Page 44 of Accidental Alliance

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.