Page 30 of The Cul-de-Sac War

She threw her hands in the air. “It’s different! You know what I mean!”

On the second floor, Russell began scratching against the hardwood. Then came the sound of a tornado blowing down the stairs.

Bree ran toward Chip, grabbed him by the shoulders, and threw herself behind him.

From under the hood she had pulled over her head, her muffled voice cried out, “See! See! The murder dog wants me!”

Ignoring Ashleigh, Russell hit the bottom stairs and skidded across the floor toward Bree like a kid in ice skates. Even from a distance, Chip could see the foot-long drool on both sides of his slackened jaw. Chip squatted, and when Russell was just hitting the kitchen, he pounced.

He struggled mightily with Russell’s collar as he moved toward the door to the back porch. “That’s it, boy. Time for a nice run, huh? A nice”—Chip struggled to push the door open—“long”—the door opened, and he used every muscle in his body to push the dog outside. He slammed the door and turned. Chip put his hands on his hips, smiling at his success. “Run.”

Russell’s huge body lunged against the door. It quaked.

Chip turned the lock.

He heaved a sigh and turned back around. “There. Now. Where were we?”

What he saw when he turned around, however, was not a woman. It was a ball, a giant blue ball on the floor beside the unfinished cabinets, a jumble of downy, deep-blue quilting.

He stepped closer.

The ball didn’t move.

He squatted next to it.

“Um . . . Bree?”

Nothing.

“Hey. Bree.”

He reached out with tentative fingers and touched the ball’s surface.

Bree exploded out of her defensive crouch. Her eyes were as fiery as he’d ever seen them. “I want that fence moved. You put it on my side and I need that fence moved.”

Her voice had taken a desperate turn.

He sighed. Rubbed the stubble of his chin.

It was time to get real.

“Do you know what you’re asking? It took me a full day to get the fence installed.” He motioned to the rooms around him, all empty but for the bare essentials. “And look around. Does it look to you like I have the time or money to dig up the driveway, again, to move it a couple of feet?” He stepped over to the light switch and flipped it up and down. Of course, it did nothing. “What’s more important here: running electricity or having a fence moved twelve inches?”

“The fence moved twelve inches,” she answered.

He paused, seeing the lack of sympathy in her eyes.

Ashleigh still stood in the doorway, holding out her phone. She pointed to it as if to say, Just give the nod. I can have the police here in five.

He glanced back to Bree. As with all things regarding his new neighbor these past weeks, he was going to have to do this the hard way.

He tried once more to pull a little understanding from her. “Honestly, Bree. It’s just a dog.”

“Just a dog who is trying to kill me.”

“Look,” Chip began. “I know it may not be convenient”—her brows rose and he forged on—“but technically, that fence is within the bounds of my property. And he needs that space. As you are well aware, my lot doesn’t grant much yard as it is. What am I supposed to do, move it over so he can have five feet to roam in? He’s practically five feet long himself!”

“I’m well aware of his size,” she said, pointing to the dried mud marks on the shoulders of her parka. “But if you’re so keen on him having some space, you should find him another house to live in.”