When the Uncle Steps In

Lightning split the August sky open.

Black clouds rolled in fast, and rain hammered the pavement like it had a grudge against it.

Florence Rivers walked alone down a dark road, umbrella in hand, the only person out in the middle of all that fury.

She'd been stepping through puddles long enough that her toes had gone completely numb.

The streetlights on this stretch had been out for two days. The whole road was swallowed in darkness.

Then she heard it — footsteps behind her. Barely there, but unmistakable.

Every muscle in Florence's body locked up at once. Her fingers tightened around the umbrella handle until her knuckles ached, and she picked up her pace.

The footsteps behind her picked up too.

Heavy. Deliberate. A grown man, and a big one.

Her skin crawled. She broke into a jog, eyes fixed straight ahead, too scared to look back.

With shaking hands she dug out her phone and called Frederick Ashton — her fiancé, the first person she thought of.

It rang and rang.

Behind her, a man's low, rough cough cut through the rain.

Tears blurred Florence's vision. She blinked them back, silently begging Frederick to pick up. Please. Please pick up.

The call was almost about to drop when the line finally connected — noise spilling through from the other end, voices and music all tangled together.

"Frederick — someone's following me. I'm scared. Can you — can you come get me?"

She hadn't expected rain when she left. She'd stood outside the mall for nearly an hour trying to get a cab and finally given up and started walking.

Inside a private room at a bar, smoke hung thick in the air, the smell of cigarettes soaked into everything. Colored lights pulsed. The whole place reeked of money being wasted on a good time.

Frederick heard her words and paused, fingers stilling on his collar. "It's this late — what are you even doing outside?"

Not concern. Not even close. It came out like an accusation.

Florence wasn't watching where she was going. Her foot plunged into a deep puddle and she yelped, her voice shaking when she spoke again.

"My tablet broke, so I went to the mall to get a new one. Frederick, I'm really scared right now — please, can you come?"

Frederick's brow creased. Before he could answer, the woman pressed close against his side let out a bright, easy laugh that carried right through the phone.

"That street is totally safe. What danger? If something was actually wrong she'd call the cops. Girls are so dramatic."

Florence gripped her phone tighter. Wind drove the rain straight into her face. She felt frozen through, like the cold had reached her blood.

Macy Harper lifted a shot glass toward Frederick with a grin. "Frederick, it's my birthday. You promised you'd be here for it. You don't drink this, you're disrespecting me in front of everyone."

On the other end of the line, Frederick could hear the storm. Something in him wavered.

Macy caught it and pressed harder. "Everyone's watching. You're really gonna ditch the whole group just to go pick someone up? How does that look?"

"Fine, fine. I'll drink it."

One second of hesitation. That was all it took before Frederick chose the party over the woman he was supposed to marry.

Macy watched him throw back the shot and dissolved into laughter. "Now that's what I'm talking about!"

Frederick turned back to the phone, his tone flat and dismissive. "Flora, I've had a lot to drink — driving would be dangerous. Just grab a cab home. I'll cover the fare."

He hung up and tossed his phone aside without a second thought.

"Frederick! Frederick!" Florence's voice cracked, nearly breaking. But the line was dead. There was nothing on the other end but silence.

Frederick was two years older than her. They'd grown up together.

At school, he'd looked out for her. When her parents died and the other kids mocked her for it, he was the one who stepped in — who made the ones who'd hurt her come back and apologize to her face.

When she'd been burning up with fever and lost consciousness, he'd stayed by her side the whole night.

But ever since they'd made things official a year ago, everything had slowly fallen apart.

Frederick had a friend from high school — Macy. She liked to advertise herself as laid-back and easygoing, the kind of girl who didn't bother with female friendships. The kind who only hung out with guys.

The line between her and Frederick had been crossed more than once. Florence had brought it up more than once.

Every time, Macy would stir the pot from the sidelines, and Frederick would never take Florence's side. He'd tell her she was paranoid, that she was making problems out of nothing, that she was acting like a spoiled princess.

They'd fought about Macy more times than Florence could count. And every single time, out of gratitude for everything the Ashton family had done for her, she was the one who backed down first.

The dead call finished what those fights had started. Whatever warmth she'd been holding onto went cold.

She was pulling up the emergency number when a large hand shot out and grabbed her arm — hard. The umbrella flew from her grip. Her bag hit the ground. A bolt of lightning cracked across the sky and for one blinding second, everything was lit up like noon.

She saw him clearly.

He wore a black raincoat. His face was thick and fleshy, his expression greasy and leering. He grinned at her, showing a mouthful of yellowed teeth.

Thunder detonated overhead, loud enough to rattle her skull.

Rain poured down in sheets. The wind screamed. It felt like something monstrous had opened its jaws around her.

"Don't touch me! Get away from me!" Florence swung her phone at his head.

He knocked it out of her hand without effort. It hit the water and sank.

Her summer clothes were already soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to every curve of her body. The man's eyes moved over her, slow and filthy. His grip turned rougher.

"Nobody's coming for you." His voice was thick with excitement. "Just stop fighting and make this easy."

His laughter mixed with the storm. Florence felt herself hit rock bottom. Rain and tears ran down her face together, and she couldn't tell them apart.

He reached for her clothes.

A pair of headlights blazed directly into them.

The man froze. His arm came up instinctively to block the glare.

The car hadn't even fully stopped before the rear door swung open.

The man who stepped out wore a black suit, the kind that cost more than most people made in a month. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his features sharp and striking — the kind of presence that didn't need to announce itself.

He crossed the distance in what felt like no time at all.

He grabbed the man in the raincoat by the collar and yanked. His knuckles cracked with the force of his grip. The veins on the back of his hand stood out like cords. His expression was dark and still, but his eyes — usually cold — were burning with something that looked a lot like murder.

The man in the raincoat had been all bravado a moment ago. Now he looked like he wanted to disappear into the pavement.

The first punch landed square in his face. Blood and something harder flew out together. A kick followed, straight to the gut.

"Aagh — aagh—" The man crumpled, rolling across the wet ground, clutching his stomach and howling like something vital had been knocked loose.