Page 93 of No Good Fight

The question lands harder than an argument would have. I look at the order again and see it the way she must: cameras, sensors, locks, lights, batteries. More ways to watch. More proof that my answer to being afraid is to build until there isn’t any room left for the fear to move. For her to move.

“He got close,” I say, because it’s the only defense I have. “He could have hurt you if I wasn’t here.”

“I know.” Her thumb moves once against the inside of my wrist, careful and warm. “I saw the fence too.”

“He came to my house while you were inside it.”

“And I’m still inside it.” She steps away from the counter and picks up the towel from the chair, folding it even though it’s too damp to be useful. “I’m not saying don’t make things safer. I’m saying I can feel you turning every wall into a warning sign and something you need to watch.”

I set the phone facedown. The cart stays open. I don’t check out, but I don’t delete anything either.

“All I’m saying,” Alex whispers before brushing her hand over mine. “Is that you should make your list of what you need to fix it now, and that’s it. No more after this. Don’t let his actions start something that’s unhealthy in response.”

At that, I pick up my phone and place the order, promising myself that’s it. No more after this. It’s the best I can do right now.

For the next hour, I move through the house with a flashlight, a screwdriver, and the sensor kit I already own because Alex was right about the emergency shelf. She follows me around for part of it, not hovering, not helping, just watching me test locks and battery backups with the towel now gone and her hands tucked into the long sleeves of my hoodie.

At the mudroom door, I replace the old sensor and note the delay between contact break and phone alert. In the living room, I unplug the monitor station and count how long the backup takes to kick in. In the hallway, I check the flashlight charging dock and put a spare on the small table by the stairs.

Alex stops there. Her gaze stays on the flashlight so long that I don’t even have to wonder what she’s thinking.

“You want one upstairs?” I ask, already reaching for another from the drawer.

Her answer takes a beat. “Maybe.”

I hand it to her butt-end first, like the tool it is. She takes it the same way. “This isn’t because I think you can’t handle the dark,” I tell her while tightening the loose screw on the hall table leg because if I look at her too directly, my face will say too much. “It’s because the power’s been flickering all night.”

“I know.” She rolls the flashlight in her palm, tests the weight, then sets it on the table instead of carrying it upstairs. “I wasn’t arguing.”

That should be the end of it, and for a while, it is.

The power goes out at exactly 12:11 in the morning.

The whole house drops at once. Lamp. monitors, refrigerator, the low hum of the dryer in the hallway. The storm fills the absence immediately, rain slamming the roof and thunder dragging over the house hard enough to make the windows tremble. The backup under the media console clicks, fails, then clicks again while I’m already reaching for the flashlight I left on the coffee table.

“Alex,” I say, aiming the beam at the floor.

She doesn’t answer.

I find her near the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the banister and the other clenched around the sleeve of my hoodie. The emergency light in the hall gives off a weak amber glow, not enough to reach the living room, and her face is turned toward the dead windows as if the dark outside has leaned in close to the glass.

I keep the flashlight low and stop several feet away. “Storm took the power. Backup generator’s delayed like I figured it would be for the first storm of the season. I’ve got to check on it, but first I’m going to come closer unless you tell me no.”

Her head moves a little, not quite a nod, but enough to give me her permission.

Right now, that’s the most important thing, because I can physically feel her panic rising with every passing second.

I cross the space slowly. When she reaches for me, I let the flashlight fall to the floor and catch her with both arms. She comes into my chest hard, fingers twisting in my shirt, her breath too fast and too small against my neck. I don’t need to ask her what’s wrong.

“Front door’s locked,” I say near her hair. “Back door’s locked. Alarm has a battery. I’m here. Nothing, Allycat…absolutely nothing is going to get to you.”

Her hands tighten.

I sit on the couch and bring her with me because standing can’t be comfortable for her. She folds into my lap sideways, knees tucked against my thigh, face pressed under my jaw. I set one hand between her shoulders and count her breaths by the movement against my chest. Too fast at first, her panic clinging to her and making it impossible for Alex to do anything but hyperventilate. They finally turn slower when I take even, deep breaths that she can mimic.

A branch scrapes the side of the house, and she jolts so hard my arm clamps around her before I can stop it.

“Sorry,” I say immediately, loosening my hold.