23. Alex
ALEX
By lunch, I’ve rewritten the same paragraph about faulty wiring so many times the words no longer look real.
It’s been a week since I helped Ryder install extra security cameras and I think I live with him now.
The newsroom keeps moving around me. Phones ring.
Keyboards clack. Marcy argues with the printer from the supply corner, one hand on her hip and a stack of paper jammed beneath her arm like she might physically threaten the machine into cooperation.
Rain taps against the windows in a steady gray rhythm, turning the street outside glossy and dull.
It’s been a shitty rainy few weeks, and I’m ready for the season to change.
My article is supposed to be about redevelopment, neglected buildings, rent hikes, old wiring, and landlords who treat maintenance requests like suggestions from unreasonable peasants.
Very normal local paper work.
Unfortunately, every quote about faulty breakers and smoke detectors reads like a warning now that I need to duck and cover. I stare at Mr. Bell’s comment about overloaded circuits until the screen starts to blur, then reach for my phone before I admit what I’m doing to myself.
Ryder’s security app opens under my thumb.
Porch Witness. Empty.
Garage Goblin. Empty.
Back Door Drama. Closed.
Home Base. Kitchen light on, no movement.
The label still makes my throat feel tight. I close the app and flip my phone facedown, which lasts maybe three seconds before it rings against my desk.
Mrs. Vance.
I answer while Marcy glances over the top of her monitor.
“I need you to stop by,” Mrs. Vance says, with no greeting and no space for argument. Something thumps in the background, followed by a drawer sliding shut. “I’ve got a few things you should have.”
I sit back slowly. “Things?”
“Useful things.” A metallic clatter rings in the background of the call. I picture her standing in that tiny apartment with her cane hooked over one arm, surrounded by contraband and righteous anger. “Important things, Alexandra.”
“I’m at work,” I say, even though my hand is already moving toward my laptop bag. “I can’t just break away right now, Mrs. V.”
“You’re staring at words and pretending it counts as employment until you finish another amazing article. I know your work day, young lady. Now, hop to.”
Marcy mouths, Cane lady?
I nod.
Mrs. Vance exhales near the receiver, impatient and older than she sounded yesterday when she was swinging at a masked man in orthopedic shoes.
“Come straight to my apartment. Straight here. Park out front. And tell that firefighter of yours not to storm my hallway unless he wants me to bruise his ego twice in two weeks.”
The line clicks dead.
I keep the phone against my ear for another second, listening to nothing.
Marcy lowers the stack of printer paper. “She okay?”
“She says she has useful, important things to give me.” I sigh. “I’m gonna head over there.”
“That sounds threatening.” She laughs, and then her eyes fall to the keyboard on my desk.
Trying to lighten the mood, which I know has been awkward since the photo that Preston found a way to leave here, I shake my head and snort. “With Mrs. Vance, that could mean soup, a flashlight, or a felony.”
Marcy points one sheet of paper at me. “Text someone before you go.”
“I am.”
I save the work I’ve done on the article, pack my laptop, and send Ryder a message before I can talk myself into pretending this is too small to mention.
Me: Mrs. Vance summoned me. She has “useful things.” I’ll call after.
His reply comes before I reach the door.
Ryder: Location on. Stay where people can see you. Don’t go into your apartment.
I double check that my location sharing is on in the middle of the sidewalk, rain misting cold against my cheeks.
Me: Bossy, I text back.
The dots appear, vanish, then appear again.
Ryder: I like my woman alive.
I hate the way I love how he called me his.
The drive to the apartment building is too normal for how abnormal my life has become lately.
Traffic moves through wet streets. A delivery van idles outside the bakery.
A woman in a yellow raincoat drags a toddler away from a puddle he clearly loves more than she loves dry socks.
The world keeps doing its regular little things while I pull up in front of the building I no longer think of as home.
The brick looks darker in the rain. The first-floor windows sit low and old, with paint flaking around the frames. My curtains are closed two units down. I do not look at my door long enough to picture it cracked open.
Mrs. Vance’s door swings inward before I knock.
She’s wearing a blue housecoat today instead of purple, her hair wrapped in a lemon-print scarf. The cane is in one hand. A grocery tote hangs from the other, sagging with weight.
She inspects the hall behind me, then grabs my sleeve and pulls me inside with surprising strength.
Her apartment smells like peppermint tea, furniture polish, and the powdery perfume she probably bought in bulk when one of the Bushes was president. The TV is on mute. The coffee table has been cleared except for a lace runner and a plate of fresh baked snickerdoodle cookies.
Mrs. Vance drops the tote onto the couch and starts unloading it. “Good. You’re here. I’ve been trying to just add stuff to the bag a little at a time. But I gotta make sure you’re safe.”
Bear spray hits the cushion first. Then a heavy flashlight. A door wedge. A whistle. A personal alarm still sealed in plastic. A roll of duct tape. Things just keep appearing out of the bag like I’m going to run away if she stops.
When she pulls brass knuckles out that she wrapped in a dish towel I think I’m gonna lose it.
I stand beside the recliner with my bag still on my shoulder, staring at the growing pile.
Mrs. Vance points at the bear spray without looking up. “For wildlife or men who act worse than the bear ever would.”
There is no opening for argument. She moves like the subject is handled, using the cane to push the flashlight closer to my bag while she lowers herself into the recliner with a soft grunt.
“You’ll put that in the outside pocket,” she says. “Then you can use it for light or as a weapon too.”
“I don’t think I’m qualified to carry half of this.” I eye the bear spray suspiciously. “Those brass knuckles look dangerous.”
“That man who grabbed you wasn’t qualified to breathe near you, but he managed.”
The words cut the smile right off my face.
Mrs. Vance sees it and reaches for the tea on her side table. Her hand trembles before she gets the cup fully lifted.
I sit on the edge of the couch and pull the flashlight into my lap. It is heavy. Solid. I like the way it feels, like I could save myself if I needed to.
Mrs. Vance watches me test the button against my palm. Bright white light flashes across the rug and catches the framed photos on the TV stand. A younger Mrs. Vance with a man in a brown suit. A little girl with missing front teeth. Three people at a beach, squinting into the wind.
“I saw you before he came out,” she says.
My thumb stills on the flashlight switch.
She stares at the muted TV, not me. “Last week. Through the peephole. You stood there in the hall with that phone in your hand, and you already knew. Women get that look when they’ve been taught to argue with their own fear.
And I’ll be damned if a man ever hurts you or makes you feel that way again”
The room shrinks around the words.
I run my finger over a scratch in the flashlight’s handle and try to find something light enough to say. Nothing comes.
Mrs. Vance unwraps the brass knuckles again with slow, careful hands. “My husband used to say the world calls women dramatic until we’re dead. Then everybody wants to talk about warning signs or what we could do to prevent our own attacks.”
My throat burns.
She holds the metal out, then frowns at it like it has disappointed her by existing. “I don’t recommend these unless you know what you’re doing. You’ll break your hand before his face.”
“That’s comforting.” I snort, but I’m already planning on looking up videos on how to use them effectively.
“I didn’t invite you here for comfort.”
No, she didn’t.
She invited me because last week she saw a man try to drag me through my own doorway, and she answered with a cane before anyone with a badge or a truck could get there.
Because she’s old and sharp and has probably been scared enough in her life to know how to turn my fear into a weapon I can use to survive.
I’m putting the items in my computer bag one at a time while she watches with approval when the first whiff of smoke threads through the peppermint of the tea Mrs. Vance brewed.
I almost miss it.
My head turns toward the door before I really know what grabs my attention. Mrs. Vance follows my stare, her fingers tightening around the arm of the recliner. For a second, the apartment is still around us. Rain at the window. TV flickering silently. Tea cooling beside her.
Then someone pounds down the hall.
A man shouts from farther away, words swallowed by distance and a sudden sharp crack that makes Mrs. Vance flinch and sends my adrenaline into overdrive.
I cross the room fast and stop before I touch the door. Smoke slips beneath it in a thin gray ribbon, curling over the threshold and spreading across the floor.
The handle radiates heat before my fingers make contact and I know better than to touch it.
I step back.
Mrs. Vance is already pushing herself upright, cane scraping against the floor. Her smoke alarm chirps once overhead, weak and insulting, then goes dead.
For half a heartbeat, all I can think about is the article open on my laptop at work. Faulty detectors. Old wiring. Ignored complaints.
Then smoke thickens under the door too fast for any type of natural fire caused by faulty wiring.
My phone is in my hand before I remember reaching for it. I hit emergency call while dragging the coffee table toward the living room window.