Page 152 of No Good Fight

“I followed you because you left me.”

He says it as if that explains everything.

Maybe to him it does.

Preston picks up the gas can again and carries it toward the doorway behind me. I twist harder against the restraint while his attention is on whatever he’s doing, swallowing the sound that wants to come out when my thumb bends painfully against the strap.

“You really thought Mason Street would kill me.”

He stops.

For a few seconds, all I hear is the faint hum from somewhere beyond the walls.

Then he looks back.

“You weren’t supposed to be able to get that window open.”

The answer leaves me cold.

He knew.

He knew where I was. He knew the window was bad. He knew the alarm barely worked. He knew enough about the building to believe smoke and heat would do the rest before anyone could reach me.

Mrs. Vance coughs through the wall again.

Preston’s face hardens at the sound, but I pretend that I didn’t hear it, too caught up in his actions and explanation.

“You were watching us,” I say.

“I knew you’d go see her. She made herself part of this when she put her hands on me.”

“She hit you with a cane.”

He spits, he’s so angry. “She humiliated me.”

I almost smile despite everything hurting. “That makes it funnier.”

His stare snaps to mine.

I pull my wrist again. “You got your ass handed to you by an eighty year old woman after you went out of your way to make sure that not even I would recognize you in your pathetic little disguise.”

The restraint slips over the widest part of my hand.

I’m not free yet, but close.

Preston sets the gas can down harder than necessary, sloshing some out of the spout, and crosses the space between us. “You still think this is funny?”

“No.” I look up at him. “I think you’re pathetic. Like I just said. I think it’s funny that you’re not man enough to move on. That you had to try and force me to accept you. And then, I think it’s absolutely fucking hilarious that Mrs. Vance kicked your ass.”

His hand catches the back of the chair and jerks it around until the legs scrape across the concrete. My head swims from the movement, but I keep working my wrist while his body blocks his view of my hand.

“You were supposed to die in that apartment,” he says, leaning close enough that I smell coffee on his breath. “It would’ve been clean. Everyone already knew the building was dangerous. Your own articles proved it. Nobody would’ve looked at me long enough to matter.”

“You’re not as smart as you think you are.”

His fingers tighten on the chair.

I keep going because every second he spends staring at my face is another second he isn’t watching my hand.