Crane stared at the screen. His composure held, but something behind his eyes went very still — the stillness of a man rapidly reassessing every decision that had brought him to this moment.
“And one more thing,” Nans said.
She let herself look at the Cadillac now. She raised her hand and pointed.
“That car belongs to Frankie Malone. I think you know the name. I’m sure you’d prefer not to have a professional disagreement with him. He’s been sitting there since before you arrived, and if I’m not mistaken, he brought friends.”
As if on cue — though Nans suspected Frankie had been waiting for exactly this moment, because Frankie understood theater the way Ruth understood technology — the Cadillac’s doors opened. Frankie Malone stepped out first, his silver hair catching the fluorescent light, his silk shirt replaced by a dark overcoat that made him look less like a restaurant owner and more like what he actually was. Two men flanked him, both considerably larger than Sal, both standing with the relaxed posture of people who were comfortable in situations like this and didn’t need to prove it.
Frankie leaned against the hood of the Cadillac, crossed his arms, and gave Crane a small wave. Just a wave. Casual, almost friendly, the way you’d wave to a neighbor across the street.
It was the most threatening wave Nans had ever seen.
Needles grabbed Sal’s arm. “Sal.” His voice was thin, urgent. “Sal, we need to go.”
Sal didn’t move. His eyes went from Frankie to Crane to the security camera to Ruth’s iPad and back to Frankie. The math was changing, and even Sal could see it.
Crane was quiet for a long moment. The wind picked up, pushing loose snow across the pavement in thin white ribbons. The fluorescent lights buzzed. The camera blinked.
Then Crane did something Nans hadn’t expected. He smiled. It was a small, tight smile — the smile of a man who recognized that he’d been outmaneuvered and was choosing to be graceful about it rather than stupid.
“It seems,” Crane said quietly, “that I’ve misjudged the situation.”
“Yes,” Nans said. “You have.”
“This was a misunderstanding.”
“It was.”
“And the recipe card?”
“Is ours. It was always ours. And we’re leaving with it now.”
Crane held her gaze for another moment. Then he nodded — once, a small, precise movement — and stepped back. He said something to Sal in a low voice. Sal’s face darkened, but he moved. Needles was already retreating toward the SUV, his overcoat flapping behind him like a flag of surrender.
Crane turned and walked back to the SUV without hurrying. He opened the rear door, paused, and looked over his shoulder.
“Your granddaughter makes very good pastries,” he said. “I’ve heard the bakery is excellent.”
“It is,” Nans said evenly. “You should come in sometime. Through the front door.”
Crane almost smiled again. Then he got in the car, and the SUV backed out of the lot and pulled onto the road and disappeared into the dark.
The parking lot was quiet.
Ida exhaled — a long, shuddering breath. “I was going to spray him with the hairspray.”
“I know,” Helen said.
“Right in the eyes.”
“I know, Ida.”
Ruth lowered the iPad. Her face was pale, but her voice was steady. “Jack’s calling. He watched the whole thing.”
“Of course he did,” Nans said.
And then, rising from the south she heard sirens. Distant but getting closer. Getting louder.
