Page 103 of No Good Fight

20

RYDER

The house doesn’t feel safe after I bring Alex back to it.

It’s locked. Monitored. Lit from the porch to the back fence with enough cheap temporary floodlights to make my yard look like a crime scene even before I start thinking about what happened today.

Remy is still here, even after he sent Logan home. Two other officers walked the perimeter, photographed the tarp over the fence, checked the muddy ground near the pine, and left with the kind of careful promises no one can actually make.

We’ll look into it.

We’ll increase patrols.

We’ll call if anything comes up.

None of it changes the sound Alex made when her phone hit the floor at those apartments.

I stand at the back window with one hand against the trim and watch the tree line while Alex sits at my dining room table with another mug she hasn’t touched. She’s wearing my hoodie again, her bare knees tucked together beneath the hem, her hair still damp from the rain earlier. There’s a faint red mark high on her arm where that bastard grabbed her, and every time my eyes find it, I have to move them away before I do something useless with the rage.

Remy stands in my kitchen, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed. He has the tired look of a man who has already spent too many hours staring at evidence and too many nights seeing crime scenes he can’t escape. His gaze keeps moving between me and Alex, measuring both of us in a way I don’t appreciate and probably deserve.

“We’ve got the glove,” he says. “Partial tread from the hall, maybe. The apartment footage from the building is worthless because the landlord’s cameras haven’t worked right in two years, which is going to make me lose what little faith I had left in rental property management. Mrs. Vance gave a statement detailed enough to terrify every man in a six-block radius with black sneakers, though, so that’s good.”

Alex’s mouth moves against the rim of her mug. Almost a smile. Not enough of one.

“She also called him a knock-kneed coward with discount footwear,” Remy adds.

“That sounds like Mrs. Vance,” Alex says. “She’s nosy, but she’s the best neighbor in the world.”

Her voice is steady, and carefully measured. The kind she uses when she knows everyone is waiting for her to break and refuses to give them the satisfaction. I press my thumb harder against the window trim until the old wood digs beneath my nail.

Remy notices.

Of course he does.

He pushes off the counter and lowers his voice. “Ryder.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re standing there like the window personally offended you.”

Alex looks at me then. Not quickly. Not with fear. She studies my hand on the trim, my shoulders, the distance I’ve put between us because I don’t trust what will come out of me if I stand too close. Her mug lands softly on the table.

“Don’t do that,” she says.

I turn from the window. “Do what?”

“Bleed anger all over the room and pretend you’re fine. None of this is fine, and you can be honest about that.”

Remy’s eyebrows lift like he’d enjoy that sentence more if the situation wasn’t so fucked. I don’t look at him. I keep my attention on Alex because she’s the only thing in the room that matters and the one person I’m trying not to damage with everything I’m holding back.

“I heard him put his hands on you,” I say, and the words come out low enough that Remy stops pretending to be interested in the coffee maker. “I heard you hit something. I heard you scream my name, and I wasn’t there.”

Alex’s fingers curl around the mug. “You got there.”

“After.”

The single word puts too much weight and tension in the kitchen. Remy looks down. Alex doesn’t. She pushes her chair back and comes toward me before I can decide whether I’m allowed to meet her halfway. She stops close enough to touch, but she doesn’t do it yet. She waits until my eyes drop to the mark on her arm again, then covers it with her hand.