Collateral Damage (Hightower Security #6)

Chapter 1

One

Ava

As I pull into the driveway, falling snow blurs Lindenford Manor into something dreamlike, as if the whole estate rests inside a snow globe.

Normally, the house glows like a beacon at this hour—Carla always leaves the foyer and kitchen lights on when I’m coming home from a trip.

Tonight, it’s dark.

Completely. Every window black. Every room silent.

A cold, sprawling silhouette swallowed by falling snow.

A trickle of fear runs up my spine as I switch off the Volvo and stare at the front door. I force myself to breathe. In. Out. Slowly. Ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous. He’s not going to leap out of the bushes and attack me.

Breathing out a prayer for courage, I grab my purse, open the door, and step onto the driveway. Lord, just get me to the door. Just that far.

Every step feels like an inch. The distance never seemed so far when the house was full of activity and noise and light.

Now it’s just me, Carla, three times a week, and Earl, who manages the garden and tries to keep on top of the maintenance that comes with a historic home.

Hurrying as fast as I can in the dark, careful to avoid the loose tile Earl keeps meaning to fix, I reach the front door, breath huffing, fingers trembling as I push the key into the lock.

I fumble, whisper sharp words of frustration, then shove the door open and slam it behind me, heart pounding. The deadbolt clicks home under my shaking fingers.

Nothing moves inside the foyer. No sound. Not even the rattle and hum of the ancient heating vents.

Carla didn’t just forget the lights. She forgot to switch the heating on for me.

A shudder runs down my spine. Cold. Fear. And the knowledge that I’ll have to go to the basement and switch on the century-old boiler. The basement with its iron door that locks from the outside.

I square my shoulders. I’m the one people come to when the brain misfires—when memory, perception, and cognition fall apart. I don’t get rattled by dark houses or my own imagination.

Even if my hands won’t stop shaking.

Fresh resolve fueling me, I punch in the alarm code on the flashing panel—each beep too loud in the stillness—and force myself across the hallway, flicking on the foyer lights and blinking as the chandelier blazes to life, half blinding me.

My boot heels clip across the black-and-white tiles as I head into the kitchen, flipping switches as I go. Every room. Every light. Sound and illumination and the illusion of safety.

The house unfolds the way it always does after Carla’s been through—the marble foyer gleaming, the grand stairwell polished to a soft sheen, the mahogany banister free of fingerprints.

In the dining room, the antique wallcovering glows softly; the paneled library doors stand open, their brass handles buffed, the faint citrus oil she uses on the built-ins still lingering in the air.

Nothing looks wrong. Nothing disturbed. Nothing out of place.

Which somehow makes the earlier darkness feel worse.

A hastily scrawled note sits on the marble countertop. Carla’s handwriting—and memory—have been getting steadily worse over the years. A sure sign of cognitive decline, I’ll need to discuss with her at some point.

Ava,

Earl said he won’t be able to get rid of the starlings outside your bedroom until next week. Perhaps you could sleep in one of your siblings’ old rooms?

The larder and refrigerator have been stocked.

I’ve also cooked a chicken and frozen meals. Please eat when you get home. You must not neglect your own health, or you’ll be no good to others.

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.

The buzz jolts through me, but my hand is already reaching. Automatic. Trained.

Unknown number.

It could be the hospital. A patient. An emergency. I can’t not answer—he knows that. He knows I have to pick up every unknown call, every time, because someone might need me.

Another trap. Another way he’s turned my own life against me.

The screen glows against the falling snow.

Not a call.

A text.

Two words that chill me to the bone.

Sleep well.

Philadelphia International Airport, Pennsylvania. Tuesday. 9:14 p.m.

Silas

I hunch into my coat and slog across the tarmac with every other rerouted, miserable passenger the Midwest storm spat out at Philadelphia International, trying to see the best in a bad situation.

I’ve flown into firefights in Helmand, spent time in African deserts we don’t officially step foot in, and battled sandstorms that tore helicopter doors clean off.

Nothing—and I mean nothing—humbles a man like flying commercial.

As icy wind blasts my back and I step through the service doors into the arrivals corridor, I sling my bag over my shoulder and make my way to baggage claim to wait for my black Pelican case.

I take the best vantage point—back to a support column with a clear view of the carousel and every exit—and sweep the area before pulling out my phone and pushing my earbud into my ear.

Ten missed calls. Five texts. Twenty emails. Four hours in the air, and everything’s already on fire.

I forward what I can to Caleb, but my gut tightens at the last number I expected to see.

Dr. Morrison.

No message.

Intrigued, I hit redial.

She answers on the second ring, sounding nothing like the unflappable woman I’ve come to respect. She even drops the usual formal, “Dr. Morrison.”

“Hello?”

“Silas Hightower. You called me an hour ago.”

“Oh. Right. Yes. I’m… sorry.”

The overhead PA crackles to life in a sterile airport voice echoing off every hard surface:

“Attention passengers from Flight 482, originally scheduled for North Dakota. Due to ongoing weather conditions, your flight has been canceled. Your checked baggage will be available at Carousel 4. For rebooking, please proceed to the airline service desk beside Carousel 2. Thank you for your patience.”

“I’ve caught you at a bad time… I should have waited until the morning.”

More passengers spill into baggage claim—exhausted, irritated, all shapes and ages. Even half-listening to Ava, my eyes track each one automatically.

A guy in a Flyers cap with a rolling duffel—harmless.

A stressed business traveler, already arguing on his phone—no threat.

A college kid in a UND hoodie, dragging a parka—exhausted but aware.

An older man with a stiff gait and hands buried in his coat pockets—possible concealment, but he keeps his distance.

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.”