Page 66 of No Good Fight

The McDonald’s bag from last night is still on the counter, folded down twice. Alex picks at the top seam while her coffee lightens beneath the creamer, not looking at me when she asks, “Any news?”

“Remy texted. Parker sent footage from Lucy’s.”

Her fingers stop on the paper bag. “Did they get him?”

“Not yet.”

“Ryder.”

“He left through the back after we got outside,” I tell her, keeping my voice even because lying to make it easier would be worse. “They weren’t able to get a plate or anything, but Remy’s checking street cameras.”

She nods once and takes a careful sip of coffee before grimacing slightly. Her eyes close for a second, and the bruise on her wrist peeks out from beneath my jacket sleeve when she lowers the mug.

I make myself look at her face. “He also said you need to make a statement because this needs to be official.”

The mug pauses halfway to the counter. “Today?”

“When you’re ready.”

“That’s not the same thing as today.”

“No,” I say, shifting my weight because every protective instinct in me hates the answer. “It isn’t. He wants you to come in today, but I think that you need to do what feels right for you. This happened to you, not to anyone else.”

She studies me over the rim of the mug, wary and tired. “You’re being very reasonable this morning.”

“I’m trying.” I correct her. “And you deserve to have your thoughts and wishes respected.”

“That’s alarming.” Alex drinks her coffee after adding a splash of creamer and sugar to the cup.

“Yeah,” I admit. “It feels weird from this side too.”

This time her mouth curves enough to count, and the tightness in my chest loosens by a fraction.

She turns toward the living room with her coffee, probably aiming for the couch, and I realize too late that I never put the box away. It sits beside the coffee table where I dragged it out last night to make room for the second monitor cord. Black archival box. White label on the side with her name written on it. I see her notice it before I can move.

The mug lowers slowly.

“What is that?” she asks.

My blood turns cold.

“Alex.”

She doesn’t look at me. Her gaze stays fixed on the label as she walks toward the box, bare feet silent against the floor. “Why is my name on that?”

I follow, but I stop at the edge of the living room. The monitors throw pale light across her legs and the hem of my jacket. “It’s not evidence.”

“That is an incredibly bad opening defense.”

“I know.”

She sets her coffee on the table with too much care, then crouches in front of the box. Her fingers rest on the lid without lifting it. “Tell me before I open it.”

My mouth goes dry. There are a dozen ways to make it sound softer. None of them are honest enough. “Articles, okay. They’re articles.”

Her hand stills.

“You kept my articles?”