"That so," he says.
"Amelia, go play."
She giggles and vanishes into the house. I am going to have a serious conversation with my daughter about appropriate information sharing.
"I wasn't — I mean, I was just—" I take a breath. "The window faces your driveway. It's hard not to notice when you're out there working on your bike."
"Sure." He's definitely amused now, even if his expression hasn't changed much. The shift is subtle — something in the set of his shoulders, maybe. "Hard not to notice."
"I'm not a stalker."
"Didn't say you were."
"I just — I'm new here, and you're literally the only neighbor I've seen, and—" I stop myself. I'm babbling. I never babble.Ryan used to say I talked too much when I was nervous, and I trained myself out of it, and now here I am, word-vomiting all over my very patient, very amused neighbor. "I'm going to stop talking now."
"Okay."
"Thank you for the groceries."
"Anytime."
He walks back to his driveway. I watch him go — the easy way he moves, unhurried, confident — and then I force myself to turn around and go inside before I make this any worse.
The eggs. Right. I need to clean up the eggs.
It takes me twenty minutes, a hose, and a scrub brush to get the driveway clean. By the time I'm done, Diesel has gone inside and the streetlights are starting to flicker on.
Amelia's in her room, playing with the stuffed animals that made the move with us. I start putting groceries away, trying not to think about the way he looked at me. The way he said hard not to notice, like he knew exactly what I was doing and didn't mind.
That's dangerous. Looking is one thing. Him catching me at it is something else entirely.
Diesel doesn't seem like Ryan. Nothing about him does. But I thought Ryan didn't seem like Ryan, once upon a time.
I finish the groceries. Make dinner — mac and cheese from a box, because that's the kind of mom I am right now. Amelia eats, does her reading, brushes her teeth, and climbs into bed. I read her a chapter of her current book, kiss her forehead, and leave her nightlight on the way she likes it.
It's not until I'm in the kitchen making tea that I remember my phone buzzed at the grocery store.
I fish it out of my pocket. One text message, from a number I know by heart even though I deleted the contact months ago.
Ryan.
"Heard Amelia's struggling at school. Maybe this move wasn't the best idea for her. Something to think about before the custody review."
My blood turns to ice.
Amelia's only been at her new school for a week and a half. She's fine. Adjusting, maybe — making friends takes time — but fine. There's nothing for Ryan to have "heard."
Unless someone's watching. Unless someone's reporting back to him.
Unless he's already here, already circling, already finding ways to make me doubt everything I've built.
I set the phone down on the counter and stare at it.
Two weeks. I've been in Tucson for two weeks, and he's already found a way back in.
CHAPTER 2
DIESEL
