CHAPTER EIGHT
CADE
The morning bleeds into itself, wordless and tense. By 11:00 sharp, the day's architecture stands complete: nutrition bars unwrapped and consumed, her schedule printed and posted, maternal phone calls monitored through my earpiece, and the property checked twice—first at dawn, again at mid-morning. Some call it paranoia. I call it insurance. She doesn’t come out of her room until I call up, "You have ten minutes before the counseling session starts," and then I watch her take all ten minutes to get herself together. She’s not the kind of girl who needs time on her appearance; there’s no makeup to apply, no hair to fuss over. But today, her steps are hesitant, her jaw tight—like she’s bracing against a different kind of attack. She finds me at the kitchen counter, an unfinished crossword spread in front of me like a crime scene I can’t solve. Her eyes flick to the bandage I’ve wrapped around my left hand, then away. "You hurt yourself?" "Staple from the fence," I answer, not elaborating. "Sit. Drink." She sits, more obedient than I’ve ever seen her, and accepts the glass of water I nudge across the granite. She takes in the kitchen like it’s an alien terrain—the pale light, the jars of instant coffee, the dog-eared field manual Ileft on the toaster for effect. All the normalcy in the world can’t hide what happened ten hours ago.
She starts to speak—"Are we—" then stops. Her eyes linger on my bandaged hand, then drift to her own unmarked palm, which she turns over slowly, as if searching for something that should be there but isn't.
I say nothing, which is my specialty. Her nostrils flare. She wants to talk about it, but won’t. Instead, she picks up the crossword, studies the half-solved clues, and fills in three blanks with my pen, fast and sure.
"The answer is ‘anodyne,’" she murmurs without meeting my eyes. I let that sit. I don’t want to know what puzzle she thinks she’s solving.
I look at her, and I see the ghost of her panic attack, the trilateral mark on her cheek where she pressed her own fingers into the bone, the smudge of dried tears across the left side of her face. But she’s steady now, and the steadiness puts me on edge. There’s a pressure in the air, denser than before, as if the house itself is calculating our proximity.
"You’re not eating your bar," I say. I’m ashamed at how harsh it comes out. She bites it in half, chews, and swallows. She says, "How many protein bars do you eat a day?"
"Three. Strict intervals."
"You ever get sick of them?"
"No." She wants me to admit something. Anything. I stand fast.
"You slept last night," I say. "After. That’s good."
She picks at the wrapper, balls it up. Her voice is lower now. "Is that what you tell yourself? Is it good that I slept?"
There’s no safe answer. To avoid her gaze, I push the crossword grid-side toward her, drop the pen in place, then walk to the sink. I run the tap even though I don’t plan to use thewater, just to keep occupied. I pour her another glass—really just stalling for time. I need the excuse to turn away.
We get through the next forty minutes without direct eye contact. The online therapy session goes as scheduled. I watch from twelve feet away, earpiece in but volume low, scanning feeds on the house but keeping her always in the corner of my eye. She talks about stress, about the "escalation in rural hostilities," and some buzzwords the therapist feeds her. She doesn’t mention the night, or the panic, or the fact that I held her until she could breathe. After, she flicks off the app and looks at me, flat and unblinking.
"You’re different this morning."
"I’m always different," I reply, hearing myself sound like an asshole. It’s better than sounding fragile. "I have updates."
She waits. I keep my voice factual, as neutral as the morning report. "We’ve shifted the night guard rotation. No more solo rounds. Two at a time, overlapping. West perimeter now gets a drive-by from local PD. No sign of intrusion last night, but I still want to keep all access points locked unless you need them open."
I run through more details than she needs, spelling out every measure, every rule, until her eyes drop to the counter.
"You’re over-correcting," she notes.
"That’s my job."
She drags a finger along the grout line of the tile. Then, with calculated calm: "Is this how you do it? After someone melts down, you double the rules?"
"Yes." She studies me, then nods, half to herself. I hate the way her voice goes soft.
"Can I thank you?" I look at her.
"No."
"You’d rather I pretend it didn’t happen?"
"Yes." She tilts her head.
"Would it help if I said sorry?"
"Not your fault." All my fault.
She says nothing for a long time, just watches the blue light in the window crawl up the far wall. She’s done pretending she doesn’t care. "Do you ever hold people like that?" Her voice is barely above a whisper. "Or was that…"