Page 1 of Beyond Protection
Chapter one
Mac
The storm door squeaked the way it had for twenty years—metal hinge against metal frame, the rhythm of home for the holidays. Rain hammered the overhang above my head. Inside, someone laughed a little too loudly.
I hadn't planned to visit my cousins this year, but Ma's house always smelled like permission to stop performing, and that was reason enough. She'd been offering that permission since I was ten, since my father died, and she made it clear I had a place at her table. Always would."
Before going in, I almost turned back to my rental car for a moment of quiet. Then my phone buzzed in my jacket pocket.
I should've left it in the glove compartment. Or in Phoenix. Or at the bottom of Puget Sound.
Instead, I pulled it out—a message from an unfamiliar number.
You don't look the same this season. The smile's thinner. The shoulders tighter. I've been watching. You need rest before something breaks.
For half a second, I thought it was a trainer—one of those sports-science guys who thought unsolicited advice counted as friendship.
Then I read it again.
I've been watching.
The porch light flickered. Rain kept falling. Inside, someone clinked a serving spoon against a casserole dish.
A prank, I told myself. Probably a fan. The internet was full of armchair analysts who thought televised games made them experts on my posture.
"Mac?" Michael's voice carried from inside. "You coming, or planning to drown out there?"
I thumbed the screen dark and slid the phone back into my pocket. "Be right there."
When I stepped into the light and noise, the smell of roast beef and Murphy's Oil Soap hit me hard. Ma waved a dish towel at me. I smiled for everyone.
Underneath the smile, the words kept repeating.
You need rest before something breaks.
"There he is." Ma came at me, flour on her cardigan sleeve, and glasses fogged at the edges. Her hug was quick and fierce—you're late and I'm glad you're herein one squeeze.
"Sorry. Traffic from—"
"I don't care about traffic." She pulled back, hands on my shoulders, checking for damage, a reflex from raising four first responder sons. "You look thin."
"I look the same."
"Thin." She turned me toward the kitchen. "Go eat something before Marcus takes all the rolls."
I kicked off my sneakers. The entryway linoleum was tacky under my socks. Someone had already strung Christmas lights in the living room doorway, even though Thanksgiving wasn't over yet, their reflections blinking red and green in the hallway mirror.
Seven voices, maybe eight. Marcus's baritone carried over the rest. Michael's dry commentary underneath. Matthew laughed at something Miles said. My mother Claire's voice was quieter than the rest, like silk slipping between my fingers.
It was all supposed to be cozy and warm. I forced myself to move toward the dining room.
They'd crammed everyone around the table that had survived forty years of elbows, spilled gravy, and arguments about ketchup on roast. Marcus sat at the head where his father used to sit, sleeves rolled up, ready for a siege. Michael slouched in the corner nursing a beer, but his eyes tracked my entrance the way they probably still tracked rooms for threats—former SWAT habits died hard. Matthew gestured with a fork mid-story. Miles watched everything with the therapist's attention, who missed nothing.
Their partners filled the remaining spaces—James, Alex, Dorian, Rowan—already folded into the chaos like they'd always been there.
Claire occupied the space nearest the window. Straight spine, small movements, and hands folded in front of her untouched plate. She looked up when I entered.
"Cormac."
