Marcus and Stoke were both in shot; Stoke pacing; Marcus talking to one of the judges; Einstein behind them near Marcus’s bike.
Bree’s hand tightened on her pencil.
Her phone buzzed.
They’re with Julie now, Hank wrote. Clean check. Dragons are next.
She looked back at the TV.
The camera zoomed; the commentators started the kind of upbeat chatter they used when something might be interesting. They talked about “a closer look,” “rumors of stricter enforcement,” and “whispers in the paddock,” careful and vague.
One of the tech officials pointed toward Marcus’s bike. Another rolled a cart closer. Einstein looked stiff even at this distance; shoulders too high; hands a little too still.
“Hands off the bikes for a moment,” one of the officials said; his voice picked up by a boom mic somewhere.
The pit microphones did not always catch every word, but they caught enough. Heidi’s complaint about timing, Stoke’s exaggerated sigh, Marcus’s smooth reassurance that his team had nothing to hide.
The horn, Bree thought.
Her heart started to climb.
Her phone vibrated in her lap.
Eyes on Dragons, Hank wrote. Mac’s pushing for deeper checks. Breathe for me.
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.
