32. Alex
ALEX
I hear the cough while Preston is gone.
At first, I think it came from me. My throat still feels scraped raw from the fire, and whatever he used to knock me out has left everything thick and slow enough that I don’t trust what I hear anymore.
I stop twisting my left wrist beneath the restraint and hold still, listening past the faint mechanical hum somewhere deeper in the building.
The sound comes again.
A cough, followed by something scraping across concrete.
My heart starts beating harder.
“Mrs. Vance?”
I keep my voice low because I have no idea where Preston went or how far away he is. Nothing answers for several seconds, and I’m already telling myself I imagined it when a muffled voice comes through the wall behind me.
“Alexandra?”
Every breath leaves me at once.
I close my eyes and nearly laugh from the relief of hearing her voice, but the sound catches somewhere painful in my chest instead.
Preston lied. Mrs. Vance is alive, close enough that I can hear her through the wall, which means coming here wasn’t completely pointless yet.
“I’m here,” I whisper, working my wrist again. “Are you hurt?”
“Nothing that man won’t regret if I get my hands free.”
A weak, shaky laugh slips out before I can stop it. Of course that’s her answer.
The restraint has been rubbing the same spot since I woke up, and the skin there is slick enough now that I can rotate my hand farther than I could before.
Pain shoots through my thumb when I pull, but I keep going until the pressure becomes too sharp and I have to stop.
I’m still testing the angle when footsteps sound in the hallway.
I straighten as much as the chair allows.
Preston comes back carrying a red gas can.
The sight of it wipes away what little relief I had.
He sets it beside the worktable without looking at me, then reaches into his pocket for a pair of work gloves. Everything about the movement is casual. Prepared. He pulls one glove on and adjusts the cuff while my eyes stay on the gas can.
A dozen pieces from the last few weeks move closer together in my head.
Wire cutters. Electrical tools. Work gloves. Gas cans.
The first apartment fire, where faulty wiring was blamed before anyone seriously looked for an accelerant that might have been at play.
The breaker at my building that somehow only affected the power in my apartment.
The smashed motion light. The man near my apartment that was carrying a toolbox that didn’t belong to the maintenance company.
Mason Street, with its broken alarms and years of electrical complaints.
Mason Ridge.
Preston glances up and catches me staring.
His mouth curves slightly. “You figured it out, like the smart little reporter that you are.”
I look from him to the gas can. “The fires.”
He finishes pulling on the second glove, taking his time before answering. “You always were better when you had all the pieces in front of you.”
My stomach twists.
I keep one hand still while I work the other beneath my sleeve. “You started the first one.”
“I needed to know what people would see, and how they’d react to a piece of their precious town being burnt to a crisp.”
The simplicity of the answer makes my skin crawl.
Preston walks to the shelves and moves several things aside, checking whatever he has arranged there without explaining it. I don’t need him to. The old maintenance building already smells like dust, damp concrete, and years of neglect.
I remember the reports spread across Ryder’s dining room table that I was trying to figure out the angle for. Failed inspections. Electrical problems. Complaints that went unanswered long enough to become background noise.
“You wanted them to blame the buildings.”
He looks over his shoulder. “They were already blaming the buildings. All that work you put into your article should tell you that.”
The restraint shifts another fraction over my thumb.
I keep my face still.
Preston returns to the table and picks up one of the photographs he showed me earlier, Ryder standing outside Lucy’s with my car right there.
He looks at it before setting it down again.
“Nobody asks too many questions when an old building burns. They complain about landlords. They talk about wiring. Maybe somebody gets fined. Then another story comes along and takes away the attention of the public.”
I think of the articles I wrote. Every conversation with tenants. Every ignored alarm and overloaded circuit I put into notes because I thought exposing the problems might make someone fix them.
“You used my reporting.”
“You made it easy, Alexandra. You walked away and tried to pretend that I was behind you.”
Anger comes in hot enough to cut through the lingering fog in my head. “You followed me into buildings I was researching so you could figure out which ones you could burn.”
“I followed you because you left me.”
He says it as if that explains everything.
Maybe to him it does.
Preston picks up the gas can again and carries it toward the doorway behind me. I twist harder against the restraint while his attention is on whatever he’s doing, swallowing the sound that wants to come out when my thumb bends painfully against the strap.
“You really thought Mason Street would kill me.”
He stops.
For a few seconds, all I hear is the faint hum from somewhere beyond the walls.
Then he looks back.
“You weren’t supposed to be able to get that window open.”
The answer leaves me cold.
He knew.
He knew where I was. He knew the window was bad. He knew the alarm barely worked. He knew enough about the building to believe smoke and heat would do the rest before anyone could reach me.
Mrs. Vance coughs through the wall again.
Preston’s face hardens at the sound, but I pretend that I didn’t hear it, too caught up in his actions and explanation.
“You were watching us,” I say.
“I knew you’d go see her. She made herself part of this when she put her hands on me.”
“She hit you with a cane.”
He spits, he’s so angry. “She humiliated me.”
I almost smile despite everything hurting. “That makes it funnier.”
His stare snaps to mine.
I pull my wrist again. “You got your ass handed to you by an eighty year old woman after you went out of your way to make sure that not even I would recognize you in your pathetic little disguise.”
The restraint slips over the widest part of my hand.
I’m not free yet, but close.
Preston sets the gas can down harder than necessary, sloshing some out of the spout, and crosses the space between us. “You still think this is funny?”
“No.” I look up at him. “I think you’re pathetic. Like I just said. I think it’s funny that you’re not man enough to move on. That you had to try and force me to accept you. And then, I think it’s absolutely fucking hilarious that Mrs. Vance kicked your ass.”
His hand catches the back of the chair and jerks it around until the legs scrape across the concrete. My head swims from the movement, but I keep working my wrist while his body blocks his view of my hand.
“You were supposed to die in that apartment,” he says, leaning close enough that I smell coffee on his breath. “It would’ve been clean. Everyone already knew the building was dangerous. Your own articles proved it. Nobody would’ve looked at me long enough to matter.”
“You’re not as smart as you think you are.”
His fingers tighten on the chair.
I keep going because every second he spends staring at my face is another second he isn’t watching my hand.
“You bought the tools. You used burner phones. You followed me everywhere. You sent messages. You left pictures. You broke into my apartment.” I shift my thumb again and feel the strap start to slide.
“You didn’t plan anything as clean as you seem to think.
You left pieces of yourself everywhere because you couldn’t stand the idea that I might not know it was you. ”
Something changes in his expression.
I know that look.
I used to see it right before he reminded me how much easier everything would be if I stopped making him angry.
“That’s what this place is for, isn’t it?” I ask. “Mason Street didn’t work, so you brought me somewhere else everyone already thinks is dangerous.”
“You came here on your own.”
“So you could tell yourself that matters.”
“You stole Ryder’s truck and drove straight to me.”
“For Mrs. Vance. Not to you. And trust me. I made damn sure the trail leads right back to you.”
His face goes blank.
I hear the faint scrape through the wall again and pull one last time.
My hand comes free.
I don’t move it immediately.
Preston turns toward the table, reaching for something beside the photographs, and I slide my freed hand down the outside of the chair. My fingers close around the metal buckle securing my other wrist.
“You’re still doing it,” he says without looking at me. “Making everyone else the reason for what you do. Mrs. Vance. Josh. Ryder. You never take responsibility for anything.”
I work at the buckle with fingertips that barely want to cooperate, keeping my hand hidden against the outside of the chair while Preston rearranges the photographs on the table.
The metal is slick beneath my fingers, and every time I think I have the clasp angled correctly, it slips away again.
I have to force myself not to look down.
Preston has always been good at noticing the second my attention goes somewhere he doesn’t want it.
“You burned an apartment building because I broke up with you.”
His hand pauses over one of the photographs.
For a moment, he doesn’t turn around. When he finally does, the look he gives me is almost offended, like I’ve deliberately simplified something complicated.
“You disappeared.”
The buckle shifts beneath my thumb.
“I left.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Not to you.”
He comes around the table slowly, and I stop moving my hand until his attention settles back on my face.
There was a time when that look would have made me start explaining myself.
I would have tried to make him understand why I needed space, why I was unhappy, why being afraid of the person I loved wasn’t something I could fix by trying harder.
I don’t owe him another explanation.
“You belonged with me,” he says.
My thumb finally catches the edge of the clasp.
I keep my face still.
“That was always your problem, Preston. You thought loving me meant owning me.”
His mouth tightens, and I feel the buckle give another fraction beneath my fingers.
“You always rewrite things so you get to be the victim.”
The irony nearly makes me laugh, but I swallow it. I need him angry enough to focus on my face and not angry enough to hit me before I can move.
“You’re standing in a building you planned to burn after kidnapping me,” I say. “I don’t think I have to work very hard to make you look bad.”
His eyes narrow.
That is when I move.
My freed hand drops to the restraint at my ankle as I throw my weight sideways, taking the chair with me before Preston can understand what I’ve done.
My ankles are still attached to the legs, but the impact twists one of them hard enough that the old metal frame bends.
I kick wildly, using both feet instead of trying to find the buckle, and the chair catches Preston across the shins when he reaches for me.
He swears and stumbles backward.
I drag one leg until the restraint slides over my shoe.
That’s enough.
I leave the other shoe behind and crawl away from the chair, getting one foot underneath me before the room tilts so violently that I have to grab the shelving to stay upright.
“Mrs. Vance!”
“Alex!”
Her voice comes from the hallway to my right.
I move toward it.
Preston catches the back of Ryder’s hoodie before I make it three steps.
The fabric jerks tight across my throat, choking off my breath as he pulls me backward. I twist hard, slipping one arm out of the hoodie, then the other, and leave it in his hands.
For one beautiful second, he looks surprised.
I run.
My balance is terrible, one foot bare and the other still in a sneaker, but I get through the doorway and into the hall. Mrs. Vance calls my name again from somewhere ahead.
I reach the next door before Preston hits me from behind.
My shoulder slams into the wall. I catch myself with both hands and try to turn, but he grabs my hair and pulls me backward.
Pain tears across my scalp.
“Let go of me!”
I drive my elbow behind me and catch something soft enough to make him grunt. His grip loosens, and I turn, swinging without caring where my fist lands.
It catches his mouth.
He stares at me afterward with genuine disbelief.
Blood appears along his lip.
I have enough time to think that was probably a mistake.
Then he hits me.
My back collides with the wall before I register the pain in my face. The building shifts sideways, and I put one hand out automatically because I can’t tell where the floor is anymore.
Preston grabs me before I fall.
“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” His voice has changed completely now. The calm is gone. “You keep pushing until somebody has to stop you.”
I claw at his wrist.
He shoves me away hard enough that I hit the floor this time.
My injured head takes the impact badly.
Light flashes behind my eyes.
I try to get up anyway.
His shoe catches my side before I make it to my knees, and the force rolls me against the wall. I cover my head with both arms and curl inward because there isn’t anything else to do.
“You could’ve stayed,” Preston says somewhere above me. “Everything after that was your choice.”
Another impact lands against my shoulder.
I hear Mrs. Vance screaming at him through the wall.
“You could’ve stopped this at any time, Alexandra.”
I know those words.
Every bruise I hid. Every apology I gave him after he hurt me. Every night I lay awake trying to figure out which part of myself I needed to remove so he would stop finding reasons to punish me.
I lower one arm enough to look at him.
“You’re still blaming me.”
He stops.
Blood tastes metallic against my tongue. Breathing hurts, and my vision refuses to focus properly, but I see his face clearly enough.
Even now.
Even here.
“You’re killing me,” I say, “and somehow you still need it to be my fault.”
His expression twists.
The next hit comes harder.
After that, keeping track becomes difficult.
I know I’m trying to move. I know my hands find the floor and I drag myself toward the hallway because Mrs. Vance is still alive and somewhere close. Sometimes Preston’s voice reaches me. Sometimes the pounding in my head swallows it.
I get farther than he expects.
Maybe only a few feet.
It feels like miles.
He catches my ankle and drags me back across the concrete.
My fingers scrape uselessly against the floor.
Then Preston is above me again, breathing hard and no longer pretending he is anything except the man I always knew lived underneath everything else.
“This is what you made me do.”