Page 7 of The Right Kind of Wrong

The loud, angry beeping continued, and she finally realized what the sound was. The smoke alarm.

Her first thought was one of panic, and she took a cautious step toward their house. Should she go in? Holler from the porch?

It was probably fine. Smoke alarms went off all the time.

Except that she’d seen toys outside in the week since she’d moved in. A child’s bicycle with the training wheels still on, that moved to different areas near the porch depending on the day. The remnants of sidewalk chalk on the concrete slabs running down the street.

Her feelings on being the wrangler of the festival’s Foam Frenzy aside, Blake loved kids. She had been planning to have her own house full of them one day, in fact. Regardless of the reality of that dream, she couldn’t simply walk away until she knew that everything was okay.

Still, she didn’t move.

Instead, she waited another few seconds, the three loud, repeating beeps maintaining their cadence, begging for attention.

Until recently, she wouldn’t have thought of herself as an uncertain person. She’d managed a four-thousand-square-foot home and made it look easy. And she’d wrangled Noah’s busy social calendar, which, as the vice president of one of the largest alcohol distributors in Texas, was no small feat. Tack on, while she was at it, that she’d chaired or organized dozens of community events in Cypress Falls, with varying degrees of help from anyone to get them done.

At this time last year, she was hosting parties filled with state senators, a who’s who of the notable names in Texas when it came to policy, and she’d done it all with a smile on her face and any amount of notice, short or long, to make it happen.

She took another step toward the house and shook her head, deciding something in that moment. She wouldn’t let Noah take this from her, too—the confidence in herself and her decision-making.

Before she could overthink it, she walked up to her neighbor’s door and called inside. “Hello? Is everything okay in there?”

Through the screen, she couldn’t see anyone in the living room, so if they were passed out or injured, it wasn’t there. She chided herself again, resisting the urge to smack herself on the forehead. That was an insane thing to be thinking.

But, given the way her own life had imploded so quickly, it was hard not to see danger, real and metaphorical, around every corner.

“Not a good time,” a woman yelled from inside, her voice full and throaty even as it bordered on what sounded like anxiety.

Although it wasn’t this woman’s fault, it was about to become her problem that Blake had had enough of feeling ignored. She was just trying to be a good neighbor. Anyway, it wasn’t like she wanted to listen to the alarm blaring all night, which seemed to be the way things were trending if this woman’s inability to turn the device off was any indication.

“I’m coming inside to help,” she called, placing her bag of groceries on a worn rocking chair next to the door. It was a Texas staple if she’d ever seen one, with sun-faded wood and a look that let Blake know exactly the type of creak it would make if she sat in it.

She opened the door, and the burst of air-conditioning that hit her felt like she’d been plunged into the most glorious pool imaginable. Her skin pimpled, and she suddenly forgot about the dirt and grime coating her body. Hell, she wouldn’t even care if it was permanently stuck to her skin as long as she got to keep feeling the sweet, sweet relief of the cold air.

Focus, she reminded herself.

The layout to her own house was the same, but that was where the similarities ended. This house was beautifully remodeled, with hardwood floors, walls painted in colors that shouldn’t work together but somehow did, and comfortable-yet-expensive-looking furniture that brought the entire living room together.

The threadbare carpet in her living room—and bedroom, for that matter—better be taking notes.

It was a clear shot from the living room back to the kitchen, which faced the rear yard, and she moved decisively.

The woman was using a broom to try and poke the smoke alarm while a young girl, about five or six if Blake had to guess, stared in fascination as the scene played out.

Clearly, the smoke alarm was winning.

“Need a hand?” She stepped into the kitchen then, sending two sets of surprised and similar-looking eyes turning in her direction.

The woman’s hair was up in a messy bun, holding back wild curls that seemed intent to escape if given the slightest chance. The frantic back and forth movements she was making gave Blake the impression they may get their wish soon.

“Why are you in my house?” the woman asked, a harsh edge in her voice as she took a step closer to the little girl. This was not at all how people here often talked to one another, even if they were just playing at behaving pleasantly.

Blake looked between them, realizing that she may have actually misstepped in a stand your ground state. She could have been facing the sawed-off end of a shotgun instead of an angry, overprotective mom.

But, honestly, same difference.

She held her hands up and took a step closer to the smoke alarm. “I’m your neighbor, Blake. I heard beeping—or I suppose I heard that the beeping wasn’t stopping—and I was just trying to figure out if I could help.”

“We’re fine,” the woman gritted out, still close enough to give the smoke alarm another jab with the end of the broom.