Page 1 of Collateral Damage
One
Guilford, Baltimore, Maryland. Tuesday. 8:46 p.m.
Ava
As I pull into the driveway, falling snow blurs Lindenford Manor into something dreamlike, as if the whole estate rests inside a snow globe.
Normally, the house glows like a beacon at this hour—Carla always leaves the foyer and kitchen lights on when I’m coming home from a trip.
Tonight, it’s dark.
Completely. Every window black. Every room silent.
A cold, sprawling silhouette swallowed by falling snow.
A trickle of fear runs up my spine as I switch off the Volvo and stare at the front door. I force myself to breathe. In. Out. Slowly. Ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous. He’s not going to leap out of the bushes and attack me.
Breathing out a prayer for courage, I grab my purse, open the door, and step onto the driveway. Lord, just get me to the door. Just that far.
Every step feels like an inch. The distance never seemed so far when the house was full of activity and noise and light.
Now it’s just me, Carla, three times a week, and Earl, who manages the garden and tries to keep on top of the maintenance that comes with a historic home.
Hurrying as fast as I can in the dark, careful to avoid the loose tile Earl keeps meaning to fix, I reach the front door, breath huffing, fingers trembling as I push the key into the lock.
I fumble, whisper sharp words of frustration, then shove the door open and slam it behind me, heart pounding. The deadbolt clicks home under my shaking fingers.
Nothing moves inside the foyer. No sound. Not even the rattle and hum of the ancient heating vents.
Carla didn’t just forget the lights. She forgot to switch the heating on for me.
A shudder runs down my spine. Cold. Fear. And the knowledge that I’ll have to go to the basement and switch on the century-old boiler. The basement with its iron door that locks from the outside.
I square my shoulders. I’m the one people come to when the brain misfires—when memory, perception, and cognition fall apart. I don’t get rattled by dark houses or my own imagination.
Even if my hands won’t stop shaking.
Fresh resolve fueling me, I punch in the alarm code on the flashing panel—each beep too loud in the stillness—and force myself across the hallway, flicking on the foyer lights and blinking as the chandelier blazes to life, half blinding me.
My boot heels clip across the black-and-white tiles as I head into the kitchen, flipping switches as I go. Every room. Every light. Sound and illumination and the illusion of safety.
The house unfolds the way it always does after Carla’s been through—the marble foyer gleaming, the grand stairwell polished to a soft sheen, the mahogany banister free of fingerprints.
In the dining room, the antique wallcovering glows softly; the paneled library doors stand open, their brass handles buffed, the faint citrus oil she uses on the built-ins still lingering in the air.
Nothing looks wrong. Nothing disturbed. Nothing out of place.
Which somehow makes the earlier darkness feel worse.
A hastily scrawled note sits on the marble countertop. Carla’s handwriting—and memory—have been getting steadily worse over the years. A sure sign of cognitive decline, I’ll need to discuss with her at some point.
Ava,
Earl said he won’t be able to get rid of the starlings outside your bedroom until next week. Perhaps you could sleep in one of your siblings’ old rooms?
The larder and refrigerator have been stocked.
I’ve also cooked a chicken and frozen meals. Please eat when you get home. You must not neglect your own health, or you’ll be no good to others.
