Chapter 12
Bree woke before the alarm, heart racing like it had heard a starter’s pistol in her sleep.
For a few seconds, she lay very still, listening. The room was dim and cool, the air conditioner humming in the corner. Beneath it, muffled by glass and curtains, came the low, restless growl of engines starting up.
Race morning.
She shut her eyes again, and Hank’s mouth was right there; the press of his lips on hers; the way his hand had settled at her hip like he had always known it belonged there; the rough scrape of his jaw when she had leaned in without thinking.
Her chest tightened with the memory; warmth and fear braided together.
Then another image shoved in beside it; Einstein’s gloved fingers cradling a dull silver cylinder; the tiny gauge that had jumped when he pressed the horn; the way everyone else had watched Heidi and Marcus while he hid a secret inside the frame.
She opened her eyes and swung her legs out of bed.
The hotel carpet was soft under her bare feet. The bedside clock glowed just after seven. Light seeped around the edges of the curtains; pale and tentative, as if the sun was still deciding whether it wanted any part of this day.
Her phone sat on the nightstand where she had left it.
She picked it up and thumbed the screen awake.
Two messages from Hank waited.
You awake, honey? The first one read. Techs are doing spot checks before the main rounds. Brian and I had a word with a couple of them. You did good.
The second: Remember your promise. Door locked, no balcony, no boardwalk. I need to know where you are.
Her throat went tight. She glanced at the door; the deadbolt was turned; the security bar engaged. She had done that last night without thinking, his words still in her ears.
She typed back, I’m awake. Door’s locked. I’m being very boring.
He answered fast; he always did with her.
Boring is underrated, he wrote. Boring keeps you breathing. TV should have coverage on the local sports channel; you’ll see more from up there than I can from the queue.
Despite the knot in her chest, she smiled.
Bossy, she replied. How are you?
There was a longer pause. She pictured him in the pits with his phone in one hand, helmets and bikes and people all pulling at his attention, and still making space for this.
Head’s on straight, he sent. Julie passed initial checks; no surprises. Dragons are up soon. I’ll keep you posted as much as I can.
She stared at the words for a beat.
Thank you for believing me, she wrote.
Always, he answered. Now turn the TV on and pretend I am very calm and very professional down here.
Liar, she sent, the letters a little wobbly under her thumb.
She set the phone down and crossed to the TV. The remote lay on the dresser; she grabbed it and clicked through channels until Copper Moon’s logo appeared in the corner of the screen, a little stylized crescent tucked beside the network name.
The feed showed highlights from yesterday: bikes flicking through the long curve by the dunes; slow-motion shots of sand spraying; riders’ bodies low and fluid. A pair of commentators sat in a booth with the ocean behind them; bright polos; teeth a little too white; voices a little too cheerful.
She muted them for a moment and went to the balcony door.
Habit tugged at her, as strong as the tide. That balcony had become her studio; her favorite place in Copper Moon; all that space and motion framed in glass.
Her hand closed around the handle.
She could feel the cool metal against her palm; the subtle give when she pulled, just enough to crack the door; the rush of air that would follow; the roar of engines coming in clean instead of muffled.
Hank’s voice threaded through the temptation.
Hotel room, door locked. No balcony, no boardwalk.
She let the handle go.
Her fingers left little crescents on the wood where she had squeezed too hard. She stepped back and tugged the curtains closer together until the view outside was just a faint glow.
“Fine,” she said under her breath. “You win.”
She grabbed her sketchbook and pencils from the side table and curled up on the end of the bed. When she unmuted the TV, the commentators had shifted to live shots; the camera perched somewhere high above the pits, looking down on the grid of trailers, awnings, and taped-off rectangles.
From up here, the world she had walked through yesterday looked like a toy set; tiny people moving between splashes of color; the bikes slim as matchsticks on their stands.
She let her pencil start moving. Broad strokes first; blocking in the shapes; the canyon of haulers; the spine of the main lane. Her lines steadied her; always had. When the rest of her felt shaky, her hands usually remembered what to do with graphite and paper.
Her phone buzzed again.
Bree?
She smiled.
Yeah, she replied.
Love that you want to help, his next text read. Remember, the best thing you can do for me today is stay safe. Let me handle the ugly.
Heat prickled behind her eyes; not tears exactly; something heavier.
You handle the ugly, she wrote. I’ll handle the pretty.
Deal, he sent.
On screen, one of the cameras zoomed in on the tech inspection area. The announcers’ tone brightened; words like “pre-race checks” and “safety protocols” floated over the image.
She watched the officials move from bike to bike, checking levers, looking at screens, bending to peer into frame gaps. They looked oddly gentle with the machines, like doctors with patients.
A line of text ran along the bottom of the screen: identifiers; team names; numbers. She saw Hank’s name flick past: Hank James, number twenty-four; Copper Moon Performance.
Her chest gave that little lurch when she saw his name in print.
The camera shifted again, panning toward a section of pits she recognized even from this distance.
Red and black dominated the frame. The Red Dragons’ hauler gleamed; their pit taped off neatly. Heidi stood with one hand on her hip, sunglasses on, hair perfect, posture loose in a way that did not match the tension in her jaw.
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.
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.