I hate every blank screen. Every dead reflection. Every useless piece of technology Adrian built to protect us that someone took away.
Then one of them flickers.
I gasp before I can stop myself.
Every head turns.
The screen nearest the center flashes gray, then black, then gray again. Static crawls over it in jagged lines. Another monitor does the same. Then another.
The feeds are coming back.
Not all of them and not clearly, but it’s something.
“Oh, thank God,” Erica whispers.
I rush to the desk and lean over the console, terrified to touch anything in case I somehow make it worse.
The front hall appears first. Dim, flickering lights.
There is a body near the entry table, unmoving. Another near the side wall with a pool of blood under it.
My stomach rolls hard, but I do not look away.
I know behind me, the eyes of the children are being shielded, but I cannot look away.
The dining room feed comes back next.
At first glance, it seems destroyed, but looking at it closer, I see that it’s more just a mess than actual destruction.
Chairs shoved back, plates overturned, wine spilled across the white cloth. The yellow roses knocked on their side, water pooling around them, petals crushed against the table.
My beautiful dinner.
My stupid, hopeful, beautiful dinner.
The kitchen feed flickers next.
It’s empty, but my hand tightens around the gun.
“What do you see?” Nick asks, still at the door.
Blood. No body, though.
I keep it to myself.
“Nothing yet,” I say.
The exterior west feed snaps on.
Relief floods through my body so quickly that I nearly collapse to the ground.
Adrian is braced at the utility panel, shoulders hunched, one hand inside the open casing, the other holding his gun at the ready.
Alive. He’s alive.
Then I see the blood on his shirt. Way too much of it.
“No,” I whisper.
