Chapter 8 #2
I end the call and look at Ava. “I’m going to start the truck. I’ll be right back."
"I'll come with you," she says, already setting down her mug.
I start to tell her to stay inside where it's warm and safe, but something in her expression stops me. She's been cooped up, scared, dependent on me for everything. Maybe she needs to move, to do something that feels normal.
"Bundle up," I say. "It's cold out there."
She returns a few minutes later in a heavy coat, boots, and a knit hat pulled low over her ears.
We step outside together. The snow is deeper than I expected—nearly a foot accumulated overnight, still falling in thick, lazy flakes. Our tracks from yesterday are completely buried.
The truck starts on the first try, engine rumbling to life in the quiet. I let it idle, watching the exhaust plume white in the cold air.
"While we're out here," I say, turning to face her. "Have you ever handled a firearm?"
Her eyes widen slightly. "Certainly not."
"Just the basics. In case—" I stop. "In case you need it."
She studies me for a moment, snow collecting on the shoulders of her coat.
"Let’s assume I agree," she says. "I spend the next five minutes learning how not to shoot my own foot."
She gestures vaguely toward the dark trees.
"Do you really think I stand a chance?"
"Your chances improve."
She holds my gaze, weighing that. "That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement."
"It’s the truth."
Her nose wrinkles, then she nods. "All right. Show me."
I retrieve my backup and bring it out along with a box of ammunition and ear protection. We move away from the cabin, toward the tree line where the snow is undisturbed.
"First rule," I say. "Never point it at anything you're not willing to destroy. Second rule: keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to fire. Third: always assume it's loaded."
She listens intently, her focus absolute as I pull the gun out from my pocket and rack the slide. "Take it," I say, holding it out grip-first.
When her fingers wrap around the handle, I step in behind her to correct her form.
I keep my touch clinical, my hands covering hers to show her the proper overlap of her fingers.
The scent of her—rich honey and dark, intoxicating jasmine—is sharper out here in the frozen air.
I find myself lingering a second too long before I force myself to let go.
I move to her side, adjusting her stance with a light tap of my boot against hers to widen her feet. "Lower your center of gravity," I mutter, my voice tight. "Lean into it. Don't let the gun boss you around."
I reach out to steady her shoulders, my thumbs pressing into the heavy fabric of her coat.
"Good," I say, stepping a full yard away. "Now you can take a few practice shots. Aim for that tree trunk about fifteen yards out."
She takes a breath, squares her shoulders, and fires. The Glock recoils, but she keeps hold of it.
"Again," I say, loading another round. My eyes are on the target, but my peripheral vision is locked on her. Every time the gun kicks, her body tenses, and every instinct I have wants to step back into her space to steady her. I stay rooted to the spot.
She adjusts her stance slightly and fires. This time, she's ready for the kick. The shot goes wide, but closer to the tree.
"Better. One more."
The third shot hits the bark.
"Good." I take the weapon back, our fingers brushing for a fleeting, electric second during the hand-off. I clear it and holster it immediately. "That's enough for today. You did well."
Ava pulls off the ear protection, her cheeks flushed from the bite of the wind. She doesn’t look thrilled. She looks like she’s just performed a surgery she didn't want to do.
"The kinetic energy," she says, her voice steady but quiet. "You feel it in your marrow. It’s... a very absolute sort of power, isn't it?"
"It’s a tool, Ava. Nothing more."
"No," she says, looking at the tree where the bark’s splintered. "Stethoscopes are tools. Scalpels are tools. This is a period at the end of a sentence." She looks at me, her eyes searching mine. "Do you ever get used to the weight of it?"
"If you get used to it, you shouldn't be carrying it."
She weighs that, a small, somber nod of agreement. "Fair enough."
We start walking back toward the cabin, boots crunching through fresh snow. The world is impossibly quiet now, the gunshots already fading, swallowed by the white stillness. The air’s thick with the scent of frozen pine, the only heat coming from the steam of our breath.
We're halfway back when Ava stops abruptly, her hand shooting out to grip my arm.
"Look," she whispers.
I follow her gaze, my hand instinctively hovering near my sidearm before I see what she sees.
A deer stands at the edge of the clearing, maybe thirty yards away. Young buck, small antlers, completely still except for the occasional flick of his ears.
Ava's entire face transforms. The clinical distance she held while shooting evaporates. "Oh my goodness," she breathes, barely audible. "He's beautiful."
The wonder in her voice settles in my chest, heavy and dangerous. It’s a weight I’m not equipped to carry. She's not moving, barely breathing, like she's afraid he'll vanish if she does. Her hand is still on my arm, fingers tight through my jacket, and I don't think she realizes.
The deer takes a tentative step closer, then another. Ava makes a small sound—pure delight—and I find myself watching her instead of the animal.
She's smiling like a kid on Christmas morning. Eyes bright, completely unguarded, all the fear and tension from the past days gone. Replaced by sweet, genuine joy over a deer in the snow.
She doesn’t move when a fawn steps into the clearing behind him. She just watches it, quiet and intent, like the moment’s something fragile she doesn’t want to break. Snow is caught in her hair, her breath pale in the cold, her attention fixed on the animal and nothing else.
“Beautiful,” I repeat.
When she meets my gaze, I pack the moment away, sealing it tight behind the walls I’ve built to keep myself in line.
Ava
From where I’m perched at the kitchen table, I take a slow, deliberate bite of the cinnamon roll and let out a low moan of pleasure.
It’s warm, gooey, fluffy, and tastes of high-end cinnamon and dark sugar—the kind of quality I’ve only ever found in boutique bakeries in Guilford, not in a cabin in the middle of nowhere.
The corner of Silas’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t say a word as he pours himself a coffee. I’ve spent my career categorizing people by their cognitive functions, but Silas is a study in conflicting expertise.
"These are incredible," I say, my voice carrying a touch of genuine disbelief. "I have to ask—how does a man in your line of work learn to bake like this?"
Silas pauses, his hand resting near the edge of the counter.
The hard, disciplined line of his shoulders doesn't relax, but his expression shifts slightly.
"My mother," he says, smiling, "She grew up in a house where everything was made from scratch.
I spent most of my Saturday mornings as a kid covered in flour while she talked me through the science of it. "
"She sounds like she knew what she was doing.”
"She was patient," he says quietly, a small, ghost of a smile touching the corner of his mouth. "Took me fifty attempts to get them right."
I let out a small, huffed breath of a laugh. "Fifty! I would have quit at ten!"
He turns his head, his gaze meeting mine. "A Hightower never quits."
My heart stutters, a sharp contrast to the steady rhythm of the falling snow outside.
Swallowing, I turn toward the window, the warmth of the sugar still lingering on my tongue. Beyond the glass, the world’s being erased. The snow’s falling so thick now that the trees have dissolved into a grey, indistinct haze.
Beautiful. Isolating. Terrifying.
My phone chirps in my pocket, and the fragile stillness of the morning shatters.
Silas is across the room before I’ve even cleared the lock screen. He doesn't say a word, but his presence is a heavy, silent weight beside me as I check the number, then press the phone to my ear.
“Dr. Morrison? This is Janet from Greenfield. I’m calling about your mother.”
The temperature in the room seems to plummet. "Is she alright? Did someone—”
I can’t bear to say the name. If Reagan somehow got inside…
"She had a fall this morning. Nothing catastrophic, but we're taking her to get an X-ray as a precaution. Her hip and wrist. She seems okay, but protocol requires—"
"I'm coming." The words are a reflex, a phantom limb of a life I can’t live until he’s stopped. "I'll be there in—"
The sentence dies in my throat.
I look at the buried driveway. I look at the white nightmare swallowing the world outside.
"Dr. Morrison?"
"I—" My throat’s a desert. "I can't. I'm not... at home. I can't get there. Not for a few days at least."
"We understand," Janet says, her voice softening into professional kindness I’ve used a thousand times on my own patients' families. "We'll keep you updated every step of the way. Is there anyone local we should contact on your behalf?"
"No. There's—" My voice cracks, pathetic sound. "There's no one. Just... please call me as soon as you get the results."
I end the call. I stare at the black glass of the screen, my chest tightening until I can hear my own ribs straining.
She fell. My mother fell, and I’m not there.
I’ve spent my life navigating the crises of others—and I’m stuck in a mountain cabin while my own mother’s confused and scared, being poked by strangers she won't remember five minutes from now.
There’s no one else. Just me. And I’m trapped here while she’s alone and Reagan—
The room tilts.
My lungs won’t expand properly. The air feels thin, insufficient, like the cabin’s oxygen is being sucked out by the storm. My hands are vibrating. I grip the table, the wood biting into my palms, but the panic’s already rising like a tide.
"Ava."
Silas's voice cuts through the static.
I can't look at him. If I do, I’m not the composed doctor he knows anymore. I’m just a woman who’s unravelling.
His hand touches my shoulder. "You're okay. Just breathe with me."
"I can't—" The words are strangled. "I'm not there. I should be there."
"I know." His other hand comes to my shoulder, turning me slowly to face him. He’s a solid, steady presence in the middle of my collapse. "I know. But right now, I need you to breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. With me. Ready?"
His eyes hold mine—steady, patient, like he has all the time in the world to sit here while I shatter. We breathe together—five counts in, seven counts out—until the vise around my chest starts to loosen. Until the room stops spinning.
"Better?" he asks quietly.
I nod, mortified. "I'm sorry. I don't usually—"
"Don't." He cuts me off. "You don't need to apologize."
"I should be able to handle this better. I'm trained to stay calm in emergencies."
"So am I." His voice is a low, disciplined rasp. "But it doesn’t always work out that way.”
His eyes meet mine, and for a second, the mask slips. "Being trained for something doesn't mean you stop feeling it. Doesn't make you less human when someone you care about is in danger."
"Your mother is safe," he says. "Reagan didn’t have anything to do with this. They're taking care of her. And you being there wouldn't change the X-ray results or make her bones heal faster. You know that."
I do know that. Intellectually, I'm the doctor. But the daughter in me is breaking.
"She won't understand why I'm not there," I whisper. "On her good days, maybe. But if she's confused..."
"I know." His voice is a low rumble. "And I wish I could fix that for you. But right now, the best thing you can do for her is keep yourself safe. She'd want that, even if she can't say it."
My eyes burn. I blink hard, trying to hold it together, but the first tear escapes. Then the whole dam fails.
For a moment, Silas says nothing, then he shifts his chair closer and opens his arms. “Come here.”
I go willingly. I press my face against the rough fabric of his chest as the tears come—silent, relentless, all the fear and grief I've been holding back finally breaking free.
Silas
This is supposed to be comfort. Nothing more.
Except her breathing is starting to even out, the tears are slowing, and she still hasn't pulled away. Neither have I.
My hand is moving in slow circles against her shoulder blade, and I can feel the delicate curve of her spine beneath the soft cotton of her sweater. She's so small against me. Fragile in a way that makes something protective and possessive coil tight in my chest.
It's been years since I've held a woman like this. Since I've let anyone close. The accusations echo daily: workaholic, emotionally unavailable, married to the job. Too traditional. Too rigid. Too religious.
But sitting here with Ava in my arms, every point of contact burns. Her cheek against my chest. The slight weight of her leaning into me, trusting me to hold her up.
I shouldn't notice these things. Shouldn't be fighting the urge to tighten my arms around her and never let go.
This is dangerous territory.
She shifts, and I brace myself for her to shift back, to put professional distance between us again.
Instead, she tilts her head up and looks at me.
Eyes still wet with tears, vulnerable, trusting.
My hand moves from her hair to cup her jaw before I can stop myself. Her skin is impossibly soft beneath my palm.
"Ava," I say quietly. Warning or surrender, I'm not sure which.
But I don't let go.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to close the distance. To lower my head those final few inches and—
I force myself to breathe. To remember who I am and what I'm here to do.
She's scared. Seeking comfort, not... this.
God, give me strength.
The prayer is silent, desperate. Because right now, with her looking up at me like that, I need something stronger than my own resolve.
Her lips part slightly, like she's about to say something.
I move before she can. Before I do something we'll both regret.
My hands drop to my sides, and I shuffle the chair back to where it was. "Maybe try to rest," I say, voice too abrupt. "Leave your phone with me. I'll let you know the second we hear anything about your mother."
She blinks, the spell breaking. Color rises in her cheeks.
"Right," she says quietly. "Yes. Thank you."
She turns, rises on shaky legs, and heads toward the bedroom, and I watch her go, jaw clenched, hands fisted at my sides as I breathe out a prayer I hope I’m sure to be repeating.
Thank you, Lord, for the discipline I didn't have on my own.