Page 113 of No Good Fight

Ryder looks down.

Good. Let him feel it. Let everyone feel it.

“And yes,” I add, before Josh can aim the pain he’s feeling at the wrong person. “Ryder knew more than you. Some of that was because I told him. Some of that was because he paid attention in ways we are absolutely going to keep having conversations about. But he did not steal your place, Josh. He did not make me choose him instead of you. I chose who I could breathe around, and who made me feel alive when all I’ve felt is death at the edges of my mind for so long. He made living easier than wanting to die.”

Mom makes a small sound and presses her napkin to her eyes.

Dad looks at Ryder then. Really looks at him. “Did you know Preston was back before Alex told you?”

Ryder’s shoulders go still. He answers without looking away from my father. “I suspected after the window. I knew after the photo in her car.”

“And you didn’t call us.” There’s the accusation. The man who was like a son to my father, choosing not to tell him.

Ryder shakes his head. “No.”

Josh takes one step toward him. Nia’s hand shoots out and catches his belt loop, yanking him back with a precision that says she’s done this before.

“Joshua Harmon,” she says, calm and lethal, “do not make me trip you in front of your mother.”

He doesn’t look at her. “He had no right.”

Ryder’s face hardens, but his voice stays controlled. “For that, I had every fucking right.” His voice drops. “What I had no right to do was tell Alex’s trauma to anyone before she was ready.”

That quiets Josh for half a breath.

Then he looks at me, and the hurt comes roaring back. “Is that what this is? You two decided I was the problem?”

“No.” My voice rises, and for once I let it. “That is exactly what I’m talking about. You keep trying to make this about where you belong in the chain of information here when it’s not about you. I was the one being abused. Fucking stalked. I was the one on the floor yesterday with Mrs. Vance holding a cane over me like a medieval knight in rollers.”

Nia mutters, “Iconic, honestly. That woman is like the first generational badass.”

“Nia,” Josh snaps.

“She is,” Nia says, softer now, rubbing her thumb along the back of his wrist. “And Alex is talking. Let her.”

Josh looks at her. The anger in him catches against the way she’s looking back. Not scolding. Loving him enough to stop him. His shoulders drop a fraction.

I breathe.

“I know you’re scared,” I say. “All of you. I know finding out this way was awful. But I am not evidence. I’m not a case file. I’m not a family failure everyone has to solve before breakfast gets cold.”

Mom reaches for my hand across the island, then stops herself halfway there. The effort costs her. I can see it in the way her fingers curl back against her palm.

“Can I?” she asks.

My throat burns but I still nod because I need my mother.

She takes my hand carefully, lifting my borrowed hoodie and turning it just enough to see the faint mark near my wrist. She doesn’t grab or pull me closer. She only touches her thumb to the unbruised skin beside it and starts crying in silence.

That is worse than every question she could have asked me.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Mom—”

“No.” She shakes her head once, then another time, sharper. “Not because this is my fault. I know you’ll say that, and you’re right. But I’m sorry you had to carry any of it alone. I’m sorry you thought protecting us from fear was easier than letting us love you through it.”

I can’t answer through the sheen of tears and the boulder now sitting on my chest.