She opens the driver's door, then pauses. Looks back at me. "Your hands—"
"Are fine."
"Danny—"
"Joanna." I step closer. Not threatening. Just close enough that she has to look up to meet my eyes. "Go home. Get some sleep. I'll see you at my next fight."
She nods slowly. "See you then."
She slides into the driver's seat and starts the engine. It turns over rough, coughing before it catches. She puts it in reverse, and I step back, watching as she pulls out of the spot and heads for the exit. I stand there until her taillights disappear into the night.
Only then do I turn and head for my own truck. My hands are throbbing now. Swollen and stiff. I'll definitely need ice tonight. But all I can think about is the way Joanna's hands were shaking. The red marks on her arm. The exhaustion in her eyes.
And the fact that my next fight feels like a lifetime away.
Chapter 4 - Joanna
The drive home feels longer than usual.
My hands are still shaking on the steering wheel, and I can't tell if it's from the man who grabbed me or from Danny walking me to my car. Maybe both. Probably both.
The streets are empty at this hour. Just streetlights and the occasional car passing in the opposite direction. My sedan makes a concerning rattling noise whenever I go above forty, so I keep it slow. Steady. The heater's broken, has been for months, and I pull my hoodie tighter around myself.
Danny had stood there watching until I drove away. I'd checked my rearview mirror twice. He didn't move. Just stood in that parking lot like some kind of sentinel, hands at his sides, that massive frame backlit by the warehouse lights.
Making sure I was safe.
Mrs. Patricia Morrison lives three blocks from my apartment. She's sixty-eight, widowed, and has become my lifeline since we moved to Blackwater Falls. She watches Daisy on fight nights, usually just two or three nights a week, and refuses to take more than twenty dollars a night despite me trying to pay her more.
*"Nonsense,"* she always says. *"That girl's an angel. It's my pleasure."*
I pull up outside her small house and kill the engine. The porch light's still on. She always waits up until I text her that I'm here, no matter how late it gets.
I grab my phone and type: *I'm outside. Be right in.*
The front door opens before I'm halfway up the walk. Mrs. Morrison stands there in her bathrobe, gray hair in curlers, smiling warmly.
"How was work, dear?" she asks as I step inside.
"Fine. Busy." I don't mention the grabby drunk or the terrifying fighter who saved me. "How was Daisy?"
"Perfect, as always. Went down at eight-thirty without a fuss. I read her three stories." Mrs. Morrison leads me toward the guest room. "She asked about you, of course. Wanted to know if you were having fun at the gym."
Guilt twists in my stomach. "What did you tell her?"
"That Mommy was working very hard so you two could have a nice home." She pats my arm. "Don't look so worried, Joanna. She's fine. Happy. Loved."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
The guest room door is cracked open. I push it wider and my heart immediately settles. There she is. Daisy. My whole world. She's curled up under Mrs. Morrison's handmade quilt, her favorite stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest. Her dark blonde hair is spread across the pillow. Her face is peaceful, lips slightly parted.
Three years old and already the strongest person I know.
I gather her into my arms. She stirs, makes a small sound, but doesn't wake. Just curls against my chest like she belongs there. Which she does. Always.
"Thank you," I whisper to Mrs. Morrison. "For everything."
"Anytime, dear. You know that."