Page 120 of No Good Fight

Very normal local paper work.

Unfortunately, every quote about faulty breakers and smoke detectors reads like a warning now that I need to duck and cover. I stare at Mr. Bell’s comment about overloaded circuits until the screen starts to blur, then reach for my phone before I admit what I’m doing to myself.

Ryder’s security app opens under my thumb.

Porch Witness. Empty.

Garage Goblin. Empty.

Back Door Drama. Closed.

Home Base. Kitchen light on, no movement.

The label still makes my throat feel tight. I close the app and flip my phone facedown, which lasts maybe three seconds before it rings against my desk.

Mrs. Vance.

I answer while Marcy glances over the top of her monitor.

“I need you to stop by,” Mrs. Vance says, with no greeting and no space for argument. Something thumps in the background, followed by a drawer sliding shut. “I’ve got a few things you should have.”

I sit back slowly. “Things?”

“Useful things.” A metallic clatter rings in the background of the call. I picture her standing in that tiny apartment with her cane hooked over one arm, surrounded by contraband and righteous anger. “Important things, Alexandra.”

“I’m at work,” I say, even though my hand is already moving toward my laptop bag. “I can’t just break away right now, Mrs. V.”

“You’re staring at words and pretending it counts as employment until you finish another amazing article. I know your work day, young lady. Now, hop to.”

Marcy mouths, Cane lady?

I nod.

Mrs. Vance exhales near the receiver, impatient and older than she sounded yesterday when she was swinging at a masked man in orthopedic shoes. “Come straight to my apartment. Straight here. Park out front. And tell that firefighter of yours not to storm my hallway unless he wants me to bruise his ego twice in two weeks.”

The line clicks dead.

I keep the phone against my ear for another second, listening to nothing.

Marcy lowers the stack of printer paper. “She okay?”

“She says she has useful, important things to give me.” I sigh. “I’m gonna head over there.”

“That sounds threatening.” She laughs, and then her eyes fall to the keyboard on my desk.

Trying to lighten the mood, which I know has been awkward since the photo that Preston found a way to leave here, I shake my head and snort. “With Mrs. Vance, that could mean soup, a flashlight, or a felony.”

Marcy points one sheet of paper at me. “Text someone before you go.”

“I am.”

I save the work I’ve done on the article, pack my laptop, and send Ryder a message before I can talk myself into pretending this is too small to mention.

Me: Mrs. Vance summoned me. She has “useful things.” I’ll call after.

His reply comes before I reach the door.

Ryder: Location on. Stay where people can see you. Don’t go into your apartment.