Page 33 of No Good Fight

“Three times. Management says contractors come and go with redevelopment inspections.” Mrs. Henley looks out the window, where rain slips down the glass in crooked lines. “Men who belong somewhere don’t spend that much time making sure no one is watching them while they skulk around. I’ll tell you now, they’re up to no good.”

That sentence crawls under my skin and stays there.

I finish the interview because I am a professional, though honestly professionalism is starting to feel a lot like smiling while my nervous system chews through drywall. I thank Mrs. Henley, promise to follow up if I need clarification, and step back into the hall with my phone already hot in my hand.

Ryder’s contact is open before I remember making the decision.

I stand outside Mrs. Henley’s door, staring at his name while the hallway light buzzes above me.

Texting him would be reasonable.

Probably.

Maybe.

It would also mean admitting Ryder has become the person I reach for when something feels wrong, and that thought makes my chest tight in a way I don’t know how to name. I needed years to claw my way out of a relationship where one man knew too much about my fear. Needing another man right now feels like walking backward.

Even if Ryder feels different.

Especially because Ryder feels different.

I lock the phone and drop it into my bag.

Outside, the rain has picked up, turning the parking lot glossy beneath the flickering lights. Dusk settles over the complex in smudged gray layers, and the cars look darker than they did when I arrived.

I pull my hood up and hurry toward my Subaru.

Halfway across the lot, I stop.

My driver’s side door is open.

Not wide. Barely enough for the interior light to glow faintly against the rain.

For a second, I try to make that mean nothing. The latch is old. Maybe I hit the wrong button. Maybe I didn’t close it all the way. Maybe cars do this sometimes because they, too, have unresolved trauma and poor coping skills.

Except I locked it.

I remember the chirp of my annoying lock.

I closed my fucking door.

I know I did.

The rain pings against my hood while I stand there with my pulse starting to climb.

My keys are already between my fingers when I move closer, even though stabbing someone with a car key seems like an act of optimism more than self-defense. Still, I’m a woman raised to defend myself with what I have handy, and right now that’s my keys.

Then I see the photograph.

It sits on the driver’s seat, folded once, the edges worn and soft.

My body understands before my brain does.

The fear is immediate and ugly, crawling up my throat so fast I have to swallow against it. I don’t want to touch the photo. Leaving it there feels worse.

I open the door with two fingers and pick it up by the corner.

The paper is slightly damp. Old. Bent. Familiar in a way that makes my stomach drop before I even unfold it.