Page 7 of Collateral Damage
A tiny, involuntary autonomic spike fires through me — a rapid sympathetic surge I’d normally associate with startle reflex or acute stress. Except this isn’t stress. It’s Silas Hightower, steady and impossible to ignore, offering the kind of personal protection I asked for… just not the proximity I was prepared for.
“There isn’t another way?”
“Nothing that comes to mind,” he says, mouth hinting at a smile. “But if it sets your mind at ease, I’ll blend in. Just tell me where and when, and I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“It’s not about… it’s about…” I shift in my chair, heat climbing up my throat. “I’m worried they’ll take one look at you and run.”
A faint line appears between his brows. “Who are they?”
“I deliver donuts and coffee to the homeless community on Ashford Street.”
His posture shifts, shoulders squaring, attention narrowing.
“I stay awhile. Check on anyone who looks unwell. Answer questions.”
His gaze sharpens, focused and unnerving. “How long have you been doing that?”
“Since I was a child,” I say softly. “My father started the tradition. We went with him every Saturday morning. He wanted us to understand that privilege comes with responsibility.”
My hands fold together in my lap. “It’s the one part of my week I never cancel. They know me. They trust me. I don’t want them thinking I suddenly show up with…”
My voice falters. “With a bodyguard.”
Silas adjusts his coat, nodding at me solemnly. “But you do want personal protection until this is resolved?”
I hastily nod. “I’m well aware of the probability of him escalating. I know the statistics. I see the result all too often.”
“But?”
“I assumed, incorrectly, perhaps, that you’d recommend someone here, a female who could move in with me until the police apprehended him.”
His attention doesn’t waver. Not for a moment, though he must be tired.
“If you want my recommendation, this guy is already streets ahead of an average stalker.” He continues, but softens his tone when he notices my discomfort. “A female live-in is a good start, but one person isn’t going to be able to lock down four levels on their own. It takes a team to do that.”
“If it’s about the money?—”
He cuts me off. “It’s about the effectiveness. No sense throwing money at a problem if it can be solved another way.”
When I smother an unexpected yawn, he rises to his feet, and I have to crane my neck to take in all six feet three inches of him. “Can you give me his name? Branch? Rank? Where he served?”
I shake my head. “All I have is the name ‘Reagan O’Connell,’ but there’s no guarantee that’s authentic. We keep the notes simple. Just paper charts and a basic digital record system.”
He pauses, scanning the room again—the door, the window, the corners—before moving.
“Describe him for me — age range, build, height, the way he moved. Only what you’re certain of.”
I take a breath, forcing myself to slow down.
"Late thirties, maybe early forties," I say. "Taller than me — four or five inches. Broad through the shoulders, but not the broad that comes from a gym. More like someone who's always worked with his hands."
I think back, trying to be accurate.
"He was very still. That's what I remember most — he never seemed to be in a hurry. When I was talking, he just... waited. Didn't fidget." I pause. "His voice was low, no accent I could identify. He never raised it."
My hands settle in my lap. "His clothes were worn but clean. Jeans and boots.”
I meet Silas's eyes, slightly embarrassed to admit it to him. “He can be very charming. That's everything I can give you with confidence."
