Page 32 of Collateral Damage
A deer stands at the edge of the clearing, maybe thirty yards away. Young buck, small antlers, completely still except for the occasional flick of his ears.
Ava's entire face transforms. The clinical distance she held while shooting evaporates. "Oh my goodness," she breathes, barely audible. "He's beautiful."
The wonder in her voice settles in my chest, heavy and dangerous. It’s a weight I’m not equipped to carry. She's not moving, barely breathing, like she's afraid he'll vanish if she does. Her hand is still on my arm, fingers tight through my jacket, and I don't think she realizes.
The deer takes a tentative step closer, then another. Ava makes a small sound—pure delight—and I find myself watching her instead of the animal.
She's smiling like a kid on Christmas morning. Eyes bright, completely unguarded, all the fear and tension from the past days gone. Replaced by sweet, genuine joy over a deer in the snow.
She doesn’t move when a fawn steps into the clearing behind him. She just watches it, quiet and intent, like the moment’s something fragile she doesn’t want to break. Snow is caught in her hair, her breath pale in the cold, her attention fixed on the animal and nothing else.
“Beautiful,” I repeat.
When she meets my gaze, I pack the moment away, sealing it tight behind the walls I’ve built to keep myself in line.
Ava
From where I’m perched at the kitchen table, I take a slow, deliberate bite of the cinnamon roll and let out a low moan of pleasure. It’s warm, gooey, fluffy, and tastes of high-end cinnamon and dark sugar—the kind of quality I’ve only ever found in boutique bakeries in Guilford, not in a cabin in the middle of nowhere.
The corner of Silas’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t say a word as he pours himself a coffee. I’ve spent my career categorizing people by their cognitive functions, but Silas is a study in conflicting expertise.
"These are incredible," I say, my voice carrying a touch of genuine disbelief. "I have to ask—how does a man in your line of work learn to bake like this?"
Silas pauses, his hand resting near the edge of the counter. The hard, disciplined line of his shoulders doesn't relax, but his expression shifts slightly. "My mother," he says, smiling, "She grew up in a house where everything was made from scratch. I spent most of my Saturday mornings as a kid covered in flour while she talked me through the science of it."
"She sounds like she knew what she was doing.”
"She was patient," he says quietly, a small, ghost of a smile touching the corner of his mouth. "Took me fifty attempts to get them right."
I let out a small, huffed breath of a laugh. "Fifty! I would have quit at ten!"
He turns his head, his gaze meeting mine. "A Hightower never quits."
My heart stutters, a sharp contrast to the steady rhythm of the falling snow outside.
Swallowing, I turn toward the window, the warmth of the sugar still lingering on my tongue. Beyond the glass, the world’s being erased. The snow’s falling so thick now that the trees have dissolved into a grey, indistinct haze.
Beautiful. Isolating. Terrifying.
My phone chirps in my pocket, and the fragile stillness of the morning shatters.
Silas is across the room before I’ve even cleared the lock screen. He doesn't say a word, but his presence is a heavy, silent weight beside me as I check the number, then press the phone to my ear.
“Dr. Morrison? This is Janet from Greenfield. I’m calling about your mother.”
The temperature in the room seems to plummet. "Is she alright? Did someone?—”
I can’t bear to say the name. If Reagan somehow got inside…
"She had a fall this morning. Nothing catastrophic, but we're taking her to get an X-ray as a precaution. Her hip and wrist. She seems okay, but protocol requires?—"
"I'm coming." The words are a reflex, a phantom limb of a life I can’t live until he’s stopped. "I'll be there in?—"
The sentence dies in my throat.
I look at the buried driveway. I look at the white nightmare swallowing the world outside.
"Dr. Morrison?"
