Isabella #3
I can see the battle happening behind his eyes.
The thrill of a secret mission, the lure of the promise at the end of the mission, the confusion over me permitting something I have always forbidden.
That instinct inherited from both sides of his bloodline to keep looking closer when something does not make sense is incredible to watch bloom in real-time.
“Okay,” he finally says, though I can tell he is not entirely convinced.
That is fine for now.
At this point, I do not need him to be convinced. I need him compliant.
“Good,” I say, straightening up once again. “Move quickly. Secret mission style.”
At that, a spark of excitement breaks through his uncertainty. He straightens a little, shoulders going back, eyes sharpening as his voice lowers automatically. “Like spies?”
“Exactly like spies,” I whisper back, leaning in conspiratorially.
A tiny grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, some of the tension leaving him, enough that he can play along.
Relief rushes through me so fast, it almost hurts. If I can keep this a game for two more minutes, maybe I can get him inside without him feeling the fear pouring off me like a heatwave.
The fence between the properties is not especially high, but it is high enough that Matteo will need help getting over it.
I have told him a dozen times not to climb it because of the splinters and falling, and because good neighbors do not treat shared fences like playground equipment.
Now my eyes scan the rough wood, already calculating for footholds.
“Ready?” I whisper, lowering myself into a running stance. It feels absurd to crouch there in a stranger’s backyard with my son and turn panic into playacting, but absurdity has no room in the same circle as survival.
He mimics me instantly, his little knees bent and shoulders hunched forward. “Ready.”
I force my mouth away from the tight line it’s fallen into. “Ready… go!”
He takes off ahead of me instantly, sprinting across our next neighbor’s back yard at breakneck speed, his cleats digging into the grass, his arms pumping hard at his sides.
For one split second, watching him run with all that fearless momentum almost feels normal, like we really are just racing for the fun of it.
I cast one last glance around the corner of the brick siding before following after him, my folded chair bouncing against my side. The grass is uneven beneath my feet, soft in some places and packed hard in others.
My foot catches one small divot and for a terrible split second, my balance pitches, my body lurching sideways from the force of my own momentum, but instinct rights me before I can panic.
I keep moving, my pulse slamming so hard, it hurts.
He reaches the fence first. His small hands grapple for one of the horizontal boards nailed lengthwise across the back, using it to haul himself up.
I pause the instant I hit our property line and flatten myself briefly behind the edge of the house, my breath snagging in my throat as my eyes dart back toward the SUV.
It has still not moved, but from here the angle is different. I can actually see through the windshield.
There are two men in the front seat, both of them turned toward the front of our house. Neither of them are glancing down at their phones waiting for something, nor are they talking to each other. All they are doing is sitting and watching.
The sight sends a cold, immediate wave through my body so sharp, it nearly buckles my knees.
They are watching the house.
Not the Thomasons’.
Mine.
Cursing under my breath, I turn back toward Matteo and strip the folded chair off my shoulder and toss it over the side of the fence. It thuds on the ground seconds later.
He already has both hands on the top of our fence and is trying to muscle himself higher, shoes scraping against the boards in desperate, determined little jerks. My hands come up automatically, fingers lacing together to form a step.
“Foot here, baby,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice steady.
He obeys without hesitation, planting one cleat squarely into my joined hands. The spikes dig into my skin uncomfortably, hard enough that I know I will have little half-moon bruises later if I bother to notice them after this.
Right now, I barely feel it, though. All I feel is the awful slowness of every second while those men sit in that SUV facing our front door like hunters waiting for movement.
For one terrible moment, he wobbles. His body pitches sideways, one knee slipping, fingers scrambling for a better grip, and I can already see the disaster in my mind of him falling back and hurting himself.
But then he gets his knee over the top edge and drags himself upward with a grunt of effort, pulling himself up to perch on the top rail like a triumphant little cat.
He glances down at me wild-eyed. “I did it!”
“Good job, baby,” I tell him, and I hear the shaking in my own voice no matter how hard I try to bury it. “Stay right there. I’ll help you get down.”
I climb after him quickly, far less gracefully than he did. My palms catch rough wood, one foot slips, and my sleeve snags on a splintered edge near the top.
I hear the fabric tear, a sharp little rip that would have annoyed me under any other circumstances, but right now, I do not care. I swing down into our yard first, landing harder on my feet than I intend, my knees jolting with the impact.
Then I turn back toward the fence and hold out my arms. “Okay. Jump.”
He drops into me with a muffled grunt. I catch him against my body with a force that knocks me back half a step and gather him close for one long second, one arm wrapped tight around his middle and the other bracing his back, steadying us both.
He laughs a little breathlessly into my shoulder. “That was awesome!”
The innocence of that nearly breaks something in me.
Safely tucked inside our own back yard should feel like relief, but it doesn’t. Not even a little.
All I can think about are those two men in the front seat of that SUV.
There is no doubt in my mind now that our house is being watched.
Why else would they be facing in this direction? We are the only house at the end of the cul-de-sac. Anyone parked there has direct sight of our property.
Matteo shifts in my arms until I finally drop him back down to his feet. His cheeks are a little flushed from running and climbing, his hair still messy from earlier. I brush it back from his forehead, unable to help myself.
“Do I still get extra ice cream even though you were the first one over the fence?” he asks.
For one stunned second, I almost laugh. “Of course, baby.”
I force myself to let him go and lean to grab the folded chair off the ground even though every instinct in me wants to keep him pressed to my chest forever.
He grins and darts toward the back steps, and I follow close behind. I hate how the yard feels exposed despite the fence. I can feel the weight of those unseen eyes even here on the other side of the house.
By the time Matteo reaches the back door, I am already fumbling for my keys with fingers that do not quite want to work. They feel clumsy and distant as if they belong to someone else.
The metal slips once against my skin before I catch it properly. All the while, Matteo is bouncing on his heels beside the door.
“And sprinkles,” he is saying, counting on his fingers now. “And chocolate syrup. And whipped cream. And maybe cookie pieces if we still have them, and if there’s only one cherry, I think I should get it because I scored twice and that should count for extra cherry privileges.”
Under any other circumstance, I would smile and tease him about re-negotiating our terms like that.
Instead, his words wash over me, all of my attention narrowed to the back door and the prickling awareness that danger may already be too close.
When I finally get the key into the lock, there is a slight catch in the mechanism that I am too distracted to notice right away.
I twist it until it finally unlatches, the click of it sounding wrong but something I file away to deal with later.
All I can focus on are the questions circling my mind like a vulture.
Do I call the local police?
Spin some story about a suspicious vehicle loitering close to our property?
Something that would bring a cruiser over here and might buy me time to come up with a plan?
Then again, what good would that do?
Local cops against syndicate enforcers will end only one way. I know how quickly ordinary law enforcement becomes collateral when they walk blindly into a threat they do not understand.
They would arrive thinking what awaits them is trespassing and maybe a domestic dispute involving too much paperwork back at the precinct.
They would not be prepared for men who see violence as nothing more than procedure.
Involving them would only paint a brighter target on our backs. It would create more witnesses and bring more attention to whoever is watching us and escalate things before I can find a way to control it.
I exhale slowly and push the door open at last, stepping aside so Matteo can run ahead of me.
My strategist’s mind is already moving three steps ahead whether I want it to or not, spinning contingencies with the ruthless efficiency I thought motherhood had softened out of me.
If we are being followed, changing routes will do little in the long run. If they know where we live, then this house is already compromised no matter how many deadbolts and locked doors sit between us and whatever threats linger outside it.
We need to leave.
Maybe tonight, maybe even before sunset if I can distract Matteo long enough to pack without making him panic.
We could drive up north, pay cash to sleep somewhere cheap until I can figure out where we can go.
Perhaps to another coastal town on the other side of the country, another alias we will have to live under.
God. How will I get him to understand?