Chapter 22 Adam
ADAM
The police station smells like burnt coffee and desperation, which feels appropriate given that I've been here three times this week.
"Mr. Smith." Detective Morales slides another form across the table. "We need you to sign here, confirming your statement about the events at the cabin."
I read my statement again before signing it. "What about the charges? Are they going to stick?"
"The DA is confident. We've got physical evidence, witness statements, and the victim's testimony. Assuming she's willing to go through with the trial—"
"She is." She told her advocate that yesterday. If she needs more support, she knows whom to call.
"Then we've got a solid case." Morales leans back in his chair. "Your lawyer's been helpful coordinating with victims' services. Most of the wealthy guys I deal with are more interested in buying their way out of problems."
"My wife isn't a problem to buy my way out of."
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Fair enough."
Outside, the autumn air feels clean after the staleness of the station. I check my phone, three messages from Daisy, all asking if I'm almost done. I smile despite myself and text back: Leaving now. Still want me to come by?
Her response is immediate: Duh. Also bring coffee. NOT from the station.
I stop at the good place on Fifth Street, the one with the oat milk she likes, and then head to The Margin. It's been a week since the cabin.
"Finally!" Nell greets me at the door, her arms crossed in mock annoyance. "Your wife has been complaining about you for twenty minutes."
"I wasn't complaining," Daisy calls from somewhere behind the stacks. "I was observing. There's a difference."
I hand Nell one of the coffees, I always bring an extra for her now, and follow Daisy's voice to the romance section, where she's shelving books with an efficiency that suggests she's done this for years.
"Hey." I hold out her cup.
"You're forgiven." She takes a sip and sighs like I've handed her a gift. "How was the station?"
"Fine. Cole's still being held. The next hearing is scheduled."
She nods, her expression carefully neutral, but I see the tension in her shoulders ease slightly. "Good. That's… good."
"There's one more thing." I've been rehearsing this conversation in my head for days, trying to figure out the right way to approach it. "You mentioned wanting to feel more prepared. In case anything like this ever happens again."
"I said I wanted to learn to fight." She shelves another book with more force than necessary. "Not the same thing."
"Right. Well, I talked to a self-defense instructor. Ex-military, specializes in women's programs. She's willing to come to the book club, teach a class for everyone who's interested."
Daisy turns to look at me, her expression unreadable. "You want to teach my elderly book club members how to fight?"
"I want to give them the option. And you. Especially you."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then: "Ruth is going to love this."
"I was counting on it."
The class happens the following Tuesday, after Daisy and I get medical clearance for carefully controlled practice and the instructor, a woman named Sergeant Kim who looks like she could bench-press my car, approves the space.
We push the tables to the edges of the store and lay down thick mats in the center, and by six o'clock, the entire book club has assembled.
"I feel like I should be wearing spandex," Bev says, adjusting her cardigan.
"You should definitely not be wearing spandex," Priya counters. "This isn't the eighties."
"The eighties had excellent fitness fashion," Ruth argues, stretching in a way that makes her joints pop audibly. "Those leg warmers were functional."
Sergeant Kim claps her hands to get everyone's attention.
"All right, ladies. And gentleman." She nods at me with a knowing smirk.
"Today we're going to learn some basic techniques for escaping grabs and creating distance from an attacker.
Nothing fancy, nothing that requires years of training.
Just practical skills you can use if you ever need them. "
"Can we learn how to throw a man across the room?" Ruth asks. "Because I've always wanted to throw a man across the room."
"We can work up to that."
"Everyone spread out," Sergeant Kim instructs, gesturing to the mats we've laid out in the bookstore. "I want plenty of space between you. Mr. Smith, you're with me."
"Lucky me," I mutter, and Ruth snorts from somewhere behind me.
Kim turns to me with a professional smile that does nothing to hide the glint of amusement in her eyes. "You're medically cleared for slow, controlled movements only, correct? No hard impacts on that arm."
"That's what the doctor said."
"Good. Then you'll be perfect." She positions me on the center mat. "I'll be demonstrating basic escape techniques using Mr. Smith as my attacker. He's going to grab me, and I'm going to show you how to break that grip and create distance."
"Does he have to look so nervous?" Nell asks. "It's undermining my confidence in the demonstration."
"I'm not nervous."
"You're definitely nervous," Bev says. "You keep checking how thick the mat is."
"That's a sensible thing to check."
"We also checked," Ruth says. "With considerable interest."
Kim clears her throat. "Ladies. Focus." She turns to me. "I'm going to have you grab my wrist. Gently. Remember, this is about technique, not strength."
"Gently. Got it."
"And I need you to keep your forearm clear, away from any contact." She demonstrates the position she wants. "My helpers will assist with your controlled descent when we reach that stage."
"My controlled descent."
"You're going to end up on the mat. But slowly and safely."
"Wonderful."
Ruth cackles. "This is already worth the price of admission."
"There was no price of admission," Priya points out.
"Metaphorically."
Kim checks my bandage again and positions the helpers beside the mat.
"I'm going to end up on my back, aren't I?"
"Almost certainly."
Ruth is practically vibrating with anticipation. "Can I help with the controlled descent?"
"You all can." Kim positions Nell and Priya on either side of me. "When I redirect his momentum, you're going to guide him down. Gently. Think of it like lowering a very expensive piece of furniture."
"I'm furniture now."
"Very expensive furniture," Bev corrects. "She said very expensive."
I grab Kim's wrist as instructed. She talks through the technique (something about using my momentum against me, redirecting rather than opposing) and then suddenly I'm rotating, my feet are going out from under me, and helping hands guide me slowly toward the mat.
I land with a soft thump, staring at the ceiling.
"Beautiful," Kim announces. "Did everyone see how his own forward energy carried him down? I barely had to do anything."
"That was amazing," Nell breathes.
"Can we do it again?" Ruth asks eagerly.
"Many times." Kim offers me a hand up. "How was that, Mr. Smith?"
"Enlightening." I brush off my shirt. "And slightly humiliating."
"Humility is good for the soul."
Priya leans over the edge of the mat and starts narrating like a nature documentary.
"And here we see the male of the species, completely outmaneuvered by superior technique—"
"Priya."
"… demonstrating the natural consequences of assuming size equals advantage—"
"Priya."
She grins, unrepentant. "This is way better than discussing metaphors for emotional intimacy."
Daisy is watching from the edge of the mats, her arms crossed, her expression somewhere between amused and anxious. She hasn't participated yet (Kim said to start slow, let everyone get comfortable) but I can see her filing away every technique, every explanation.
"Your turn," Kim says, nodding toward her.
Daisy hesitates. "I'm not sure I—"
"You don't have to." I'm on my feet now, trying not to look as nervous as I am. "This is supposed to be fun, not stressful."
"It's extremely fun to watch you get bossed around," Nell calls from behind the counter, where she's been filming on her phone.
"Very supportive, thank you."
Daisy bites her lip. Then she steps onto the mat.
Kim walks her through the basics: stance, balance, how to create space with a well-placed elbow. Daisy listens intently, her jaw set with determination, and when Kim asks if she wants to try throwing someone, she looks directly at me.
"Volunteer?"
I step forward without hesitation. "Always."
"Remember," Kim says, positioning Daisy's hands clear of my bandage, "you're not trying to overpower him. You're using physics. Pivot, redirect, let him fall."
Daisy takes a breath. Her hands are shaking slightly, and I want to tell her she doesn't have to do this, that I'll wait as long as she needs, but then her grip tightens, and she moves. Kim supports the descent as I land on the thick mat with an undignified grunt.
"HOLY SHIT!" Bev claps her hands over her mouth. "Sorry. But holy shit."
"Language, Beverly," Ruth says, and then throws her hands up. "Just kidding. That was incredible. Do it again."
Daisy is staring at me on the ground, her expression caught between shock and triumph. "I did that?"
"All you." I'm grinning despite the ache in my back. "That was perfect."
"My turn," Ruth announces, already rolling up her sleeves. She is the smallest person in the room by a foot and change (seventies, barely five feet of retired-ER-nurse menace) and she cracks her knuckles like she's been waiting five years for exactly this.
"Ruth," Kim says, half warning and half delight. "Controlled. He's got the bad arm."
"I've been controlled my whole life, honey." Ruth takes my wrist in one papery hand, plants her feet the way Kim showed us, and looks up at me (way, way up) with unholy glee. "Priya. Are you filming? Get my good side."
"Rolling," Priya confirms, angling her phone.
I have no idea how a woman who asks me to open her water bottles generates that kind of leverage, but Ruth pivots, my own momentum turns traitor, and Kim's steadying hands are almost an afterthought as I go down onto the mat for what has to be the sixth time tonight.
Ruth stands over me: tiny, triumphant, not remotely winded.
"And THAT," she informs the camera, "is why you never underestimate a short woman who spent forty years hauling around unconscious men twice her size."
The whole club loses it. I stay flat on the mat, staring at the ceiling, thoroughly and cheerfully wrecked by the fiercest seventy-something in three counties.
By the end of the session, every member of Dog-Eared Daisy's book club has practiced the movement with Kim, and Nell has enough footage to create what she calls "a masterpiece of comeuppance.
" My pride aches, but I don't care, because Daisy is laughing (really laughing, the kind that makes her whole face light up) and I would let a thousand elderly women flip me onto my back if it kept that sound going.
"Thank you," she says later, when the mats are put away and the store is returning to normal. "For setting that up. For being the punching bag."
"Throwing bag," I correct. "Nobody punched me. Although Ruth definitely wanted to."
"Ruth wants to punch everyone."
"It's part of her charm." I hesitate, then reach into my pocket. "I have something else. Not another class. Just… something I wanted you to have."
She eyes me suspiciously. "If it's another book—"
"It's not a book." I pull out the small velvet box and her eyebrows shoot up. "It's also not a ring. Before you panic."
"I wasn't panicking."
"Your left eye twitches when you panic."
"It does not."
I open the box. Inside is a small, round pendant on a chain, thicker than ordinary jewelry, with a sealed back and a recessed button.
"It's a location pendant," I explain before she can ask.
"It uses a mobile connection, so it needs coverage.
You charge it regularly, and it warns you when the battery is low.
It isn't a guarantee, or a replacement for calling for help.
I thought it might be an option if your phone gets lost." I turn the box so she can see the instructions.
"You set up the account. You choose who can see you, and you can remove them or turn it off. I haven't activated anything."
She takes the pendant, turning it over in her hands. "You're giving me a tracking necklace."
"I'm giving you a choice. You can wear it and share your location with me, or wear it and not share your location with anyone, or throw it in a drawer and never think about it again. It's yours. What you do with it is up to you."
"And you promise you can't turn it on without my permission?"
"I promise. The whole point is that you're in control. I never want you to feel like I'm monitoring you or checking up on you or—"
"Okay."
I blink. "Okay?"
She reads the instructions, sets it up on her replacement phone, then fastens the necklace around her throat, the pendant settling just below her collarbone.
"I like the idea of you being able to find me if something goes wrong.
That's not the same as surveillance. That's just—" She pauses, searching for the right word. "Insurance."
"Insurance," I repeat.
"Shut up." But she's smiling.
I want to kiss her, but I settle for squeezing her hand.
"Thank you," she says again. "For all of it. The class, the necklace, everything. We can retire the no-gifts rule. Just ask first, okay?"
"You don't have to thank me for doing the bare minimum."
"It's not the bare minimum, Adam. It's—" She shakes her head. "You're actually trying. That's not nothing."
Before I can respond, something soft bumps against my ankle. I look down.
Chaucer, the gray demon cat who has hissed at me every single time I've entered this store for the past three months, is sitting on my boot, not near it but on it. His eyes are half-closed, and he's purring.
"What the hell," I say.
Daisy stares at the cat like it's grown a second head. "He's never… Chaucer doesn't do that. He hates you."
"He literally drew blood the second time I came in here."
"I know." She crouches down, peering at the cat like he might be a different animal entirely. "Chaucer? You okay?"
The cat yawns and settles more firmly onto my boot.
"I think—" Daisy looks up at me, a soft, wondering look in her eyes. "I think he's decided you're okay."
"The cat has decided I'm okay."
"He has good instincts."