Page 169 of No Good Fight

Her eyes move to my coffee.

Then to the muffin I’ve barely touched.

I know that look.

“What?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Her attention lingers on my face long enough that I resist the urge to check whether I have something stuck to it.

“You feeling all right?”

“Yes.”

“You look tired.”

“I work for a newspaper. Fatigue is part of the benefits package along with ink stains and questionable hours.”

Mrs. Vance isn’t distracted.

She takes another look at my mug.

My stomach drops.

“No.”

Her eyebrows lift. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re about to.”

“I wasn’t going to ask why you’re drinking decaf.”

I stare at her. She stares back.

I knew switching coffee was going to betray me.

“I sometimes drink decaf.”

“No, you don’t. In the multiple years I was your neighbor, not once did you have that half-bean pee instead of the high octane.”

“That seems invasive.”

“You’ve been putting your hand over your stomach all afternoon but pretending like you’re not.”

My gaze drops.

My palm is resting there now.

I move it to the table.

Mrs. Vance’s expression changes before I say anything. The suspicion fades, leaving her softer than I’m used to seeing her.

I look toward the mudroom again.

No Ryder.

The house is quiet except for a faint scrape from outside and the refrigerator humming behind me.

I came into this afternoon thinking I might tell her. Maybe because telling her will be easier than telling my mother first, or because Mrs. Vance has seen me at some of the worst points in my life and somehow never treated me like surviving made me fragile.