Chapter 3
Three
Ava
The motel Silas chose sits just beyond the last streetlight in Guilford, a detail my mind files immediately, along with the isolation and drab décor.
As I pull my coat tighter around my shoulders, he settles into one of the upholstered chairs across from me and nods toward the door connecting our rooms. “I’ll leave my side unlocked.”
Heat flames across my cheeks. What must he think of me? “Is this usual for you? Coming to the rescue of damsels in distress,” I blurt. I swallow a wince at the brashness of my tone.
His eyebrow lifts. “I came because I needed to assess the situation myself before I could advise you.”
I exhale slowly. “Right. Sorry. I’m not… what will happen tomorrow? I have somewhere to be at eight a.m., and then I need to visit my mother.”
The familiar pinch tightens behind my ribs at mentioning her.
He stills slightly, the movement subtle enough I almost miss it. One hand settles flat against his thigh, fingers splayed.
“I can accompany you anywhere you need to be,” he says.
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."
His gaze returns to mine, steady and intent. “You just narrowed him down.”
When he backs up and opens the door joining our two rooms, he taps the handle lightly—once, deliberate—as if placing the choice back in my hands. “Lock this behind me. I’m right next door if you need me.”
He gives me one last look, then disappears into the adjoining room.
Silas
I keep my back to the wall while I scan—window lock, bathroom door, closet. I check under the bed even though I already know what I’ll find: dust, a missing sock, maybe a lost keycard. It’s not paranoia. It’s repetition. Repetition keeps people alive.
The motel room smells like industrial detergent and stale heat. Beige walls. Cheap art. Ava deserves better, but it’s the safest option I can offer her right now.
None of this sits right. Ava is on the other side of the wall, trying to pretend she’s okay when she’s anything but. She stopped being okay the second a man decided he had the right to invade her personal life.
My phone vibrates at my hip, so I slide my hand in and pull it out, already knowing who it’ll be.
She might be over the worst of it, and she might be heeding medical advice, but that doesn’t mean that Delilah isn’t ignoring my instructions.
“You should be in bed,” I mock growl down the line.
Delilah snorts. “Are you kidding me? Caleb told me while I was finishing a log audit that you’re checking on Dr. Barbie?”
“Caleb should know better.”
“Ha! I knew it! You’re keeping something from me.”
A groan slips out before I can holster it. “Delilah. Don’t make this something.”
“How can I? I don’t know what it is?”
I temper my voice and keep it even. Delilah doesn’t need any encouragement with this.
“Go to sleep.”
“In a minute… how was the funeral?”
I blink, and I’m back in Seattle. A flag-draped coffin, a seven-year-old kid, and a room full of people with nothing solid to say about where his father had gone and no real comfort to offer.
“He didn’t know Christ.”
There’s a pause on the line. I don’t fill it. I’m thinking of the words Jesus spoke plainly—that not everyone who hears will listen, that the gate is narrow, and the truth isn’t received by all who encounter it.
“I’m sorry. And now I’m hassling you about Dr. Barbie.”
I glance at the door separating us. “You’ve got to stop calling her that.”
Delilah sighs. “Probably. Maybe I’ll quit if you tell me why you’re there?”
I squeeze my finger and thumb at the bridge of my nose. “My flight was diverted. Dr. Morrison called and asked for advice. That’s all you need to know right now.”
“But—”
“Go to bed, Delilah. And if Zack’s around, tell him to lock everything up tight.”
“You sound weird. Why do you sound weird? I’m worried. What’s going on?”
I clench a fist at my side. She’s like a dog with a bone. Better to give her a new one to gnaw on.
“Do me a favor and locate that list my father sent through a few months back.”
She’s silent for a few beats. “Oh wow. Things must be bad. You’re actually considering getting an assistant?”
“I don’t have a choice. Adena was right. She was carrying more slack than I realized.”
She releases a heavy sigh. “This sucks. I can’t even track her.”
“We made contact. She’s safe. That’s all we get for now.”
Technically, we shouldn’t have even gotten that much. Jagger Rouke’s handler, Nolan, pulled more than strings to let me have the physical address.
He broke every rule in the DEA playbook.
“When can I talk to her?”
“I don’t know. Soon.”
“Vague.”
“It’s all I’ve got.”
She sighs again, more dramatically, with just a hint of tears I’m sure Zack will take care of. “I miss her. But I’m happy for her.”
“Then hold onto that. She’s where God’s sent her.”
“You make it sound like she’s a missionary or something.”
A smile plucks at my lips. “She is… in a way.”
Delilah’s yawn is barely concealed when she replies. “I’ll go track down that list.”
“It can wait until tomorrow. But if you see Caleb, let him know. I’d rather take referrals from current team members than start cold.”
“Will do. Who’s going to interview them?”
I pause and consider that. Interviews take time. A lot of time.
“We’ll handle the vetting process, background checks, then Jake can handle the actual interviews off-site.”
“Roger that, boss.”
“Night, Delilah.”
I move to end the call, but she’s quicker. “Say goodnight to Dr. Barbie for me.”
“Her name is Ava,” I grind out.
Delilah chuckles. “I know. I just like hearing your voice get all scrunchy. I’ll be on standby mode… just in case you need backup, ‘kay?”
I grunt as polite a response as I can manage and hang up on her before she can rattle me further.
Aside from Delilah pushing for details I can’t give her, I can’t shake off the tension working its way through me. It’s more than unease. It’s something stronger. Something palpable I can’t put my finger on.
Snow is supposed to give people away. That’s the lie civilians believe. Fresh fall, clean yard, nothing but white—everyone assumes no tracks means no one came near the place. In reality, snow only exposes the careless.