Collateral Fear A Samantha Leary Short Story

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This story contains themes suitable for adults. Please proceed only if you are 18+

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By J.E. Nickerson 

“Sometimes we step into situations we don’t fully understand until it’s too late. By then the mark has been made and all we can do is live with the aftermath.” ~Samantha Leary

Chapter 1

The sunlight hit the kitchen table first, catching the edge of Emily’s cereal bowl and sending a little flash across her face. She shoved the spoon into her mouth, crunching, crumbs spilling onto the checkered tablecloth. Her small fingers tapped on the side of the bowl, impatient, because she wanted to get outside, wanted to see the day. Her phone sat beside her, videos of cartoons playing. 

A small giggle escaped Emily as she watched a character fall down a hole they had dug. 

“You really love those things.” Victoria said, rubbing Emily’s dark curls as she watched the program, laundry basket balanced on her hip. She returned to the counter and started putting towels in the drawer. 

“Emily, drink your juice!” Veronica said. Voice warm and steady, the way it always was on school mornings. She finished with the towels and put the basket in the laundry room across from her.

Emily rolled her eyes but sipped anyway, careful not to spill. Eight years old, bright and moving too fast for the quiet morning, she liked the motion, the routine: breakfast, backpack, jacket, shoes, outside. Each step predictable, safe.

She finished the juice, set the cup down, and pushed back from the table. “All done!” she announced, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Don’t forget your water bottle,” Veronica said, voice tipping slightly, a gentle reminder layered with care. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked toward the front door.

“I won’t, Mommy!” Emily called back, already tugging at her backpack straps, adjusting them twice, then three times, because they never sat right the first time.

Outside, the air smelled of morning grass, damp earth, and faint sweetness from the flowers along the sidewalk. The porch boards creaked under her sneakers, the sunlight warm against her skin, brushing her dark hair across her forehead. She stepped down carefully, checking her footing, then bounced lightly along the sidewalk, each movement deliberate, small, alive.

The street stretched before her, neat houses on either side, trimmed lawns, fences of white and brown. Her eyes found little familiar details: the chipped mailbox at number fourteen, the cracks in the sidewalk near the corner, the shadow of the oak tree stretching across the curb. Birds called, a distant dog barked sharply, and then the world returned to quiet.

She was the only one at the bus stop. The only child her age in the neighborhood. Once the bus arrived, she would find her friends. Talk, show them the latest story of Mr. Fuzzle and Larry she had been watching on her phone. 

A white truck rolled slowly down the street, engine ticking. Emily’s head tilted, curiosity flickering. She watched the tires press against the gravel, noticed the driver’s hands resting on the wheel. Sunlight cut across the windscreen. The reflection too bright to see the driver’s face. She stayed at the edge of the curb. Removed her phone and played the video she had been watching till the bus arrived.

And then—the yellow bus, bright against the morning, engine low and steady, rounding the corner. Relief surged in her chest. The bus. Today would be fine.

She lifted her small hand, waving, fingers trembling a little with excitement. The bus slowed, tires crunching softly.

Everything around her—the street, the houses, the early sunlight, the smell of flowers and asphalt—was quiet. Familiar.

The door of the white truck opened. Boots dropped onto the ground. Heavy. Moving with deliberate pace.

The bus slowed more, approaching the curb.

Emily stepped forward, then felt it. Arms around her.

Her eyes widened and her legs flailed, small muscles moving frantically, trying to find anything solid.

The bus slowed, then picked up speed, drifting back down the street.

A small cloth pressed against Emily’s mouth as the bus receded from view. Her home began to fade, the edges blurring. Street, homes, trees—all fading into darkness.

Her screams continued, but muffled now. Her little arms felt heavy. The faint sound of something heavy opening. A door.

“Shhh, be quiet,” a voice said. Low. Deep. Almost comforting. But there was no warmth in it.

She felt her body press into cool sheets. She whimpered softly, sleep pulling her down. The room spun. Colors swayed. Objects blurred.

Then silence.

Chapter 2

Veronica stood on the corner, feet pressed to the cracked concrete, eyes fixed on the approaching street. The late afternoon sun hit the rooftops, threw long shadows across the lawns. A neighbor’s dog barked in the distance. She swallowed, took a breath. Any minute now. She wrapped her arms around herself. The thin t-shirt she wore clung to her arms the warmth of the afternoon pressing against her. 

The bus turned down the block, engine low, tires crunching over the asphalt. Yellow panels gleamed in the sun. Veronica’s chest lifted slightly—she could see the windows, the children pressed against them, settling in. She had bought Emily’s favorite cake earlier while picking up groceries. Strawberry heaven with white chocolate icing. Something special for them to enjoy, just because. Veronica wanted Emily to remember the good things in life. Forget that Mason lived three towns over and hadn’t been by to see her since he moved out.

Veronica took another drag from her cigarette. What kind of father doesn’t even come to see his daughter? She thought. 

Mason had always been good at running his business. Never at running a family. She had thought that would change when Emily was born. For a while, it had. But then Mason slipped back into old patterns—working late, weekends with friends, anything to keep him away from the home life he had once considered important enough to be part of.

Memories of Mason leaving—and the woman he had chosen to live with—pushed into her mind. The way Emily, only six at the time, had clung to his leg.

“Please, Daddy, don’t go!” her voice had pleaded. Tiny. Fragile.

Not enough to change Mason’s mind.

The bus pulled up to the curb, and Veronica dropped the cigarette, grinding it out with her flip-flop.

The doors hissed open. Veronica stepped forward. “Emily?”

Children looked at her. Small eyes watching her move through the bus looking at their faces then moving on. 

Silence.

She moved down the aisle, hand on the railing, scanning every row. Children laughed, chattered. Small backpacks bounced as they settled. But Emily wasn’t there.

“Emily?” Veronica’s voice was softer now, trembling. “Sweetie… where are you?”

Emily loved to play hide and seek. She had often hidden behind the last row of seats and jumped out. Veronica moved to the last row. 

Emily’s backpack wasn’t there. Her tiny frame wasn’t crouched, waiting to spring up. 

Veronica’s fingers shook. Her heart slammed against her chest. Had Emily forgotten to get on the bus? Gotten involved in a conversation with friends? 

Her fingers shook as she pulled out her phone. Slamming the screen furiously swiping till she found Emily’s contact. Her thumb smashed the call button. One ring. Two. Three. Silence.

She pressed the phone to her ear again. “Emily… please…” Her voice cracked, sharp with panic.

The bus driver leaned forward from the front seat, brow furrowed. “Is everything okay, ma’am?”

Veronica’s hands gripped the railing. “I can’t find my daughter. Did you get her? Did she step on? She’s eight. Small. Dark hair.” Veronica moved to the front of the bus, eyes scanning the backs of heads, kids turning in their seats, talking to each other.

Still no Emily.

“She’s not here!” Her voice rose.

“Ma’am, all the kids here are the ones I picked up. I didn’t see a girl get on the bus.”

Veronica shook her head, fervent, disbelieving. “Call the school! Call the police! My daughter isn’t on the bus!”

She pressed Emily’s contact again. Pressure built in her chest. The ringing continued. Her stomach twisted. Her chest tightened.

She hurried off the bus, her footsteps barely registering. She scanned the street, the sidewalks, the familiar yards. Nothing. The neighborhood began to spin.

“Emily! Where are you!” she screamed, her voice raw.

Tears stung her eyes. She sank slightly onto the curb. The bus hissed as the doors closed and the engine rumbled to life.

“Em… Emily… come back… please…” Veronica’s words were swallowed by the afternoon air, lost beneath the engine and the distant chatter of children.

“Emily!” The scream echoed, filling her ears but never reaching beyond them.

Every second stretched impossibly long. The world felt hollow around her, everything bright and normal and still wrong. Her heart pounded, the ringing in her ears matching the unrelenting call of her phone.

She leaned forward, eyes wide, scanning again, desperate for the small ponytail, the bright backpack, the familiar face she loved. Nothing.

Her hands trembled. She pressed the phone harder to her ear. The ringing continued. “Emily! Where are you?”

Sunlight streaked across her vision. Asphalt, bus, lawns, houses—all faded behind the pounding in her chest, the ringing of the phone, and the sudden, terrifying realization: Emily was gone.

Chapter 3

The interview room was colder than it needed to be. The grey walls absorbing the sounds of the precinct outside. 

Samantha felt it as soon as she stepped inside, a quiet, persistent chill that settled into the space and stayed there. It wasn’t uncomfortable, not exactly. Just present. Like something that didn’t need to be noticed to be understood.

Zach Eddington was already seated at the table. Tall, narrow face with several days’ scruff on it. Strong build. Hunched over, foot beating out a nervous tapping on the floor. 

He didn’t look up right away. His hands rested loosely in front of him, fingers relaxed, posture unguarded. No cuffs. No restraints. Nothing to suggest he wasn’t free to stand up and walk out if he chose to. 

But Samantha knew it was in his best interest to stay seated. She closed the door behind her, the sound soft but final. Her fingers rested against the sides of her tablet. 

The glass to her right reflected the room back at her—dark, flat, giving nothing away. Anyone else might have taken it at face value. Samantha knew better. Greg was behind it, watching, close enough to step in if something went wrong.

Close enough to give her a sense of safety. 

She crossed the room and sat down across from Zach, setting the tablet in front of her without opening it.

“Mr. Eddington,” she said, her voice even, controlled. “Thanks for coming in.”

He looked up then.

There was no uncertainty in his expression. No visible tension. Just a quiet awareness that settled on her and stayed there.

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” he muttered.

“You always have a choice.” She replied her eyes tracking his movements.

A faint shift touched the corner of his mouth, not quite forming into a smile.

Samantha rested her hands lightly on the table.

“You’re not under arrest,” she said. “You’re here to answer questions. That’s it.”

Zach didn’t respond, but something in his posture acknowledged it, a subtle easing that might have been mistaken for compliance.

“Let’s talk about Emily Carter.” Samantha opened her tablet and scrolled to the photo her family had given the police. 

A bright faced girl with clear skin and an innocent smile stared up at Samantha. 

“She’s eight years old. Missing since yesterday.” 

Zach leaned back slightly, his gaze steady on hers. “Don’t know anything about that.”

The answer came too quickly.

Samantha let the silence stretch between them, giving the words space to settle where they didn’t quite belong.

“You were seen near her house,” she said. “Your truck was parked less than a block away from where the bus stops for the school she attends.”

“I drive around.” Zachary shot back. Voice tight. 

“At six am?” Samantha replied. 

“Sometimes. I work construction. Gotta go where the jobs are lady.”

His tone was flat, unbothered, but it didn’t read as indifference. There was a steadiness to him, a kind of control that felt intentional. He wasn’t searching for answers or adjusting under pressure. He was holding his ground.

“Emily was last seen around 8:15,” Samantha continued. “Neighbors reported a vehicle matching yours.”

“Lots of trucks look like mine.”

“Not with your plate. And not by people with your record.”

There it was again—a pause, small but real. A fraction of a second where something tightened beneath the surface before settling back into place.

“I didn’t take any kid,” he said, his voice sharper now.

“I didn’t say you did.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No,” Samantha replied calmly. “I said you were there.”

The shift between them was subtle but unmistakable.

Zachary leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. The casual ease was gone now, replaced with something more focused.

“You people always do this,” he said. “Find someone easy.”

“Easy?” Samantha’s eyebrows rose the words landed sideways. 

“Someone already on your list.” Zachary spat. 

Samantha didn’t glance at the file.

“You’re on that list for a reason.”

This time the reaction was clearer. His fingers curled slightly against the tabletop, the movement controlled but not invisible.

“That was years ago,” he said. “Different situation. I had to…relieve myself.”

“Behind the bushes… across from an all-girls’ school?” Samantha’s voice stayed even. “The police didn’t find urine there. You were caught, and you know it.”

“An eight-year-old girl is missing,” Samantha said. “That’s the situation now.”

Zachary looked down at his hands. Then his gaze met Samantha’s. 

The silence that filled the room carried more weight than the ones before it. 

Samantha was aware of the room in a different way now—the distance across the table, the angle of Zachary’s body, the stillness that had settled into him. Behind the glass, Greg remained unseen, a presence she could rely on but not reach.

“You expect me to believe you had nothing to do with it?” She asked.

“I didn’t touch her.”

Again, too quick. Too rehearsed. 

Samantha leaned forward slightly, narrowing the space between them without fully realizing she had done it.

“Then why were you there?”

Zach didn’t answer.

His jaw tightened, the muscles along his neck shifting as his breathing changed, just enough for her to notice. It wasn’t panic. It wasn’t even uncertainty.

It was pressure.

“If you didn’t take her,” Samantha said, her voice quieter now, more precise, “then you saw something. She was light skinned, dark hair the kind you…favor.”

He said nothing.

“Or you saw someone you’re protecting.”

His hands were no longer relaxed. They squeezed slightly. The tension in them was contained, but present, like something held just below the surface. His biceps flexed subtly. 

Samantha felt it then, not as a thought but as an instinct, a quiet signal that the balance in the room had shifted. It wasn’t dramatic. Nothing obvious had changed. But something had.

This was the point where she could ease back, let the conversation breathe, give the moment space to reset. But there was a little girl somewhere who needed them. 

Samantha leaned in instead, closing the distance just enough to matter.

“You were the last person in that area before she disappeared,” Samantha said. “So let’s stop pretending you don’t know what happened.”

Zach’s eyes stayed on hers.

There was no hesitation in them now, no effort to deflect or redirect. Just a fixed, narrowing focus that settled entirely on her.

Samantha held his gaze, pushing through the silence.

“Where is she?”

The question landed cleanly.

For a moment, nothing moved.

Then the stillness broke.

Zach surged forward, the table jolting as it scraped across the floor. His hand caught her shoulder and drove her back before she could react, the force knocking her off balance as her chair tipped and disappeared beneath her.

The impact with the floor was immediate and disorienting, the air forced out of her lungs before she could brace for it. For a second, her body refused to respond, caught somewhere between instinct and shock.

She tried to turn, to bring her arms up, but the first strike came before she could.

Her head snapped to the side, a burst of white cutting through her vision as sound dropped out into a dull, distant ringing. The second hit followed quickly, heavier, driving heat across her face as fluid warm and sticky spread beneath it.

Her thoughts fractured, splintering into chaos, losing all shape.

She pulled in a breath that didn’t quite come, her chest tightening as she tried to move, to create space, but a sharp impact to her side stopped her, locking her body in place as pain spread through her ribs. Hard. Thick. The sole of a boot.

The room tilted.

Somewhere beyond it, there was a sound—the door, opening hard—but it felt distant, disconnected from where she was.

Zach was still above her, movement close and overwhelming, his weight and force collapsing the space around her as she tried to shield herself, her arm coming up too slow, not enough to stop what followed.

Her body wasn’t keeping up. Everything lagged, a fraction too late, a step behind where it needed to be.

The floor pressed cold against her cheek.

The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. She moaned, body collapsing in on itself.

The door banged open. Voices—loud, frantic, screaming—echoed in the room.

“Get him off her!” Greg’s voice cut through the chaos, faint but insistent.

The pressure on her ribs lifted, vanishing as Zachary’s weight disappeared. A new voice pierced the noise, sharp and immediate—but it took her a second to recognize it.

“Samantha—stay with me.”

Greg’s voice filled her ears but didn’t reach her.

She tried to focus on the sound, to hold onto it as the room shifted and blurred around her.

Her breathing came unevenly, each inhale catching as she struggled to steady it. The ceiling above her fractured into light and shadow, refusing to settle into anything clear.

And beneath it all, one thought remained, quiet but unshakable.

She had felt the moment change.

She had recognized it for what it was.

And she had chosen to push anyway.

Samantha Leary Psychological Thrillers 

The moment doesn’t end here. It never does.

For Samantha, this is where it begins—where instinct starts to press against the surface, where something unresolved refuses to stay buried.

If you felt that shift—the quiet sense that something isn’t right—you’re already inside her world.

The story continues in the Samantha Leary series, beginning with the prequel.

Step into the series on Amazon