Page 167 of No Good Fight

She just keeps hold of my hand while my entire life is clicking into place.

35

ALEX

Six weeks after Preston dies, Mrs. Vance sits at our kitchen table with a red pen in one hand and today’s newspaper spread beneath the other, editing an article that has already been printed.

I should have known better than to give her a copy.

“You made me sound old.” She grumbles as she underlines another sentence.

I look up from my coffee. “You are old.”

Her eyes lift over the top of her glasses.

I reconsider my life choices.

The new cane hooked over the back of her chair is within easy reach, and while her ribs healed faster than mine did, I have personally witnessed this woman swing before thinking. She chose a black cane this time, with a silver handle she claims makes her look distinguished. I think it makes her look like a retired mob boss, but she seemed pleased when I told her that, so I’ve stopped mentioning it.

“You called me elderly three times,” she says, returning to the article.

“That’s a standard descriptive term for someone over eighty who has buried three husbands and walks around with a cane and a head wrap so that she doesn’t have to do her hair..”

“It’s rude.”

“It’s accurate.”

Her red pen moves again.

I shake my head and reach for my mug, careful not to disturb the stack of notes beside my laptop. The dining table hasn’t really been a dining table for several weeks. One end holds my work, a charger, two interview notebooks, and the envelope of documents Remy dropped off yesterday. Ryder’s mail occupies a shrinking corner near the fruit bowl, and there’s a grocery list beneath my phone with his handwriting at the top and mine taking over halfway down.

He wrote steak, potatoes, and coffee.

I added oat milk, vanilla creamer, strawberries, sour candy, and the cereal he claims is for children but eats out of the box whenever he thinks I’m not looking.

One of my cardigans is hanging over the chair beside Mrs. Vance. My shoes are kicked beneath the bench near the mudroom. There’s a framed photograph of Ryder and me on the shelf where one of his old fire department awards used to sit, and sometime last week my favorite mug migrated from the drying rack to the hook beside his.

I don’t remember deciding where any of it was going to go.

It just started belonging.

Mrs. Vance makes another mark on the paper. “You also left out the part where I hit him.”

“I did not. It says you fought back when he attacked you.”

“That’s vague and doesn’t tell the whole story of my heroic self-defense.”

“You want me to specify the number of cane strikes?”

“That would be more accurate journalism.”

I smile despite myself and take a careful sip of coffee.

Decaf.

The word printed on the bag in the pantry feels louder every time I look at it, even though Ryder hasn’t noticed the switch yet. Or if he has, he hasn’t asked.

I found out yesterday morning.