Chapter 183 A Toy on the Windowsill
"The problem with building a fortress," Tristan said, the edge of his voice cutting through the quiet morning, "is that you eventually start wondering who is standing outside the walls."
I sat at the kitchen island, a mug of black coffee in my hands. The morning sun hit the floor-to-ceiling windows of the coastal house, casting bright rectangles of light across the hardwood. Outside, the dark, churning sea crashed against the cliff.
"Nobody is standing outside," I told him. "Marcus doubled the surrounding guards last night."
Tristan stood by the stove. He wore a plain gray t-shirt and faded jeans. He flipped a pancake with a plastic spatula. His gray eyes kept drifting to the security monitors mounted near the pantry.
"You fired Oliver Pembroke," Tristan reminded me. He slid the pancake onto a ceramic plate. "He has friends in the eastern sector logistics divisions. Those people do not appreciate a sudden loss of power."
"Oliver Pembroke is a coward," I said. "He talked big in the boardroom, but he folded the second I threatened his severance package. He won't push back."
Tristan set the plate on the island. He rested his hands flat on the marble counter, leaning toward me. The thick, jagged scar on his left side peeked through the collar of his shirt. It was a constant, physical reminder of the price we paid for this quiet morning.
"Cowards are dangerous, Mina," he said. His tone dropped, losing its conversational rhythm. "They don't fight you to your face. They wait until you go to sleep."
I reached across the counter and covered his hand with mine. His skin felt warm. The tension in his knuckles released under my touch.
"We are awake," I promised him. "We are not the same people we were three years ago. If they come for us, they lose."
Tristan looked at me. The shadows in his eyes dissolved. He turned his hand over, tangling his fingers with mine.
"I know," he said.
Footsteps patted against the wooden stairs.
Elias ran into the kitchen. He wore his blue pajamas. His dark hair stuck up in a messy cowlick. He carried a plastic toy in his small hands.
"Morning, buddy," Tristan said. He stepped away from the counter and knelt on the floor. "I made the bear pancakes. Extra syrup, just the way you like them."
Elias did not look at the food. He held the toy out toward his father.
"It fixed itself," Elias announced.
I took a sip of my coffee. I glanced at the toy. My brain registered the shape, the color, and the structure.
It was a model airplane.
I lowered my mug. The ceramic clinked against the marble counter.
Tristan froze. He stayed on one knee. He stared at the object in his son's hands.
Yesterday, Tristan and Elias sat on the living room rug, surrounded by scattered pieces of a complex model airplane. I remembered the argument. Elias insisted a red piece belonged on the wing, while the instructions said a blue piece attached to the turbine. Tristan laughed and let Elias snap the wrong red piece into place.
The airplane Elias held right now was perfect.
Every piece sat in its exact, manufactured spot. The blue plastic piece covered the turbine. The red piece sat lower on the fuselage. There were no crooked wings. There were no mismatched parts.
It was identical to the model from yesterday. But it was pristine.
"Elias," Tristan said. His voice sounded hollow. The warmth vanished from his tone, replaced by a cold, flat absolute. "Where is the airplane we built yesterday?"
"In the living room," Elias said. He pointed toward the archway. "Next to the fireplace."
I stood up. My chair scraped against the floorboards.
I walked into the living room. The fire in the stone hearth had burned down to gray ash. I looked at the rug.
Our airplane, the one with the mismatched red wing, sat on the floor exactly where Elias left it last night.
I turned back to the kitchen. My chest tightened. The air in the room thinned out, refusing to fill my lungs. The familiar cold of the past clawed its way up my spine.
Tristan had not moved. He kept his eyes locked on the new toy.
"Where did you find this one, Elias?" I asked. I forced the panic out of my voice. I kept my tone level. I could not terrify my son.
"On my window," Elias said.
Tristan stood up. His movements were slow, deliberate, and terrifying.
"Inside or outside?" Tristan asked.
"Outside," Elias replied. He picked at a sticker on the wing. "It was sitting on the ledge. I opened the glass and brought it in. The man left it for me."
The blood drained from my face. I stopped breathing.