Page 121 of No Good Fight

I double check that my location sharing is on in the middle of the sidewalk, rain misting cold against my cheeks.

Me: Bossy, I text back.

The dots appear, vanish, then appear again.

Ryder: I like my woman alive.

I hate the way I love how he called me his.

The drive to the apartment building is too normal for how abnormal my life has become lately. Traffic moves through wet streets. A delivery van idles outside the bakery. A woman in a yellow raincoat drags a toddler away from a puddle he clearly loves more than she loves dry socks. The world keeps doing its regular little things while I pull up in front of the building I no longer think of as home.

The brick looks darker in the rain. The first-floor windows sit low and old, with paint flaking around the frames. My curtains are closed two units down. I do not look at my door long enough to picture it cracked open.

Mrs. Vance’s door swings inward before I knock.

She’s wearing a blue housecoat today instead of purple, her hair wrapped in a lemon-print scarf. The cane is in one hand. A grocery tote hangs from the other, sagging with weight.

She inspects the hall behind me, then grabs my sleeve and pulls me inside with surprising strength.

Her apartment smells like peppermint tea, furniture polish, and the powdery perfume she probably bought in bulk when one of the Bushes was president. The TV is on mute. The coffee table has been cleared except for a lace runner and a plate of fresh baked snickerdoodle cookies.

Mrs. Vance drops the tote onto the couch and starts unloading it. “Good. You’re here. I’ve been trying to just add stuff to the bag a little at a time. But I gotta make sure you’re safe.”

Bear spray hits the cushion first. Then a heavy flashlight. A door wedge. A whistle. A personal alarm still sealed in plastic. A roll of duct tape. Things just keep appearing out of the bag like I’m going to run away if she stops.

When she pulls brass knuckles out that she wrapped in a dish towel I think I’m gonna lose it.

I stand beside the recliner with my bag still on my shoulder, staring at the growing pile.

Mrs. Vance points at the bear spray without looking up. “For wildlife or men who act worse than the bear ever would.”

There is no opening for argument. She moves like the subject is handled, using the cane to push the flashlight closer to my bag while she lowers herself into the recliner with a soft grunt.

“You’ll put that in the outside pocket,” she says. “Then you can use it for light or as a weapon too.”

“I don’t think I’m qualified to carry half of this.” I eye the bear spray suspiciously. “Those brass knuckles look dangerous.”

“That man who grabbed you wasn’t qualified to breathe near you, but he managed.”

The words cut the smile right off my face.

Mrs. Vance sees it and reaches for the tea on her side table. Her hand trembles before she gets the cup fully lifted.

I sit on the edge of the couch and pull the flashlight into my lap. It is heavy. Solid. I like the way it feels, like I could save myself if I needed to.

Mrs. Vance watches me test the button against my palm. Bright white light flashes across the rug and catches the framed photos on the TV stand. A younger Mrs. Vance with a man in a brown suit. A little girl with missing front teeth. Three people at a beach, squinting into the wind.

“I saw you before he came out,” she says.

My thumb stills on the flashlight switch.

She stares at the muted TV, not me. “Last week. Through the peephole. You stood there in the hall with that phone in your hand, and you already knew. Women get that look when they’ve been taught to argue with their own fear. And I’ll be damned if a man ever hurts you or makes you feel that way again”

The room shrinks around the words.

I run my finger over a scratch in the flashlight’s handle and try to find something light enough to say. Nothing comes.

Mrs. Vance unwraps the brass knuckles again with slow, careful hands. “My husband used to say the world calls women dramatic until we’re dead. Then everybody wants to talk about warning signs or what we could do to prevent our own attacks.”