Page 146 of No Good Fight

Preston’s attention drops to my hand. “You always thought doing what I asked meant you got to decide what happened next.”

There it is.

The familiar shift that used to leave me trying to figure out which part of an argument I had misunderstood. There was never a possibility of him letting her go. I played right into his hands.

I stop pulling.

His eyes linger on me another second before he turns back to the photographs.

Only then do I start working my wrist again.

Slowly.

Preston picks up the first picture and holds it where I can see Ryder’s truck parked outside my apartment.

Another shows Ryder outside Lucy’s.

Then one of the cameras mounted at his house.

“He watches you.”

My stomach tightens, but I keep my face still.

He moves the photographs closer together as if he’s building an argument on the table. Ryder’s truck. Ryder’s house. A picture of him across the street from my building.

“He knew your schedule before you were together. He drove past your apartment. He remembers cars that don’t belong there. He keeps things about you close to his chest.”

The box of my articles flashes through my head before I can stop it.

Preston looks at me and waits for me to admit that he’s right.

“He’s not you.”

I don’t give him anything else.

He comes around the table, dragging one finger over the back of the empty chair across from mine before turning it around and sitting on it backward.

“Isn’t he?”

I keep working at the restraint beneath my sleeve.

Preston talks while I do it, listing every place Ryder’s behavior can be made to resemble his if you strip away everything that matters. The watching. The cameras. Showing up. Knowing where I am before I tell him. Wanting to decide what is dangerous before it reaches me.

Some of it bothers me because some of it would be true if I didn’t give Ryder permission with his obsession.

That’s why Preston chose it.

He waits until I look at him.

I flex my fingers, checking how much feeling has returned to them. “When I tell Ryder no, he listens.”

The leg of Preston’s chair drags lightly across the concrete.

I keep my attention on his face now.

“When I need space, he gives it to me. When he crosses a line, I can tell him he crossed it without wondering what he’s going to do to me afterward.” I spit at Preston’s feet. “He doesn’t hit me for disagreeing, or starve me for wearing the wrong dress. He. Isn’t. You.”

Preston stands.