Page 10 of Nash
"Malachi's orders. I'm on you. Your apartment, your shop, your routes. Everywhere you go. Starting now."
"Starting now," she repeats. She looks at me. "So when I'm working." Ruby gestures at the shop. "You'll be here. Standing. Watching."
"I'll be where I need to be."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the answer you're getting."
Her chin lifts. "Fine. But if you're going to be in my space all day, you should know my noon appointment is a full back piece that'll take all afternoon, my three o'clock cries every time, and Frankie plays the same damn Etta James album on repeat until someone physically stops her." She picks up her pencil. Pauses. "You don't have to stand by the door, you know. There's a chair."
"I know."
"But you're going to stand by the door."
"I'm going to stand where I can see every entrance, every window, and you."
The word hangs. Her pencil pauses mid-stroke. Her eyes lift to mine for half a second. My jaw flexes. She drops her gaze back to the flash sheet.
"Well. Welcome to Amaranth, Sergeant-at-Arms. Hope you brought a book."
"I brought a gun."
"Of course you did." A laugh. Brief. Then quieter. "Nash."
"Yeah."
"Whoever took that photo was standing across the street from Frankie's shop." Her voice is steady. Her hands are still on the counter, and they're shaking. Barely. Just enough. "That means they were watching me work. Through the window. And I didn't know."
I hold her eyes. The space between us is asking me to close it again.
"You'll know now."
She holds my gaze. Then she picks up her pencil and turns back to the flash sheet.
I take the wall by the door. Left to right. Front window. Street. Parked cars. Tree line across the road. Back to the interior. The record player spins. The sage is in its dish.
Frankie is at her station, coffee beside her machine, working on a sketch. She clocked me when I walked in. She hasn't said a word.
Ruby is bent over the counter. Her shoulders drop by degrees as the pencil moves.
Front window. Street. Tree line.
Her.
Window. Street.
Her.
The record changes. Etta James, low and slow. Ruby sets down the pencil and stretches. Arms above her head. Spine curving. The hem of her tank rides up an inch over her ribs. She rolls her neck to the side, and the line of her throat opens. Her eyes close.
My palm flattens against the wall behind me. She holds the stretch, unaware, and the strip of bare skin above her jeans is all I can see. My body is already moving. One step. Two. The counter is ten feet from me, and I've cleared four before my brain catches my feet and locks them down.
Ruby opens her eyes, picks up the pencil, and keeps working. She never saw me move. I force myself back to the wall. A dull ache builds along my jaw. My hand hasn't uncurled.
I'm going to lose this detail.
Chapter 4
