As I round the corner of the flats, I bump into a man coming the other way. “Careful.”
“You can’t take that inside,” he calls out, turning to follow me. “Pets are against the house rules.”
“It’ll just be for a few minutes.”
“Take the goat inside and that’s how much longer Evie’s tenancy will last. I presume it’s her flat you’re visiting.”
I’m tempted to call him on it, but an apology starting with I-got-you-evicted-from-your-home sounds a bit more challenging than what I’m aiming for. Abruptly reversing direction, I settlethe goat into the back seat, screening the windshield and leaving a window cracked, so she doesn’t get uncomfortable.
This time, I make it up to Evie’s flat unimpeded. I knock but she doesn’t answer, so I punch the code into her door.
The red light tells me it’s the wrong number before I try the handle and find it still locked. I would assume she’d gone except the landlord just confirmed she still lives here or, if she doesn’t, nobody’s told him.
“Evie?” I yell, knocking loudly. “I just want to talk.”
Nobody answers but when I press my ear flat against the door, I can hear someone moving around.
“It’s Maddox,” I add, just in case. When there’s still no response, I punch in the code again, grinding my teeth as the light stays red. I know I teased her about having the same number for the entrance and her flat, but couldn’t she have left it alone for another week?
I send another text and hear her phone buzz inside the flat. Nerves at the top of my jaw twang while I stay as still as I can, listening.
“Evie? If you want me to go, that’s okay. Please just tell me.”
I tilt my head, ears straining to hear any sound but sensing nothing beyond the faint rush of my pulse.
A terrible aura of foreboding settles over me. My body shivers even though I’m standing in a patch of direct sunlight.
Common sense tells me to go, she doesn’t want to talk. She might even be napping on the sofa, unaware that I’m texting her from the hallway. Or having a shower. Or another perfectly reasonable explanation that I can’t think of right this minute because every nerve is spiralling into panic, telling me there’s something terribly, horribly wrong.
I slam my fist against the door, loud enough to wake anyone on this level. “Evie! Open the door.”
There’s a faint cry from inside and I take a step back, kicking so my heel slams just below the handle, the impact sending a jagged spike of pain into my groin.
The door shakes, the wood splintering around the lock but holding. I kick again, this time steeling myself for the impact, gritting my teeth against the pain and leaning my weight so when the door gives, I tumble inside.
Evie’s eyes are wide as she stares at me, Vale’s hand clapped across her mouth, her blouse torn at the neck. He takes a firmer hold of her arm while she actively flinches from his touch.
A red film of rage falls over my vision and I throw myself at him, circling at the last moment to catch him around the back of his neck, punching at his kidneys until he gives a cry.
“Get your fucking hands off her!”
Evie springs free and I shove Vale aside to draw her into my arms, pulling her to safety. The man stares at me for one long second, then bolts out the door.
“Fucker!”
I give chase, Evie hot on my heels, thundering down the stairs, nearly falling because I’m skipping so many at one time.
Then I’m along the corridor, out through the back door, launching myself at the fleeing figure, tackling him to the ground and feeling the satisfaction of landing a hard punch on his right eye.
Another punch follows, then another. Then I struggle to my feet, stomping on the side of his chest, hearing his ribs strain, maybe even break.
“You think it’s funny to attack girls?” I scream in his face, the rage back at full volume and this time I’m grateful because this time I’m finally directing it at the right target. The man caught attacking the girl I love.
Evie ducks forward, shoving her hand into his pocket and pulling out her phone. That earns Vale another kick, doubling down on his injured ribcage until his face drains of colour.
“I’m calling the police,” she says, swiping the screen.
Vale laughs, even though it causes a fine mist of blood to colour his lips. “Go ahead. It’s your boyfriend they’ll lead away in cuffs. After all, he’s the arsonist. He’s the one who landed three innocents in the hospital.”
