Page 55 of No Good Fight

When I finally drive back toward her apartment, she doesn’t argue. She keeps my jacket around her and watches the road with one hand resting near the console. Not touching me. Close enough that I notice every inch.

Her building comes into view at 10:47.

I know because I check the dashboard clock while turning into the lot, already scanning.

The first thing I see is the broken light and my foot hits the brake automatically.

Alex jerks slightly. “What?”

The hallway outside her first-floor door is dark.

The motion light I installed just a few hours ago hangs crooked from the bracket, cracked plastic jutting out from the wall. The bulb casing is shattered across the floor below it. A streak of mud smears the paint beside her door, high enough to come from a hand or a boot or something bracing there.

Then I see the photograph.

It’s taped at eye level on her door.

My blood goes cold.

“Stay in the truck,” I say.

Alex reaches for the handle. “No.”

“Alex.”

“I’m not staying in here while you walk over there alone.”

I turn to her, ready to argue, but she’s already pale and furious and scared in equal measure. Her hand is on the door, and I can see the cost of sitting still written all over her.

I get out first and come around to her side. “Stay behind me, then.”

She opens her mouth.

“Please,” I add, rougher than I mean to, but just as urgent as I need it to be.

She steps out and stays close enough that I feel her at my back as we cross the lot. Rain hits the pavement around us, making everything harsher than it should be. I watch the shadows between cars, the corner near the dumpsters, the entrance to the hallway, every window with a view of her door because that’s where I would be if I were trying to get to her when she’s at her weakest.

The subject of the photograph becomes clear when we reach the door.

Alex and me in the rain outside Lucy’s, taken from inside.

My hand in her hair.

Her body pressed against mine.

My mouth on hers.

Beneath it, thick black letters slash across a strip of white paper.

HE CAN’T WATCH YOU EVERY SECOND.

Alex makes a small sound behind me, and it cuts deeper than the threat on the page. I turn fast enough that my shoulder clips the doorframe but I don’t feel it.

She’s staring at the photo, one hand clamped over her mouth. “He was there,” she whispers through her fingers. “He was watching us from inside the bar. Taking pictures of us.”

“Yes.”

“He came here when we left Lucy’s.”