Page 119 of No Good Fight

My phone buzzes on the table before I can answer her. Alex sees Remy’s name and hands it to me without reading the text over my shoulder.

Remy: No ID yet. Glove sent out. Patrol will loop by tonight. Tell Alex Mrs. Vance asked if you boys have found “the knock-kneed asshole” yet.

I read it twice. The second time, all I see is no ID yet.

The masked man is still a shape instead of a name. Preston is still somewhere with enough reach to send someone after her in broad daylight. My house has more cameras now, better lights, alerts on two phones, and I still know exactly how many ways a determined person could get close if he was patient.

Alex takes the phone from my hand.

I let her.

She reads the message, and her mouth pulls at one corner. “Mrs. Vance needs a medal.”

I shake my head, already thinking of how I can help the older woman. “She needs better locks.”

“She needs both.” Alex puts the phone facedown, then sets the marker on top of it like that can pin the bad news in place. “Woodpile.”

I blink.

“You said there was still a gap by the woodpile.” She stands and picks up the last motion light. “So let’s fix the gap.”

The last light goes up as the daylight starts to fade. Alex holds the flashlight while I work, aiming it at the bracket without being told. Rainwater drips from the gutter and hits the back of my neck, slipping down my spine until it dries somewhere along my waist. The motion light clicks on when I climb down, bright white spilling over wet grass, stacked wood, fence boards, and the narrow strip of shadow that bothered me.

Alex exhales beside me, and I feel the energy shift.

Inside, Alex washes marker off her hands at the sink while I sit at the table and adjust the monitor layout. The grid fills in cleaner now. Porch Witness. Driveway. Garage Goblin. Bad Vibes Side Yard. Murder Maple. Woodpile of Bad Intentions. Back Door Drama.

The final feed changes while I’m looking at it.

Home Base.

I glance toward the sink.

Alex is drying her hands on a towel, watching me without turning her head all the way. Waiting to see if I’ll fix it or change it, or say anything. Her bruises are still there. The fear is still in the house with us, tucked into locks and boxes and every dark corner I can’t see with my eyes closed. But so is the coffee cup she stole from me, and everything she adds to my life.

I save the layout.

Alex comes to stand beside my chair and rests one hand on the back of it. Close, not leaning yet. Not asking for comfort. Not offering it either.

Just here.

I cover her hand with mine, craving the connection, and it hits me like a baseball bat to the head.

Alex is my home.

23

ALEX

By lunch, I’ve rewritten the same paragraph about faulty wiring so many times the words no longer look real.

It’s been a week since I helped Ryder install extra security cameras and I think I live with him now.

The newsroom keeps moving around me. Phones ring. Keyboards clack. Marcy argues with the printer from the supply corner, one hand on her hip and a stack of paper jammed beneath her arm like she might physically threaten the machine into cooperation. Rain taps against the windows in a steady gray rhythm, turning the street outside glossy and dull.

It’s been a shitty rainy few weeks, and I’m ready for the season to change.

My article is supposed to be about redevelopment, neglected buildings, rent hikes, old wiring, and landlords who treat maintenance requests like suggestions from unreasonable peasants.