Page 4 of Collateral Damage
Nothing pinging my instincts. Just cold, stranded people trying to survive a bad night.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “Just waiting at the airport. What can I do for you?”
She clears her throat. Twice. “I have a hypothetical situation. If someone was needing personal… uh… protection, and possibly advice on a better security system where would they start?”
Internal alarm bells start to chime in every cell of my body. “That depends on whether this hypothetical situation gives someone reason to fear for their safety.”
She pauses. Hesitates just long enough for me to get my answer.
I push off the column and move fast toward the carousel, thanking the Lord when my Pelican case finally appears. I snatch it up and cut through the crowd lining up at the Hertz desk.
“Call 911 right now. Tell them you think someone may be inside. Go to a room you can lock and stay on the line with the dispatcher. I’m on my way.”
Two
Ava
Eyes on the clock as it shifts another digit, I bump the heater up on the dash and rub my hands together. Despite my cashmere-blend coat and leather gloves, I can’t warm up.
The police left an hour ago. They swept the house top to bottom, but didn’t locate anyone. Their parting advice was the same as last time Reagan stepped onto my property—stay somewhere else tonight.
Only this time, I can’t. Silas Hightower is en route. And I’m not going to call him back and be responsible for him talking and driving. I’ve treated too many patients whose lives changed because of a moment’s distraction on the road.
So I stay where I am—parked across the street, engine running, watching my own house from a distance.
A chill runs down my spine. Is this what he does? Where he sits and watches? Under the old maple tree, beside the fence—hidden from view.
None of the security cameras has ever picked him up. Not one of my neighbors has mentioned seeing him.
He’s a phantom. Not a single footprint left in the snow.
My fingers twist in my lap as I replay the conversation with the police until it’s burned into my working memory: “We’ve documented the birds,” “no one located inside,” “no signs of forced entry,” “stay somewhere safe until your friend arrives.”
Like last time when he put my trash cans back after collection, or the time before that when he salted the pavement outside my front steps, they’re powerless.
A yawn overtakes me, and I know it’s not just fatigue pulling at me. I’ve seen enough acute stress reactions to recognize one when it’s staring back at me.
The shaking, the shallow breaths, the way sound feels too sharp—classic signs. My nervous system has decided we’re still in a threat zone, and no amount of wool coats or heater vents will convince it otherwise.
I knew it before I called Silas Hightower, and the officers’ well-meant reassurances only reinforced it.
Reagan isn’t going to leave me alone unless something—or someone—stops him.
My phone vibrates on the dash. I hug my coat tighter and pray it’s not Johns Hopkins asking me to come in for a stroke alert as I check.
The first deep breath I’ve taken in an hour leaves me as I scan the message lighting up the screen.
Pulled up around the corner. Checking perimeter first. Stay in your car. Doors locked. I’ll come to you in ten.
Relief warms me in a way I’m not ready to examine. He came. Thank you, Lord.
Seconds pass into minutes as I wait for him to appear. When ten minutes slide by with no sign of anyone, doubt steals a little of my confidence.
What if the police missed something? What if Silas?—
Rat-a-tap-tap.
With a stifled yelp, I twist in my seat as over six feet of controlled strength—dressed in an elegant black suit and a long wool greatcoat—leans down and raps his knuckles on my passenger window.
