Page 138 of Property of Bob

His mouth curled.

“Can we concentrate?” Anchor grunted.

“I am concentrating,” I grunted.

“On Ramona,” Piney laughed.

I pointed at Piney. “I’m about to concentrate on kicking your ass.”

Piney held up both hands. “There he is. Definitely feeling better.”

I flipped him off.

The fax machine beeped, and every bit of humor disappeared.

I turned my head, and nobody moved. The machine sat on the table against the wall beside the printer.

It beeped again.

“What the fuck?” Post whispered.

A mechanical hum filled the office, and a paper started feeding through.

Slowly.

My skin prickled. Anchor straightened. Skull put the binder in his hand down. Vin pushed away from the computer. Piney stared at the machine.

Nobody said a fucking word.

In any other office, it would’ve been nothing. Some invoice. Order sheet. Schedule. Whatever the fuck people still used fax machines for.

But this was Ron’s office and Ron was dead.

The page dropped into the tray.

Silence.

Post took one step toward it. “Wait,” Anchor ordered.

Post stopped.

I stared at the machine. Something cold slid down my spine. “Why now?” I asked.

Anchor looked at me. “What?”

“The fax.” I pointed toward it. “Why the fuck is something coming through right now?”

Nobody answered.

Skull’s eyes moved toward the window. Piney looked at the ceiling. Vin slowly stood. We’d been in here close to an hour.

Six of us going through everything, and now a fax came through.

“No fucking way,” Post muttered.

Anchor’s expression hardened. “He knows we’re here,” I said.

The words settled over the room.