Chapter 6
Six
Ava
The road begins to tilt toward the mountains, leaving Frederick behind in a blur of gray. As the elevation climbs, a sharp, cold guilt churns in my stomach—a physical weight that makes me want to reach for the wheel and force Silas to turn back.
“If you can put a detail on my mother,” I start, my voice sounding thin against the hum of the tires, “why not just do the same for me? I could stay at a motel. I could be near her.”
Silas doesn’t answer immediately. He keeps his eyes on the winding blacktop for a beat longer than necessary, his profile a hard silhouette against the dashboard lights.
“Because he’s watching you,” he says.
“I know that. That's the point.”
“No,” Silas counters, his voice low and steady. “Right now, he’s watching you unchanged.”
I frown, the logic slipping through my fingers like sand. “I don’t—”
“If I put visible protection on you,” he continues, “you start moving differently. You change your gait. Your routine breaks. You’re escorted, you’re guarded, and you begin to hesitate before you open a door.”
“Isn't that what's supposed to happen?” I ask, my frustration surfacing. “Isn't that what being safe feels like?”
“No.” He doesn't snap; he just speaks with a terrifying, clinical certainty. “That’s the reward.”
I stare at him, the mountain shadows stretching across the hood of the car. “I don't understand.”
“He’s obsessed with you, Ava. And obsessed people don’t scare easily. They look for confirmation. They look for proof that they matter—proof that their presence is being felt in every breath you take.”
I shake my head, winding my arms tight across my chest. “So I’m just supposed to pretend none of this is happening?”
“No,” he says. “You’re supposed to stop giving him a front-row seat to your fear.”
The anger and the terror tangle together in my throat, making it hard to swallow. “And moving me to the middle of nowhere doesn't count as a reaction?”
“Moving you once,” he says, “quietly, without witnesses or a pattern change he can track—no. To him, that looks like weather. Or timing. An old friend visiting from out of town. It’s a gap in his data, not a win.”
“And the security?”
“Security in your world tells him exactly what he wants to know.” His voice remains level, cutting through my panic. “It tells him he finally got your attention.”
I swallow hard, the reality of it sinking in like lead. “And my mother? Why is she different?”
“She’s already in a controlled environment,” he explains. “Limited access. Staff. Cameras. There’s no routine for him to disrupt there. I can protect her without her ever needing to know.”
Silence stretches between us, filled only by the rhythmic thrum of the climbing road.
“So the cabin,” I say quietly, watching the trees thicken into a wall of black. “That’s what this is. A gap in the data.”
He nods once. “It buys us time. It keeps him guessing.”
I look away, my chest tightening until it aches. “I don’t like leaving her. I feel like a coward for hiding.”
“This isn’t about hiding you, Ava.” He glances at me, and for a split second, the tactical mask shifts. “It’s about not letting him see what he’s done to you.”
I don’t answer. I have no energy to plead my case.
The road narrows as we climb, the last of the town lights thinning behind us. Snow begins to fall more heavily, the world outside the windshield dissolving into white and shadow. Mile by mile, the familiar gives way to forest, the sense of distance growing sharper with every curve.
By the time we reach our destination, the argument in my chest has gone quiet—not because it’s resolved, but because there’s nowhere left for it to go.
Silas downshifts, his knuckles relaxed on the wheel while the tires find purchase on what's left of the drive.
The cabin hunches between the pines, a hundred yards back from where the county road disappears under white. Flakes drift past the headlights, erasing the sharp corners of branches, blurring the porch rail into a pale smudge.
Snow gathers on my sleeves as I follow Silas up the porch steps. The only sound is the crunch of snow beneath my boots, each step echoing in the stillness, a reminder of how isolated we are.
Inside, a stone fireplace dominates one wall, blackened with soot, the hearth worn smooth where boots and knees have rested. There’s a single couch upholstered in a faded plaid. A rough wooden table sits near the window, scarred with burn rings, evidence of meals eaten without ceremony.
From behind me, Silas’s phone chimes, and it’s so out of place, I start as he answers.
His eyes find mine, and the faintest worry line appears between his brow before he asks whoever has called to hold on.
“Can you get the fire started? I’ll check on the generator and take this outside.”
I nod and shrug out of my coat, the chill already seeping into my bones. I crouch by the hearth and strike a match to the kindling.
The fire takes reluctantly at first, then settles into a steady crackle. Heat begins to push back the cold, inch by inch. Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windowpanes. Snow falls thicker now, flakes streaking sideways, blurring the trees into a wall of white.
I straighten and wrap my arms around myself, forcing my breathing to slow. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. The way I teach patients when panic presses in too close. The way I’ve done a thousand times for other people.
Doing it for myself is harder.
Silas’s voice carries faintly through the door, words indistinct, tone unmistakable. Controlled. Focused. The sound of someone already several steps ahead of where I’m standing emotionally. I’m grateful for that, even as part of me wants him back inside, where I can see him.
I lower myself into the chair by the fire and bow my head.
Lord, I don’t know how to do this without You.
The words come quietly, without ceremony. No careful phrasing. No effort to sound composed.
I need wisdom. I need restraint. I need courage.
My hands tighten together in my lap.
Please protect my mother. Please put the right people around her. Please let her be safe and unaware of what I’m going through.
The ache in my chest sharpens, but I don’t push it away. God doesn’t require tidy prayers. Just honest ones.
And help me trust that You’re here — even now.
Silas
I set the sat phone down on a rusted crate, the speaker hissing with digital static that competes with the wind whistling through the gaps in the shed.
The generator is a squat, cast-iron beast positioned with tactical intent—close enough for a dead-of-night sprint, far enough that the carbon monoxide won't put us to sleep before an intruder would.
The scent of diesel cuts sharply through the freezing air as I tip the jerrycan.
The liquid glugs in a steady, heavy rhythm.
I don’t rush. Speed is how you spill; spills are how you give away a position with a single spark.
While the tank fills, I listen to the voice on the line, my hands working the machine by feel.
“There’s no living Reagan O’Connell that fits,” Delilah says. Her voice thins out, shredded by the mountain terrain, but the core of it lands like a lead weight. “The closest match died twelve years ago. Industrial accident. Pennsylvania.”
I run a gloved hand along the fuel line, checking for the brittle cracks that sub-zero temperatures love to carve. Cold is a silent saboteur—it thickens oil, starves batteries, and turns a minor oversight into a fatal mechanical heart attack.
“Background?” I ask, my breath blooming in a thick cloud.
“Army contractor,” she says. “Pre–9/11 transition work. Surveillance training. Target acquisition. Influence ops.”
I close my eyes for a second, letting the data points click into an internal map.
“So this ghost stepped into a dead man’s life,” I say. “He’s using the name as a skeleton key for access.”
“Probs,” she replies. “Adena would have known. Identity construction is her jam.”
I don’t answer. I don’t answer right away. I’m standing in a shed protecting a woman inside a borrowed cabin, and a threat that just graduated from theoretical to operational.
“Identity theft doesn’t grant you a specialized skill set,” I say flatly.
“Agreed,” Delilah agrees, her tone losing its usual bounce. “He didn’t learn how to vanish his digital footprint from a YouTube tutorial.”
I pull the choke and thumb the starter. The engine coughs, a violent metallic hack that echoes off the mountain, then settles into a low, thrumming growl. It smooths out as the internals warm, a mechanical heartbeat in the middle of the wasteland.
I watch the needles on the gauges until they reach a full count of ten. Voltage holds steady. No sputter. No surge.
“I want your full focus on this,” I tell her.
“Roger that,” she says. “I’ll find him. You just look after Dr. Barbie.”
“Delilah.” My voice is a warning.
“Sorry,” she exhales. “Dr. Morrison. Is she... how is she holding up?”
I don't soften it. “She’s terrified.”
The silence on the other end tells me everything. Delilah knows that terror is a variable I can’t always control. “Tell her I won’t rest until I track him down,” she pauses, her voice softening. “Tell her we won't rest. She’s basically an honorary member of the team now.”
“I’ll tell her.”
I kill the connection. The generator idles behind me, a steady, vibrating presence throwing a pathetic amount of heat into the biting air.
Honorary team member.
It’s a nice sentiment.
I pray it isn’t tested under field conditions.
Ava
I’ve located the tea and have the water boiling when Silas returns, carrying more than just the groceries. Slung over his shoulder is a heavy canvas duffel that clinks with a distinct, rhythmic metallic sound as he sets it down—steel on steel.
He kicks the door shut with the heel of his boot, sealing out the wind. "It’s getting heavier out there. If the road closes, that limits who can get in."
I cross my arms, watching the snow begin to coat the glass. "Yes, but it also means we can’t get out."