Page 57 of Nash
On the bike, her grip is functional. Arms around my waist for balance, nothing more. Her chin hovers two inches above my shoulder blade. The spot where her forehead used to rest is empty, and my back registers the absence the way I'd register a gap in a perimeter line.
I drop her at Amaranth and ride to the clubhouse for the war room session.
Malachi sits at the head of the scarred oak table. Knox is on his left with the laptop. I take my spot to his right. East sits across from me, leaning back, arms crossed. James is in his chair with tea. Rider and Kyle are at the door standing post. The Boss Babe mug sits at Malachi's usual spot, pink ceramic with gold lettering. Nobody has moved it. Malachi drinks from a different mug and pretends it doesn't exist.
I brought the investigation to the table two weeks ago. Not all of it. Enough. The sealed federal case connected to the trafficking pipeline. The name Naya gave me. Courthouserecords that don't add up. Malachi listened without interrupting, then assigned Knox to the digital forensics and told me to keep pulling the thread.
He didn't ask why it mattered to me. Malachi doesn't ask questions he already knows the answer to.
"Forensics update," Knox says. "The server data contained partial file headers from the sealed cases. I've been reconstructing the docket numbers. Another few days and I can cross-reference against the judicial assignment logs."
"Webb?" Malachi asks.
"Courthouse records confirm he was on staff during the right time windows. His access level matches what we'd need for someone making files disappear."
Malachi looks at me. "Nash?"
"I'll handle the approach when Knox has the numbers. Solo."
James wraps his hands around his mug. His eyes move from my face to the headband on my wrist.
"You look tired," he says.
"I'm good."
"Go do your job."
I leave the war room. The clubhouse lot is bright with morning sun. East is leaning against his bike, grinning at his phone.
"Phase two," he says.
"Of what?"
"Retaliation. The guys' response to the bedazzlement." He holds up his phone. A photo of Ruby's closet, open. "Rider's hitting her apartment right now while she's at Amaranth. Replacing every piece with identical items two sizes too large. Same brands, same colors, same tags."
"You're going into her apartment."
"Rider has a key from the detail rotation. Operational necessity." He pockets the phone. "Your contribution is handled. One item in Frankie's shop. Moved. Just one."
"Which item?"
"The sage dish. Three inches to the left."
Frankie's altar shelf is arranged with the precision of a surgical tray. Three inches would register as wrong without being identifiable.
"And Kyle?"
"Kyle is a masterpiece. You'll see."
I ride back to Amaranth. Ruby is at her station, prepping for her first client. She doesn't look up when I walk in. She used to look up every time.
I take the wall. Wait. Frankie is bent over her station, focused on a stencil. Ruby's back is turned.
I cross to the altar shelf. The sage dish sits in its exact position, centered on the second tier between two candles. I slide it three inches to the left. Walk back to the wall.
Frankie doesn't notice.
The afternoon runs in the shop rhythm. Clients in and out. Ruby consults, preps, jokes with her first appointment about the design placement. The banter is warm, professional, and aimed at the client. None of it is aimed at me.
