Page 39 of The Cul-de-Sac War

Shovels.

An earthquake rumbled the ground beneath her feet, the pounding growing louder and louder, jars, pajamas, shovels all falling into the growing cracks in the earth.

Quaking.

Shaking.

Knocking her head against the—

Bree’s eyes popped open while she jerked up to sitting. Evie had a death grip on Bree’s arm and was shaking her like a rag doll.

“I’m up! Stop!” Bree hissed.

Bree pushed Evie, who currently looked like a frightened owl in her horn-rimmed glasses. Bree pointed to the bed and whispered, “Sit,” then reached behind the bed and pulled out her baseball bat.

Evie sat.

She hated when Evie did this.

At least twice a month Evie’s Apple Watch started vibrating, alerting her that some intruder had set off the motion detector above the front door. Some leaf, or squirrel, or sturdy gust of wind. The first time it happened, Bree realized exactly why Evie had lived with Nana for so long. She loved Nana, sure. Who didn’t? But Bree could guarantee it was also because Evie didn’t want to live alone.

Bree knew Evie would morph from her night-terrified self back into her grumpy self as soon as she gave the all-clear. Bree strode through the living room, not bothering to tiptoe or avoid creaking floorboards. She disarmed the security system, then started at the top door lock and worked her way down, undoing the chain and turning the two deadbolts. She turned the lock on the handle and then twisted it open, ready to be met with nothing but the black, quiet evening.

What Bree did not expect was the black figure hovering six inches from her nose, a weapon over his shoulder.

“Whaaaa—” She yelped and in one motion raised the bat and swung.

The figure hollered and stumbled backward. He went down on the porch step, and after a couple attempts to catch himself, tumbled on his backside and knocked a pot sideways with his head.

The shovel clattered beside him.

Bree lifted her hand to her lips, trying to suppress the twitch as the shock, then realization, relief, and finally hysterical chuckles gave way. “I’m sorry. I just—”

Chip looked up at her and shook the dirt off his hair.

She watched the particles drift from his head, then laughed again.

“Like the view?”

“You know, I’ll admit. It’s pretty funny from this angle.”

His frown deepened. His voice held little humor. “Line’s moved. Now tell me your secret.”

She extended a hand to help him up, but he ignored the gesture and pulled himself to standing.

She glanced in the direction of the median between their cars, where the streetlamp showed the line of freshly turned dirt and, of course, the dog.

By the stroke of midnight, she had said after all. A deal was a deal.

“Fine. Here it is. Mr. Richardson won’t hire any contractor who can’t demonstrate he’s as talented with a paintbrush as he is a hammer. If you want that Barter job, you’d better brush up on your art skills.” She raised a brow toward the job that should’ve taken far less time. “And maybe line-moving skills.”

“He wants a contractor who is also an artist?” he repeated, rubbing his head thoughtfully as he took in this new information.

She turned on her heels.

“Good night, Chip.”

Bree smiled to herself as she shut the door, turned the three hundred locks, got Evie her warm milk—like the toddler she was—and coerced her back into bed.