She realized she had not done that in a while.
She inhaled through her nose, held it, let it out slowly. She counted like her therapist had taught her after Bryn died: four in, four hold, six out. Her shoulders dropped a fraction.
On the screen, one of the techs crouched by Marcus’s bike, following a line of wiring. Another loosened something on the frame.
Bree’s stomach twisted so sharply she had to press a hand there.
“Please find it,” she whispered. “Please find it; please find it.”
A change rippled through the body language on screen. One inspector straightened and looked at Mac, whoever he was, the older one with gray hair at his temples. There was a brief exchange she could not hear clearly, a hand gesture toward the lower frame.
Then the camera zoomed in tight.
The view turned grainy, blown up, but she could still see enough.
The panel she had seen Einstein open yesterday sat on the concrete now, leaning against a stand. A gloved hand reached into the frame channel and eased something free.
A small cylinder; dull silver; hose attached; tiny gauge.
Her pencil slid out of her hand and rolled across the duvet.
“There,” she said, voice cracking. “There it is.”
The commentators went quiet for a beat; then they started talking again. Their tone had changed: less breezy, more measured. They used words like “non-standard equipment,” “alleged performance enhancement,” and “further investigation required.”
They did not say nitrous. Lawyers somewhere were probably allergic to the word.
Her phone buzzed.
Tech found the nitrous, Hank texted. You were right.
She slapped a hand over her mouth, not sure if she wanted to laugh or throw up.
I was right, she typed. I hate that I was right.
Me too, he replied. But I’d rather be mad than plan a funeral.
On screen, everything got louder.
The microphones picked up Heidi’s furious voice, calling it a misunderstanding, and accusing the tech inspectors of targeting them. Stoke stepped closer to one of the officials, his body language all sharp angles and clenched fists.
The camera angle changed again, widening to catch more of the pit lane.
Bree watched Stoke shove the nearest inspector; saw tools scatter as the man stumbled into a cart. Security moved fast; two men in black polos closed in, hands catching Stoke’s arms. He fought them with jerky movements, his mouth moving in words that blurred into static through the speakers.
Her nails dug into her palms.
Someone in a darker uniform arrived, a woman with sergeant stripes on her sleeve, hand resting near her belt; her posture was calm in a way that made everyone around her look more frantic.
The commentators scrambled to keep up, explaining that local law enforcement had a presence at the track and that any altercation with officials would be taken seriously.
Bree’s phone buzzed again.
Stoke just shoved a tech, Hank wrote. Cops involved now. Nobody’s hurt. Stay where you are.
She realized she had half risen without noticing, weight on the balls of her feet; muscles ready to run.
She sat back down.
