Page 12 of Collateral Damage
I drag in a breath and push back from the vent.
There’s no putting this off.
I find Ava standing by the bed, a stack of sweaters in her arms, looking at a framed photo she hasn’t packed yet.
“Ava,” I say. My voice is too rough, even to my own ears.
She doesn't look up at first. “Did you find more dust? I told you, the top floors are a graveyard.”
“I need you to put the clothes down,” I say.
She turns, her brow furrowing as she takes in my face. The sweaters slide a half-inch in her grip.
I struggle with the words. I’ve delivered death notices to families of fallen soldiers, and this feels worse. This is a different kind of casualty. “Someone’s been inside the house.”
The color doesn't just leave her face; it’s like a light’s been toggled off. “Inside? You mean the alarm?—”
“They bypassed it,” I cut in, stepping closer but keeping my hands visible. I don’t want to spook her, but I need her to hear me. “There’s a vantage point in the third-floor guest room. The A/C vent's been modified. It’s got a direct line of sight into this room.”
I can’t bring myself to say it out loud—what he’s been watching. When she thought she was alone. When she wasn’t.
She doesn't even gasp. She just stands there, her fingers tightening on the wool of the sweaters until her knuckles turn a ghostly white. Her eyes roam the ceiling, the corners, the floorboards, like she’s seeing the house for the first time.
“Look at me.” I wait until her eyes lock onto mine. They’re wide, glassed over with a shock that’s still settling in. “Coat. Keys. Phone. Nothing else matters. We’re leaving.”
She nods, a sharp, jerky motion. “My mother,” she says, her voice suddenly flat. “I have to go to my mother.”
“I’ll call the police when we get there,” I say, already guiding her toward the door.
As we descend the stairs, she relays the directions to Greenfield Memory Care, then falls silent as we exit and climb into the car.
My own thoughts battering at me, I keep my eyes on the mirrors, checking every tail, every vehicle that lingers too long at a red light. Beside me, Ava’s hands are folded in her lap, perfectly still, but her chest is heaving in a rhythm that tells me she’s counting her breaths just to keep from screaming.
She must be replaying the violation—every night she crawled into bed, every time she undressed—wondering if he was there.
Watching.
By the time we pull into the brick-lined lot of the memory care center, Ava doesn't wait for me to open the door. She’s out and moving toward the entrance before I’ve even killed the engine.
Four
Ava
The air in Greenfield Memory Care always smells the same: lavender floor wax and the faint, sour tang of industrial soup. It’s a stagnant smell. It’s the smell of things that aren't allowed to change.
I sign the logbook, my signature a unrecognizable scribble. Behind me, Silas is a wall of dark fabric and heavy silence. He’s an anchor keeping me from floating into the gray afternoon light, but he’s also the reminder.
Reagan was inside my home.
"She gets tired quickly. I won’t be longer than fifteen minutes," I say. My voice sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of a well.
Silas doesn't argue. He just shifts his weight, his eyes already scanning the exit signs and the corners of the ceiling.
I walk down the carpeted hallway, past the framed prints of sunsets and the soft, piped-in piano music designed to keep the panic at bay. It doesn't work for me. My panic’s tucked behind my ribs, a cold, sharp stone that gets heavier with every step.
When I push open the door to Room 212, the afternoon sun is hitting the armchair. My mother’s waiting in her usual spot. She looks up, and for a heartbeat, her face catches the light.
“You’re early,” she says. Her smile’s wide and vacant, a gift meant for someone else.
