his neck, but nobody spoke up. Hope felt the heat rising behind her eyes. Not anger, something worse. The familiar sting of being dismissed, of being looked at and not seen. She’d felt it at the grocery store, at the shelter, at the police station, at every door that closed before she could finish a sentence. I’m not lying, she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper now. I have no reason to lie. I have nothing. I’m telling you what I saw because people are going to die, and I can’t. Her voice broke. She pressed her palm against her mouth and looked at the ground.
Craig waved his hand. All right, show’s over. Let’s gas up and roll. The engines started again. One by one, the bikes rumbled to life. The formation was reassembled. In ninety seconds, they’d be on Route 9, and seven minutes after that, they’d reach the Millbrook Bridge. Hope didn’t move. She stood in the parking lot with her arms at her sides and tears cutting tracks through the dust on her cheeks. Then a voice cut through the noise. Hold up. Hank Sullivan had been leaning against his bike the entire time, arms folded, watching. Not Hope. Her eyes. He’d spent two decades reading people in situations where a wrong judgment meant someone went home in a bag. He knew what panic looked like. He knew what deception looked like, and he knew the difference. This girl wasn’t performing. She was terrified.
Everybody shut your engines off, Hank said. It wasn’t a request. Craig frowned. Hank, come on. I said shut them off. Fourteen engines died. The parking lot went quiet. Hank walked over to Hope. He didn’t crouch down, didn’t soften his voice. He spoke to her the way you speak to someone you’re taking seriously. What’s your name? Hope. Hope Gardner. Hope, I’m Hank. You said three men last night. Angle grinder on the support beams. Which beams? East side. The four middle ones. They cut deep, maybe eighty percent through. From above, you can’t tell. Hank looked at Sam. Sam was already pulling his glasses off and cleaning them. His tell for when something had grabbed his full attention. Sam, grab your toolkit. Craig, you’re coming, too. Hank turned back to Hope. Show us.
Nah, this is crazy. Hope led them down the gravel path that ran along Miller Creek, the same path she walked every night to reach her spot under the bridge. Hank followed two steps behind. Sam carried a canvas tool kit over his shoulder. Craig trailed at