Page 7 of Nash
The compass rose stares up at me. Broken pieces gaping open, the wisteria falling apart at the edges. I give it thirty seconds. Then I go to the window by the back hall, the one with the cracked slat in the blinds.
Arden is leaning against the fence post, half in the shadow of the tree line, dressed in black the way Arden is always dressed in black. Nash hands him the photograph. Arden takes it between two fingers, then brings it close to his face. His nostrils flare.
"Old blood," Arden says. His voice carries through the cracked window, flat and smooth. "They're already inside the perimeter."
Nash's shoulders tighten. I can see it from inside the shop, the way his whole frame compresses an inch, and my fingers curl against the windowsill. Arden hands the photograph back. Nash slides it inside his cut.
I ease back from the window. My pulse thuds behind my jaw.
Okay. Let's catalog. Nash rolls up hot on a Monday morning like he's serving a warrant, hands Arden a photograph, and Arden smells it. Like a bloodhound. Then issues a forensic report based on the scent, in the tone of a weather forecaster. The phrase he used was old blood, which is not a phrase thatoccurs in nature. That is a phrase from a paperback you buy at an airport. It implies there is also new blood, and apparently there is a man whose job it is to tell the difference by smell.
I have questions. None of them are the kind you ask out loud without sounding like you need a nap and possibly a priest.
Nash comes back inside a few minutes later, phone pressed to his ear, voice too low to make out. He ends the call and crosses to my station.
"You're staying here today." His voice is quiet, controlled. "Arden's outside. I'll be back in a few hours."
"Nash."
"I know you have questions. I'll answer them when I can. Right now I need you to stay inside this shop until I come back."
His eyes hold mine. The tiredness is gone. Whatever he just saw in that alley, it burned through him on the way back in.
"Okay," I say.
His jaw works once. He touches the headband on his wrist but doesn't press it. Then he looks past me and locks on to Frankie. She's already looking at him. They hold for a beat, and whatever passes between them doesn't need words, because Frankie nods once and Nash nods back.
"I'll be back," he says to me.
"I heard you the first time."
The corner of his mouth moves. Almost. Then he's gone. The bell jingles. The door shuts. Through the window, I watch him throw a leg over the Harley and ride toward the clubhouse.
I look at Frankie. Frankie looks at me.
The candles on the altar shelf flicker once, twice, and go out.
Chapter 3
Nash
Thewarroomsmellsof coffee and old leather. Malachi sits at the head of the scarred oak table with his hands folded, Knox to his left, laptop open. I take the chair to his right. East drops into the seat beside Knox, his knee bouncing under the table. James occupies the far end, a mug of coffee steaming between his palms. Kyle stands by the door, arms folded, back straight. Rider beside him.
"Shut it," Malachi says.
Kyle closes the door behind him.
Malachi opens a folder and slides photographs across the table, fanning them out in a row. Four of them.
Ruby. All of them. Long-lens. Ruby leaving Amaranth, her bag over one shoulder, the neon sign glowing behind her. At her car in the shop's back lot, door half-open. Ruby crossing the clubhouse yard during a gathering, head tipped back mid-laugh. On the front steps of her apartment building, phone in hand.
"Two days ago," Malachi says. "Intercepted from an encrypted relay Knox has been monitoring. Someone's been running surveillance on Ruby. The work is professional and the timeline's deliberate."
Knox taps the shot at her car. "Digital prints, cheap paper, but the composition tells me whoever's behind the lens knows camera placement, knows how to avoid reflective surfaces and streetlight glare. Timestamps span about two weeks."
Two weeks. Two fucking weeks.
Malachi's eyes haven't moved off my face. "You have something to add."
