Isabella #2
He tells me exactly how the first goal happened even though I watched it myself.
He reenacts the second with exaggerated arm motions that nearly make him trip over the curb and informs me with complete certainty that he is definitely making the school team once tryouts start in a few weeks because Coach said his field awareness is getting “super advanced”.
He talks about which of his teammates he thinks might get moved up too, which kid he secretly thinks is terrible at defense, and why goalie is “important but kind of boring to play”.
I half-listen, not because I do not care.
I care so much it physically pains me. Every wonderfully ordinary thing he says hits a spot that is tender inside me.
Each sentence is another reminder of what I am trying to preserve and what is at stake, what I may have to uproot before he even understands why if worse comes to worse.
The street heading back to our cul-de-sac looks exactly as it did this morning. Kids on bikes ride along the side of the road in loose, looping circles, their laughter lifting on the breeze.
Distant lawnmowers rumble somewhere behind the houses in that lazy, suburban rhythm that once felt almost comically absurd to me when I first settled here.
A woman farther down waters her front flowerbeds in rubber sandals and a sun hat and waves when we pass. Wind chimes clink softly from one of the porches.
The whole neighborhood glows with the easy, sun-washed safety I chose it for.
And yet, I cannot stop seeing the danger hiding in the shadows.
When we turn onto our street, the little blue house comes into view at the end of the cul-de-sac, looking exactly as it always does.
The flowers in the pot on the porch are drooping because I forgot to water them yesterday. Matteo’s scooter lies tipped on its side near the front steps.
The door to our mailbox is slightly ajar from the postman stopping by earlier.
It is home.
That word should soothe me. Normally, one look at our little blue house at the end of the cul-de-sac is enough to ease something deep in my chest. Home means Matteo’s sneakers kicked crookedly by the door and grocery lists stuck to the fridge with school magnets.
It means the couch with one sagging cushion and the cabinet that sticks in humid weather and the faint smell of vanilla from the candle I light at night after he falls asleep. It’s the smallest, softest version of happiness I ever trusted myself to want.
Until I see the black SUV parked two doors down.
Everything inside me goes cold. My feet stop without warning.
It is pulled up in front of the Thomasons’ driveway, but not quite angled toward their house.
Something about the placement is wrong. The windows are tinted dark enough to swallow any hint of movement inside, and even from here I can tell the plates are out-of-state.
My pulse spikes the instant I register it, every nerve in my body suddenly alive in the worst way.
The shift is so abrupt, Matteo takes half a step ahead before our joined hands pull taut between us. He turns slightly from the force of it, but I barely notice.
My eyes are too fixed on the SUV, scanning the outside of its frame with frantic precision for anything that looks familiar. Any insignia or subtle customization that might place it with Davide’s convoy from a few days ago.
But I see nothing.
Somehow, that is worse. Because if it matched, at least I would know what I am dealing with.
Matteo’s hand tugs on mine. “Mom?”
His voice is small with confusion, and that sound slices straight through the static roaring in my ears just enough for me to look down at him.
His big honey-gold eyes are turned up at me, open and questioning, his earlier excitement about sundaes already slipping into concern.
He senses the change as he always does. One glance at my face and I know he can feel something has gone wrong even if he has no words for it yet.
I open my mouth to answer him but nothing comes out. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest, it is making it difficult to hear over the sound of it. Each beat lands like a fist against my sternum, drowning out the ordinary suburban soundtrack that should still be here.
It could be nothing. Plenty of people drive large blacked-out SUVs in this city. Plenty of people come up from out of town for weekends in our little town a few miles from the coast.
Maybe the Thomasons have family visiting, their nephew from Boston they always liked to brag about or that friend from Connecticut who does roof contracting.
Maybe the out-of-state plates mean vacation, not surveillance. Tinted windows could mean nothing more than expensive taste and too much disposable income.
None of those explanations settle me. I know too damn well what men in cars like that look are doing when they are waiting for their target to walk by unaware.
My eyes dart to the house beside us, two doors down from ours, that belongs to an elderly couple who rarely come up from the city in spring.
Their front porch is bare, no car in the driveway. No lights on that I can see from here, even through the afternoon glare.
My mind latches onto the layout instantly, tracing the route the way I would have once done with escape routes in banquet halls and side entrances from safe houses—through their side yard, around the back, past the covered pool, cut across the back to our property’s fence line, climb it into our own.
If there is someone sitting in that SUV watching the front of my house, they would not notice us slipping in through the back. There is no visibility of it from the street.
I look down at him once more and force my features into something softer that could pass for being distracted rather than terrified. “Let’s go on a little adventure.”
He blinks up at me, dark brows pulling together. “An adventure?”
The suspicion on his face is almost painful.
He is too smart and observant for a seven-year-old.
Before he can ask anything else, I tug him gently with me and steer us off the sidewalk. We cross the elderly couple’s lawn slowly as if there is nothing strange at all about cutting across a neighbor’s yard in a neighborhood like this one.
The grass is brittle and yellow in patches where the spring rain has not yet fully repaired winter’s damage, and it crunches beneath our feet in dry little snaps that sound far too loud to me.
Matteo is quiet as we make our way around the back of the house, and that silence frightens me almost as much as his chatter would have.
It means he knows enough to feel that something is wrong even if he does not understand why. His hand squeezes mine tighter than before, and I squeeze his right back.
We pass through the back yard, keeping clear of the fenced-in pool. Its dark cover is stretched tight across the water, leaves scattered over it like rust-colored paper.
The whole yard smells faintly of damp wood and the rot of old spring mulch. Wind stirs the branches of the trees overhead. Somewhere nearby, a screen door slams. Every ordinary sound makes my nerves jump.
“Mom, what are we doing?” Matteo finally asks. His voice is low now, no longer airy with that post-game excitement. He keeps close to my side as we move, his steps shorter than mine, his gaze flicking between my face and the direction we are headed.
“We’re playing a game, silly,” I answer, trying to keep my tone light and easy with the kind of teasing warmth he expects from me.
I hate lying to him.
I hate even more that I am getting good at it.
We reach the far side of the yard and come up to the next corner.
I pull both of us gently against the side of the house, flattening our bodies against the brick exterior.
Matteo gives a tiny startled huff but lets me guide him where I want him.
I can feel the roughness of the brick through my sweater sleeve as I lean just enough to peek back toward the street.
The SUV is still there and has not moved an inch. From here I still cannot tell if anyone is behind the wheel.
The windshield catches too much light and the tinted windows are too dark to penetrate this far away. There is no obvious motion coming from inside, no cigarette ember lighting while waiting, no silhouette shifting in the driver’s seat.
It feels ridiculous to be this paranoid.
This town is full of families and weekend visitors and cars that do not belong to my neighbors.
A blacked-out SUV is not proof of anything. If someone from school saw me now, half-hidden behind a neighbor’s house with my son pressed to my side, they would think I had lost my damn mind.
But Davide’s visit has kept every nerve in me humming with old danger ever since.
When I duck back behind the house, I turn toward Matteo and finally let go of his hand so I can grip both his shoulders instead. “Ready for our game?”
He eyes me suspiciously. “I guess...”
I plaster on a bright smile that feels almost cartoonish. “Okay. First one to the back door wins an extra scoop of ice cream.”
His eyes narrow further. He peeks around me toward where our house sits two down from where we are, then looks back at me with all the grave practicality of a lawyer preparing for cross-examination. “What about the fence?”
For one second I could laugh, though not because any of this is funny. It’s because even now with my pulse thundering and the past feeling as if it’s breathing down my neck, Matteo is still Matteo.
Still thoughtful and exact, remembering every rule I ever laid out for him and refusing to overstep those bounds without probable cause.
God, he would make an incredible capo…
“We’re going to climb over it,” I tell him.
His eyes practically bug out of his head. “But you told me you never wanted me to climb on it because it’s dangerous.”
“I know,” I say quickly, keeping my voice soft. “But this is only for our game, okay?”