Page 2 of Collateral Damage
See you on Friday.
Carla
I rub my tired eyes, pushing down the emotion—pushing down how much the simple kindness threatens to undo me.
Since my siblings left me to manage the Manor alone—with Dad gone and Mom unable—it’s pathetic that my childhood housekeeper is the closest thing to family I have left.
I pull open the freezer and retrieve a homemade frozen lasagna. My vision blurs as I peel back the lid, and I blink hard against tears I know are just fatigue layered with anxiety.
Nothing more.
Outside, the security light flares to life over the backyard, and the lasagna slips from my usually steady hands, hitting the counter with a dull thud.
Trembling, I edge toward the back door, peering through the glass. Nothing but the terraced garden, the stone path winding toward the conservatory, the sleeping hedges dusted with snow.
My hand hesitates on the door handle. Every instinct screams to leave it. Lock the door. Go upstairs.
But I can’t. I refuse to let fear dictate my actions.
I unlock the back door and step into the frigid air, squinting. A single black feather lies just beyond the threshold on the terrace stones. Beside the frozen flowerpots, more feathers shift in the breeze.
Belatedly, I make the connection.
A starling.
One of the reasons I can’t sleep past five-thirty—even when I’m not on call—must have fallen or flown into a window.
Blinking as snow flutters around me, I take in another half-buried bird.
Then another.
My brain seizes as I count in automatic multiples of two.
Two. Four. Six. Eight. Ten.
Ten dead starlings. In at least an inch of snow. Snow that only started falling three days ago.
They didn’t fall. They didn’t fly into anything.
Their necks are twisted at angles that make my stomach turn.
I step back, dizziness washing over me as his voice slices through the horror.
“You look tired, Doc. Something keeping you up nights?”
“I sleep fine, Reagan. It’s just the starlings outside my window.”
“Oh yeah? Give me your address. I’d be happy to take care of you—and any problems you have.”
“You know I can’t give out personal information. Now… let’s return to the neurological symptoms you reported—the headaches, the trouble focusing, the sleep issues. That’s why you’re here.”
The memory slams into me. I’d been so careful—so professional—but I gave him something. A detail. Something real.
The starlings. My bedroom window. My sleep.
He remembered every word.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
