baby will be born in five months.
My baby.
"You're certain it's mine."
Her jaw tightens, and a flash of something cold crosses her eyes. "There hasn't been anyone else, Keller. Before or after."
I believe her. That's the thing. Even after everything, I believe her.
A baby. My baby.
The thought won't stick. Keeps sliding off some surface in my brain that refuses to let it land.
"What do you want from me?"
"I'm not asking you for anything." Her hands stay folded. "I'm telling you because you have a right to know. What you do with the information is your choice."
Choice.
I almost laugh, like there's a real choice here. Like I could walk away and pretend this conversation never happened.
That's not who I am, nor how I was raised.
"I'll make sure you and the baby are taken care of." The words come before I've fully assembled them. "Financially, medically. Whatever you need for stability, you won't have to worry."
Quinn's expression doesn't change. She nods once. "That's not why I told you."
"I know." I run my hand through my hair. The tension knots at the base of my skull. "But it's what I can offer right now."
Because the rest of it, the bigger questions, those I can't answer.
"I don't know if I'm built for this, Quinn." The admission scrapes against my throat. "I planned my life around distance and control. I structured everything to minimize variables I couldn't manage."
"Keller, please understand I don't want anything from you. I'm not telling you this because I want you to come back. It was hard at first, but I've got things back on track, and things are good. This baby will be loved, regardless of how you decide you want to be a part of her life."
Her life. She's having a girl.
"I need space to figure out what this means. What I'm capable of being."
"You know how to find me if you want to discuss anything at any point. You'll always have access."
I think about the months of silence. I think about Charlton Grant and my mom, the walls I built because she wounded my pride.
I push back from the table and stand. "Thank you for telling me."
Quinn rises too. We stand on opposite sides of the small table, the space between us charged with everything unsaid.
"You're welcome. Thank you for calling me back."
I don't think there is anything else we can say. This is our crossroads. There are no demands or attempts to bind me with guilt or obligation.
Why does that seem worse?
I turn toward the door and stop, turning back to her.
"Are you feeling okay? Physically?"
A small smile touches her lips. The first one I've seen tonight. "I'm doing pretty well. Tired. But fine."
She's growing a human inside her body. My human. And I'm asking if she's tired.
"Take care of yourself, Quinn."
"You too, Keller."
I leave without looking back. The night air hits my face. New Orleans in the grip of late summer, the city sweating even after dark.
My car waits at the curb. I slide behind the wheel and sit in the silence.
The words finally land, settling into my bones with a weight I wasn't prepared to carry.
I start the engine and pull into traffic.