Page 16 of Trick or Truce


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I pullinto my driveway and put the truck in park.

Before I head inside, I glance at the house across the street in my rear-view mirror and fight the smirk tugging at my lips for the third time today. I can still hear Blondie’s high-pitched scream after she touched the fake spider in her mailbox. It was even funnier when she tore off her jacket as she flailed down the block after the kid tossed the spider at her. I should drop by his house and leave him some of my leftover Halloween candy as a thank you.

As much as I hate to admit it, Noah did good with that idea. I shouldn’t stoke the flames of her troublemaking side, but it was a harmless prank, and it felt good to knock my neighbor off her high horse.

Should I be messing with my neighbor? No.

Should I condone this behavior with Noah watching? Definitely not.

But nothing irritates me more than when people impose parenting advice on others. With Noah’s mom out of the picture, everyone thinks they have the right to tell me how to raise my daughter.

Getting back at Blondie makes me feel better in a fucked-up way.

I exit the truck and stagger up the porch steps, trying to not put any weight on my right leg.

Add sciatica to my I’m-getting-old list.

A small cardboard box sits beside my door—without a label or address.

I grunt as I bend down to pick it up, pins and needles stabbing my leg. I examine the box as I wrap my other hand around the knob on the screen door. But when I pull it open, my hand slips off and I fly backward. I try to catch myself but then I teeter over the top step and end up sprawled out on my front lawn like a starfish, staring up at the sky.

Noah bursts through the door with Romeo on her heels. “Dad, are you okay?”

A pained groan escapes me. “I’m just fucking peachy.”

“What happened?” She runs down the stairs and holds out her hand for me.

Romeo dive bombs me, licking my face like he hasn’t seen me in months. “Get off me. Your breath stinks.”

Noah pulls me to a seated position and plucks the box from the grass. “Who’s this from?”

“Open it.”

She tears open the top flap and gasps. “It’s Mr. Bubbles.”

My teeth gnash together and I glare down at my Vaseline-covered palm.

Well played, Blondie. Well fucking played.

Noah’s eyebrows press together. “Why would she give him back if we didn’t return her bowl?”

“It was a diversion.” I push off the ground, ignoring the shooting pain in my back, and jerk my head. “Come on. And get your dog inside before he spots a squirrel.”

Inside, I head to the kitchen and snatch the dish towel off the oven handle, wiping off the residue from my hand. “Did the doorbell ring while you were home?”

Noah shakes her head as she digs into the freezer for my ice pack. “I took a shower when I got home. Why?”

I slip out my phone and pull up the Ring camera footage, scrolling to three-thirty. “Here she is.”

Blondie’s face fills the screen at three-thirty-four. She’s holding the box up to block her right hand. To anyone else, she looks like she’s ringing the doorbell to deliver a package. But I know what she’s really doing.

Noah leans in. “She rang the bell?”

“Nope. She greased the doorknob and left.”

Noah’s hand clamps over her mouth and her eyes widen.

Yeah, she’s good.I was so fixated on the box that I didn’t notice the globs of Vaseline on the doorknob.

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