Page 151 of No Good Fight

“Nothing that man won’t regret if I get my hands free.”

A weak, shaky laugh slips out before I can stop it. Of course that’s her answer.

The restraint has been rubbing the same spot since I woke up, and the skin there is slick enough now that I can rotate my hand farther than I could before. Pain shoots through my thumb when I pull, but I keep going until the pressure becomes too sharp and I have to stop. I’m still testing the angle when footsteps sound in the hallway.

I straighten as much as the chair allows.

Preston comes back carrying a red gas can.

The sight of it wipes away what little relief I had.

He sets it beside the worktable without looking at me, then reaches into his pocket for a pair of work gloves. Everything about the movement is casual. Prepared. He pulls one glove on and adjusts the cuff while my eyes stay on the gas can.

A dozen pieces from the last few weeks move closer together in my head.

Wire cutters. Electrical tools. Work gloves. Gas cans.

The first apartment fire, where faulty wiring was blamed before anyone seriously looked for an accelerant that might have been at play. The breaker at my building that somehow only affected the power in my apartment. The smashed motion light. The man near my apartment that was carrying a toolbox that didn’t belong to the maintenance company. Mason Street, with its broken alarms and years of electrical complaints.

Mason Ridge.

Preston glances up and catches me staring.

His mouth curves slightly. “You figured it out, like the smart little reporter that you are.”

I look from him to the gas can. “The fires.”

He finishes pulling on the second glove, taking his time before answering. “You always were better when you had all the pieces in front of you.”

My stomach twists.

I keep one hand still while I work the other beneath my sleeve. “You started the first one.”

“I needed to know what people would see, and how they’d react to a piece of their precious town being burnt to a crisp.”

The simplicity of the answer makes my skin crawl.

Preston walks to the shelves and moves several things aside, checking whatever he has arranged there without explaining it. I don’t need him to. The old maintenance building already smells like dust, damp concrete, and years of neglect.

I remember the reports spread across Ryder’s dining room table that I was trying to figure out the angle for. Failed inspections. Electrical problems. Complaints that went unanswered long enough to become background noise.

“You wanted them to blame the buildings.”

He looks over his shoulder. “They were already blaming the buildings. All that work you put into your article should tell you that.”

The restraint shifts another fraction over my thumb.

I keep my face still.

Preston returns to the table and picks up one of the photographs he showed me earlier, Ryder standing outside Lucy’s with my car right there. He looks at it before setting it down again. “Nobody asks too many questions when an old building burns. They complain about landlords. They talk about wiring. Maybe somebody gets fined. Then another story comes along and takes away the attention of the public.”

I think of the articles I wrote. Every conversation with tenants. Every ignored alarm and overloaded circuit I put into notes because I thought exposing the problems might make someone fix them.

“You used my reporting.”

“You made it easy, Alexandra. You walked away and tried to pretend that I was behind you.”

Anger comes in hot enough to cut through the lingering fog in my head. “You followed me into buildings I was researching so you could figure out which ones you could burn.”