Page 98 of No Good Fight

The knife stops halfway across the toast.

There it is.

“I need clothes,” I add, because if I keep talking, maybe he won’t. “My charger. My hard drive. A few notebooks. The dry shampoo that keeps me from looking like a bridge troll with deadlines.”

Ryder sets the toast on a plate and slides it toward me instead of responding right away. The plate bumps gently against my wrist. Breakfast as a delay tactic.

“I’ll take you.”

“I can drive myself.”

His hand stays on the edge of the counter. “Alex.”

I take a bite of toast because arguing on an empty stomach seems irresponsible. “I’m not sneaking out. I’m telling you the plan. That’s called growth.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I know.”

He exhales through his nose and looks toward the back windows, where the damaged fence is hidden by the angle of the house. When he looks back, his face has gone quieter, which is somehow worse than angry.

“Call me before you get out of the car.”

“I can do that.”

“Stay on the phone.”

I pick up my coffee and hold it between both hands. The order should irritate me. It does. The relief underneath irritates me more.

“Fine,” I say. “But if you say the words ‘stay in the car’ in your scary voice, I reserve the right to mock you.”

“I’ll use my regular voice.”

“Your regular voice is also scary when you’re being unreasonable.”

His mouth moves, almost a smile, but it doesn’t stay. “I’m trying not to be. Just for you.”

19

ALEX

Ryder fucking wrecks me, and that’s the only reason I agree to his ridiculous requests.

I drive myself because I said I would, and Ryder lets me because I think we both understand the choice matters even if neither of us likes it. The morning is damp and washed-out, the roads slick, the sky low enough that the tops of the trees look like they’re holding it up. My phone sits in the cup holder, Ryder’s name already pulled up because I’m brave, not stupid.

Going back into the newspaper building is both awkward and eerily the same. Yes, my privacy was violated, but I’m not afraid as I step through the doors.

I answer emails, revise two paragraphs of the redevelopment piece, pretend not to notice Marcy watching me from her office, and fail to eat the granola bar Ryder shoved into my bag when he thought I wasn’t looking. By noon, my brain keeps circling the same list: underwear, jeans, notebooks, hairbrush, the sweater I actually like, enough socks that Ryder stops talking about my cold feet like they’re a civic emergency. My things.

When I pull into my apartment lot, I call him before I turn off the engine.

He answers on the first ring. Of course he does.

“I’m here,” I say, putting the car in park.

I can hear noise behind him, the clank of something metal and a low voice in the distance. Station, probably. “What do you see?”

“Cars. Rain. Mrs. Vance’s curtains moving because her life would have no meaning without surveillance.”