Page 22 of No Good Fight

Waiting to see which version of the monster I’m going to get at home.

The charming one.

The pretend one.

Maybe the annoyed one.

Or the real one.

Ryder’s chair scrapes softly against the floor.

Not loud enough to draw attention.

Enough that I feel the shift.

His entire posture changes, becoming quieter, sharper, focused in a way that makes the air around us feel compressed.

I turn my head.

It’s not him. It’s Daniel Mercer, one of the city council aides I interviewed two months ago for a zoning story. Mid-thirties, kind smile, harmless face, holding a paper cup and looking politely embarrassed for interrupting.

“Sorry,” he says. “I thought that was you. Good piece on the school board last week.”

My lungs remember they work.

“Oh.” My voice sounds normal enough that I almost want to applaud myself. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

He gestures toward the door. “I’ll email you those redevelopment documents this afternoon.”

“Great. Thank you.”

He leaves with a small wave. The whole exchange lasts maybe fifteen seconds.

My body takes much longer to come back to normal.

When I look at Ryder, he isn’t looking at Daniel.

He’s looking at me.

Carefully.

Extremely carefully.

I hate it.

I hate that he saw. I hate that he noticed the exact second fear took over my body. I hate that he doesn’t ask immediately, because somehow his restraint makes it worse. It means he knows there really is something to ask. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

“I should go,” I say, gathering my notes too quickly.

“Alex.”

“I have another interview.” My pulse spikes and I need to get out of here because he can see me. See through the walls I took so long to build.

“You’re shaking.”

His voice doesn’t do anything to help the panic that’s becoming a living thing, closing in all around me. I need to go. I need him to stop seeing me.

“I’m caffeinated.”