Page 25 of No Good Fight

Dark. Tinted windows. Parked too long at the far end of the street.

Recognition hit before anything else and my body went still.

Alex stopped walking, and even from half a block away, I saw the way her attention locked on it. She’d seen it, too. Whatever was happening wasn’t something I’d built out of smoke and overprotective instinct. She had felt it before I had proof.

The SUV’s brake lights flared.

I was already moving.

“Ryder?” the barista called behind me.

I didn’t answer.

By the time I hit the sidewalk, the vehicle had pulled away from the curb. A sedan passed between us, blocking my view for half a second, and that was all it took. The SUV slid into traffic, dark paint flashing once in the afternoon sun before it turned right at the next light.

I caught three digits and one letter.

Enough for a search.

But not enough to stop him.

My jaw locked so hard it hurt.

Alex looked back toward me, and for one second everything in her face was open. Fear, confusion, the instinct to reach for me before pride snapped the door shut. Then she turned away and kept walking.

I let her go because she needed to believe she still could.

That was the first lie I told myself.

The second came five minutes later when I climbed into my truck and told myself I was going back to the station because I had paperwork.

I drove two blocks before I pulled over and called Remy Townsend.

One of my closer friends, and an officer with Birch Police Department, Remy was a good guy. We’d traded favors after enough emergency scenes that he didn’t ask many questions when I needed something strange and quick.

“I’ve got a partial plate,” I said when he answered.

“No hello? What am I going to tell Parker about Golden Boy Cook? You’ve lost all your manners.”

“Hello, to you too, Mr. Congeniality. I’ve got a partial plate, or do you want to talk about how you should invest in better inflatable costumes for the next variation of the Ridiculympics?”

He sighed. “Why do I feel like this is going to involve me doing something I’ll regret?”

“Dark SUV. Possibly black, maybe charcoal. Three digits, one letter. Maine passenger plate.”

“That’s nice and vague.”

“I know.”

I give him what I’d seen. It was enough for Remy to start muttering under his breath and typing.

While I waited, I watched Alex’s car disappear from the side street and forced myself not to follow her.

That restraint felt less noble than it should have.

It felt like standing still while someone I cared about walked closer to a cliff.

“You got a reason for this?” Remy asked.