Page 44 of Nash
Then she pushes off the picnic table, swiping at her eyes, and digs her keys out of her pocket. "Forgot my sketchbook in the car. Thirty seconds."
She crosses the lot toward her sedan, walks around to the passenger side, and stops dead.
She doesn't move for a full ten seconds.
I lean toward Candace. "Why is Frankie standing in the middle of the lot like a witch reading the wind?"
"I don't know," Candace says. "But she's not breathing."
Frankie turns. Slowly. Her face is doing something I have never seen on Frankie's face before. The flat, knowing stillness that means somebody is about to die in a creative manner the police will struggle to classify.
"WHO," she says.
We all look at her. Knox stops at the door, sensing predator behavior. East freezes halfway through tearing down a balloon.
Frankie marches back to her sedan and rips something off the passenger side. She holds it up. A massive vinyl magnet. White background, bold black lettering, big enough to read from the picnic table.
FRANKIE'S MOBILE PETTING ZOO. ASK ME ABOUT MY CATS.
A QR code sits printed beneath the words.
"How long," Frankie says. Her voice is the kind of calm that should be illegal in any state with a functioning judiciary. "How long has this been on my car?"
The picnic table goes silent.
East has the specific posture of a man who has just remembered he is mortal.
"Months," Knox says, with the awed reverence of a man witnessing a long-game gambit pay out. "It's been months."
"MONTHS?" Frankie waves the magnet. "I parallel parked in front of the post office YESTERDAY. The clerk made eye contact and asked me a question I thought was about my license plate. Was she scanning the CODE?"
"Probably," Knox says, fully invested now.
"WHAT DOES IT GO TO?"
Knox pulls out his phone. Scans the code. Listens for two seconds, then puts it on speaker.
A purring cat. Loud. Wet. Continuous. The audio quality of a Soviet listening device.
"Ten-hour loop," Knox says. "We're two seconds in."
East is now backing toward the bay door, his hand gripping the handle like a man calculating sprint distances.
"EAST." Frankie's voice could strip paint.
"I would like to invoke my Fifth Amendment rights."
"Your Fifth Amendment rights are not recognized in motorcycle club jurisdiction."
Frankie advances. The magnet is a weapon now. Darla is laughing so hard she's gripping her belly with both hands. Sloane is wheezing into Candace's shoulder. Maggie has produced a cigarette she does not smoke and is watching the proceedings like a Roman patrician at a coliseum.
"I have parked at the GROCERY store," Frankie hisses. "At the JUDGE'S house. I drove this car to the courthouse three weeks ago to renew my business license. The clerk asked if I wanted to update my address. SHE WAS LOOKING AT MY CATS."
"You don't have cats," East says faintly.
"I KNOW I DON'T HAVE CATS. THAT'S MY POINT."
Kyle, who has appeared from somewhere across the lot to enjoy the show from a safe distance, snorts. Frankie's head swivels.
