She rolled her eyes. “Barely. She bought me a latte and apologized so many times the barista started looking nervous.”
“Did she know about the nitrous?” Brian asked.
“No,” Bree said firmly. “Carmen’s a lot of things, but she’s not okay with cheating. She’s furious. At Marcus. At Einstein. At Heidi for trying to spin this as an overzealous tech crew instead of what it was. She wanted me to know she’d never have pulled me down there if she’d had any idea what they were up to.”
Hank nodded, filing that away. “And how do you feel about that?”
Bree considered. She said, “Less angry. She’s planning on taking a break from the Dragons after this season. She says she needs to remember who she is when she’s not helping Heidi be Heidi.”
Colby whistled. “That’s an identity crisis waiting to happen.”
“Yeah,” Bree said softly. “But it’s hers. I told her I’d still answer her texts. That’s all I can promise right now.”
“That’s enough,” Hank said.
She tipped her head, studying him. “How did your meeting go?”
“We can recap on the walk,” he said. “You up for a short field trip?”
Her eyes lit with cautious excitement. “Bay Street.”
“Bay Street,” he confirmed. “The mayor left a key at the desk.”
Brian grabbed his beer and stood. “Let’s go look at our future, then.”
The warehouse sat two blocks off the water on Bay Street, a hulking rectangle of brick and corrugated metal that had clearly been built when people cared more about function than charm.
Hank loved it at first sight.
“Okay,” Bree said, staring up at the faded letters barely visible on the front. “It looks like every serial killer movie I’ve ever seen.”
Brian chuckled. “That’s just the lighting. And the peeling paint. And the fact that there’s exactly one sad little plant trying to survive by the door.”
“That plant is a metaphor,” Bree said.
“For what?” Colby asked, fishing the keyring out of his pocket.
“For potential,” she said. “And stubbornness.”
Hank’s chest did something warm. “I’m going to steal that for the sales pitch.”
Colby got the lock to turn with a grating protest, then shouldered the heavy door open. The smell of dust and old oil rolled out, along with a faint chill.
Inside, the main floor stretched back farther than Bree had expected. High ceilings with exposed beams, overhead lights that probably hadn’t worked in years, a concrete floor scorched with old tire marks. A large roll-up door took up most of the back wall, currently shut, rust streaked down from its hinges.
Sunlight slanted through grimy windows high along the side walls, catching dust motes in the air.
“Oh,” Bree breathed.
Hank heard it, that little hitch between surprise and inspiration. He watched her step inside, slow and careful, as if she half expected the floor to give way. When it held, she moved farther in, turning in a slow circle.
Brian whistled low. “We can fit at least four bays along this wall,” he said, pacing out imaginary lift positions. “Plenty of clearance. You could put the dyno in the back corner. That roll-up door opens right onto the alley. Perfect for loading.”
Colby wandered toward a metal staircase that hugged one wall. “Upstairs office or storage,” he called. “Maybe both. We’d need to redo the wiring. This panel looks older than I am.”
Beneath their chatter, Hank could hear the quiet start of Bree’s attention locking on. She drifted toward the stairs, fingers trailing along the railing, eyes tracking the way light fell from windows near the ceiling.
“What do you think?” he asked, coming up behind her.
