Page 11 of Collateral Damage
Silas’s eye twitches, a faint flicker of frustration. “This won’t be forever.”
He sounds so confident. So profoundly sure of himself. And I so desperately want to believe him that he doesn't have to say another word.
I’m already reaching for my coat.
Silas
Last night, the mansion was just an imposing silhouette. This morning, under the stark light of a gray winter day, the scale of it is a tactical disaster. Four full levels of stone and glass. Sixteen thousand square feet of blind spots.
As we walk, Ava gestures toward the neighboring estates—shrouded in privacy hedges and high stone walls—explaining the history of the block, the quiet prestige of Guilford, and how the neighbors mostly keep to themselves. To her, it’s a community. To me, it’s an acre and a half of unmonitored perimeter.
She reaches the path and taps my arm, her voice shifting to a warning. “Watch out for the loose tile.”
I don’t sidestep it. I crouch, pressing my fingers into the stone. It doesn't shift. I lean in closer, squinting. The grout along the edge is a shade lighter than the rest—clean, smoothed, and reset with a precision that borders on surgical. No chips. No cracks.
I straighten, my jaw locking. “Do you have a handyman?”
Her eyes fix on the tile, her breath hitching as the "neighborly" tone vanishes. “Earl… but he said he’d get to it in the spring.”
The realization is a cold weight in my gut. He was back. Working in the dark.
And no one saw him.
I grip her by the elbow and steer her toward the front door. "Inside. Now."
Entering the house only makes the feeling worse. Sixteen thousand square feet is too much vertical separation—a labyrinth of corridors that vanish into stairwells. If I’m with her on one floor, the other three might as well be enemy territory. One man can’t patrol an acre and a half of dense landscaping and still keep eyes on the asset.
The grounds are a sieve. Trees, dark corners, and long fence lines mean someone could watch this place for days without ever being seen. There are too many doors. Front, back, conservatory, basement—every extra entrance’s a problem I can’t stand in front of when things go sideways.
I follow Ava up the winding staircase, close enough to cover her, far enough not to crowd her. Old houses don't just hold secrets; they amplify mistakes.
My pace adjusts. I take the inside line, putting my body between her and the shadows of the landing above.
“Do you mind if I take a look around?” I ask.
Ava nods, her mind already elsewhere. “Go ahead. There’s not a lot to see on the top floors.”
That’s exactly why I take the second floor first.
I clear the rooms in conditioned reflex—handle, hinge, corner. The guest rooms are tombs of undisturbed dust and cedar-scented silence. The bathroom window’s been painted shut, the seal intact.
I pause at the top of the staircase. Below me, a drawer closes. Ava. She’s still packing, completely oblivious.
I reach the third floor, my lungs tightening in the thin, stagnant air. It smells of mothballs and funeral parlors—rolled carpets and coats sealed in plastic like specimens. I don't just enter the final room; I shoulder the door open, watching the gray afternoon light slice across a stripped mattress.
I move through the ritual: checking the corners, the mouth of the closet, the stagnant shadows behind the door. I’m already halfway to the hallway, ready to write the room off, when the light shifts. A metallic glint sparks from the floorboards—a sharp, cold needle of silver that stops me mid-step.
I don't breathe as I crouch. The screws on the A/C unit are too clean—no paint chips, no stripped edges. This hasn't been serviced; it’s been used. On the floor, the dust’s been swept into a faint, telltale arc where the vent’s been swung open, again and again.
I look up. The window above the unit offers a long, unobstructed sightline of the driveway. But the vent angle doesn't point outside. It points down.
A straight shot through the floorboards.
Someone’s been watching her sleep.
I stay crouched by the vent, my pulse a heavy thrum in my fingertips. I don’t want to move. If I stand up, if I walk down those stairs and tell her what I’ve found, the world changes.
I look through the slats one more time. The angle’s perfect. It’s surgical. Whoever did this didn’t just want to see her; they wanted to own the view of her at her most vulnerable.
