Page 122 of No Good Fight

My throat burns.

She holds the metal out, then frowns at it like it has disappointed her by existing. “I don’t recommend these unless you know what you’re doing. You’ll break your hand before his face.”

“That’s comforting.” I snort, but I’m already planning on looking up videos on how to use them effectively.

“I didn’t invite you here for comfort.”

No, she didn’t.

She invited me because last week she saw a man try to drag me through my own doorway, and she answered with a cane before anyone with a badge or a truck could get there. Because she’s old and sharp and has probably been scared enough in her life to know how to turn my fear into a weapon I can use to survive.

I’m putting the items in my computer bag one at a time while she watches with approval when the first whiff of smoke threads through the peppermint of the tea Mrs. Vance brewed.

I almost miss it.

My head turns toward the door before I really know what grabs my attention. Mrs. Vance follows my stare, her fingers tightening around the arm of the recliner. For a second, the apartment is still around us. Rain at the window. TV flickering silently. Tea cooling beside her.

Then someone pounds down the hall.

A man shouts from farther away, words swallowed by distance and a sudden sharp crack that makes Mrs. Vance flinch and sends my adrenaline into overdrive.

I cross the room fast and stop before I touch the door. Smoke slips beneath it in a thin gray ribbon, curling over the threshold and spreading across the floor.

The handle radiates heat before my fingers make contact and I know better than to touch it.

I step back.

Mrs. Vance is already pushing herself upright, cane scraping against the floor. Her smoke alarm chirps once overhead, weak and insulting, then goes dead.

For half a heartbeat, all I can think about is the article open on my laptop at work. Faulty detectors. Old wiring. Ignored complaints.

Then smoke thickens under the door too fast for any type of natural fire caused by faulty wiring.

My phone is in my hand before I remember reaching for it. I hit emergency call while dragging the coffee table toward the living room window.

“Fire,” I say when the operator answers and asks the address of the emergency. My voice sounds steadier than my hands. “Mason Street apartments. First floor. 3A, Mrs. Vance’s unit if you have it in your system. We can’t get out through the front door because the fire is already there. Two people inside.”

The window doesn’t move.

I shove harder. Paint flakes beneath my nails. Old wood groans in the frame but stays jammed, swollen from rain and years of nobody caring enough to fix what tenants had been complaining about forever.

Mrs. Vance coughs behind me.

The sound yanks panic up through my chest, hot and useless. I put the phone on speaker, toss it onto the couch cushion, and grab the heavy flashlight from my bag.

The first hit dents the latch.

The second sends pain buzzing up my arm.

The third breaks something loose with a metallic snap.

Cold air slips through a narrow gap when I force the window up, but not enough. Definitely not for Mrs. Vance. Maybe not even enough for me to squeeze through. Smoke rushes toward the opening, dragging itself past our knees, our hands, our faces.

Mrs. Vance tries to help pull the side table away from the wall. Her cane skids on the rug. I catch her before she goes down, and she feels too light under my hands.

“No,” she rasps, shoving weakly at my arm and pointing toward the window. “Get out of here.”

“I’m not leaving you.”