Page 5 of Collateral Damage
How did I not see him?
I hit the unlock switch, and he opens the door and climbs in, bringing with him the icy air outside.
For a moment, my breath flutters as he adjusts his coat, and I catch a glimpse of the weapon holstered at his side.
“Perimeter’s clear,” he says, voice low and certain. His gaze sweeps over me—my hands, my face, the way I’m gripping the wheel. “You okay?”
The question is simple, but it hits the part of my brain still firing in threat mode, steadying it just enough to think.
“I’m fine. Thank you for getting here so fast.”
He nods, eyes locked onto me. Assessing. “Would’ve been sooner, but I hit traffic on I-95 coming down from Philly.”
“That’s where you were when we spoke—Philadelphia? You drove all that way?”
I leave the just to check on me unspoken.
A faint smile flickers at his lips. “You said you needed help.”
My mouth slackens. “I… I…” But it’s no use. I’m not fooling him, and I’m too tired to pretend.
“How about we get a cup of chamomile tea,” he says—quiet, sure, offering steadiness the way other men offer apologies. “Then we plan the next step.”
I blink. “Tea?”
He nods, his eyes drifting back to the Manor. “Are you working tomorrow?”
I shake my head. “I’m off until the end of next week.”
His gaze returns to mine. “Good. You okay to drive, or would you prefer I take the wheel?”
I glance at my house. “It’s nearly midnight. I need to?—”
“Sleep?” he finishes gently. “Not something you’ve been doing much of lately, I’d guess. This isn’t the first time someone’s trespassed, is it?”
Heat prickles along my neck, and I’m grateful for the dark. “Well… no.”
“Alright then.” His voice is calm, immovable. He reaches for his seat belt, the movement steady, certain. “Let’s get out of here.”
Silas
I knew she was rattled before I got in the car. What I didn’t know was that she had good reason to be. Even if I hadn’t already contacted the local precinct, identified myself, and advised them I’d be on scene at the homeowner’s request, I saw the birds myself. Whoever this joker is, he has had uninterrupted access to her property. He moved around the exterior of a Guilford mansion—a historic, expensive neighborhood—and no one questioned him.
Using my peripheral vision, I run a quick inventory check as she guides the Volvo XC60 through the quiet Guilford streets and onto Charles. Physically, she seems okay. Blonde hair pulled back into a knot, glasses, features composed despite the strain around her eyes. Polished. Refined. Even rattled, she carries herself with precision, her posture straight against the leather seat.
I keep my eyes moving—scanning the side mirrors, the cross-streets, the car that falls in behind us for a block, then turns off. Nothing sticks. No pattern.
“There’s a drive-through up ahead,” I say, nodding toward the bright lights on the corner. “Pull in. We’ll grab something and find somewhere quiet to talk.”
A few minutes later, we’re loaded up with two takeaway teas. I direct her toward the far edge of the lot, where the shadows are deeper.
“Back into that space,” I say. “Facing the road.”
She reverses into the spot. The Volvo settles with its nose toward Charles Street, engine idling, the vents humming as the heat pushes back the midnight cold. Snow drifts through the parking lot lights and skims across the windshield. I take a slow look around the perimeter, checking the empty spaces before turning back to her.
Ava turns the paper cup slowly in her hands, watching the steam curl from the lid. I glance at the side mirror to check the road behind us once more before looking at her.
“Tell me how it started,” I say. “Is he a patient?”
