Page 38 of No Good Fight

Preston’s name goes beneath the list, just so it’s clear that I think he’s responsible for everything.

I write Josh’s name in the corner and stare at it until the letters blur with my focus. He should know. If anyone deserves a call, it’s him. He’s her brother. He loves her. He’d come fast, loud, and more than ready to tear the world apart until he found a piece of the destruction in Alex’s life with Preston’s fingerprints on it.

That’s the problem.

Alex would see his fear, make adjustments to how she’s acting, and turn hers into something smaller so he wouldn’t have to carry it for her. I watched her do that for years. Smooth the edges of her own problems to make everyone else more comfortable. Make jokes at her own expense so that no one saw the sadness in her eyes. Pretend the bruises were old if she ever got questioned, the silence was exhaustion and not fear of what would happen if she spoke, the distance was nothing personal. Josh missed it. We all did, though that excuse tastes like shit every time I try to swallow it down.

If I call him now, he’ll ask why I know this much. How I got close enough for Alex to trust me. He’ll ask why she sent the photo to me. Why I was at Mason Ridge in the rain.

He’ll start to see why I always seem to be close enough to catch the pieces of her life when they start falling.

My phone is in my hand before I let myself think any harder about it because I need to talk to someone, if not him.

Remy answers on the sixth ring with a voice filled with gravel and a history of bad decisions. “Cook, I swear to God, unless someone is bleeding or committing a felony, I’m blocking your number until sunrise. Parker is naked in our bed waiting for me, and I’m not going to lose a chance to get between her legs.”

“Preston left a photograph in Alex’s car with a note on the back.”

The silence that follows lasts just long enough for him to wake all the way up.

“In the car?”

“In it. She remembers locking it, and then the door was open several inches and she found the note on the driver’s side seat.”

“Send it.” Then the call disconnects.

I do what he ordered and send him both photos. The picture itself, and the note on the back.

He calls back twenty-six minutes later. I know the exact count because I watch every minute change on the stove clock like an idiot waiting for a verdict.

“The SUV you gave me before traces to a rental company two towns over,” he says. “The reservation info is garbage. He used a fake address, and the name doesn’t match. The payment method got flagged after the rental cleared, so whoever handled it had enough time to disappear with the vehicle before the payment was marked as suspicious. But it wasn’t declined. Just a different name on the card than on the reservation.”

I close my eyes.

Preston planned this. He didn’t panic and circle her town hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He got a vehicle under fake information, followed her, found out where she’d be, and got close enough to her car to leave proof she couldn’t ignore in a way that would terrify her.

“Ryder,” Remy says, and I already know I’m not going to like the tone.

“What?”

“She needs to make a report.”

“I know.”

“You say that like you’re agreeing with me, but I can hear the part where you’re already building your own case in a notebook and deciding rules are flexible because you want to protect her yourself.”

I look down at the page without saying anything because he’s right, and I respect him too much to lie to him.

He sighs. “I’m serious. Help her report it. Don’t become another man making choices around her while calling it protection when you can include her and give her the agency that she didn’t have before.”

The words hit exactly where they’re meant to.

I hate him a little for it.

But we end the call after that, and I know that I have to do it. I have to talk Alex into reporting this shit so that they can help her in a way that I can’t…at least not alone.

First, I have to drag my ass into work for my shift on the ambulance instead of the fire rig and hope nothing goes terribly wrong.

By noon, I’m in the living room of a duplex on Miller Street, kneeling in front of a woman with a split lip while her boyfriend leans against the kitchen counter and smiles like he was born with nothing to hide.