Page 168 of No Good Fight

Four tests are hidden in the bathroom upstairs because one apparently wasn’t convincing enough. Neither was two. By the time the fourth showed the same result, I sat on the closed toilet lid staring at them while Ryder moved around downstairs making breakfast, completely unaware that our life had changed while he was arguing with the toaster.

I haven’t told him yet.

Not because I don’t want to.

Every time I imagine opening my mouth, the words become enormous.

I’m pregnant.

We’re having a baby.

There’s a baby.

Our baby.

I keep trying to figure out which version won’t make Ryder’s brain short-circuit and lead to twelve hours of internet research followed by the arrival of a fireproof crib.

The back door opens somewhere behind me.

I glance toward the mudroom, but Ryder doesn’t come into the kitchen. A cabinet opens, something metallic hits the workbench, and then his footsteps move away again.

He’s been strange all morning.

Not bad strange. Ryder strange. Like I’m about to open the door to a new home defense alarm or something.

He showered before eight even though he isn’t working today. He put on dark jeans and the navy shirt I like on him instead of one of the old station T-shirts he usually wears around the house. He disappeared into the garage after breakfast and has been carrying things through the backyard while refusing to tell me what he’s doing.

When I asked, he kissed me and told me to work on my article.

The article that’s been finished for three days.

Suspicious bastard.

Mrs. Vance folds the newspaper and pushes it toward me. Her red marks crowd the margins around my byline.

“It’s good.”

The simple words stop me.

I look at her.

She doesn’t add anything for several seconds. Her fingers rest over the photograph that ran with the article, an exterior shot of Mason Ridge taken after investigators released the property. No Preston. No crime scene photographs. No image of me being loaded into an ambulance or Ryder walking out of that building with blood on his hands. Or Mrs. Vance in her dressing gown scowling at the camera.

That wasn’t the story I wanted to tell.

The story is about buildings everyone knew were dangerous and people nobody listened to until the danger became impossible to ignore. It’s about inspection failures and ignored complaints, broken alarms and tenants who were expected to live with problems because fixing them cost money. Preston is in it because the investigation proved how he used those failures, but his name doesn’t get to swallow everyone else’s.

Mrs. Vance taps the page. “You did right by them.”

My throat tightens enough that I have to look down at my mug. “Marcy says the city council is already panicking because you’ve got national attention on you.”

“Good.” Mrs. Vance nods.

“That was my reaction.”

Mrs. Vance smiles, and for a little while we sit there with afternoon light coming through the windows and the low sound of Ryder moving somewhere outside. It’s ordinary enough that I almost miss how much I wanted this when ordinary felt impossible.

Mrs. Vance reaches for half a muffin from the plate between us. Ryder bought them yesterday after I mentioned she was coming over. Blueberry, because he remembers everything. She tears off one corner, then pauses before eating it.