Page 102 of Beyond Protection
Clairmont's expression softened. "Alive, Mr. McCabe. Everything we've found suggests she wants to keep you. Preserve you." She paused. "That's its own kind of horror."
Alive.
That might have been a relief. Instead, my mouth went dry.
Alive meant aware. Conscious. Knowing precisely what was happening to me.
My phone buzzed.
Everyone froze.
Michael moved his hand to his hip—muscle memory. Marcus turned from the window. Clairmont's expression hardened.
Eamon didn't move except to press harder against my collarbone.
I pulled out the phone with numb fingers.
Unknown number.
The preview text made my throat close:
Day 6. Police involvement noted.
"It's her," I said.
Clairmont was around the desk in two steps. "Don't open it. Let me—"
I ignored her instruction.
Day 6. Police involvement noted. I see you've chosen to escalate rather than accept help. This is disappointing but not unexpected. Conditioning is strong. You don't yet understand that I'm saving you, not harming you. Six days remain. If you continue down this path—if you persist in involving those who cannot understand what you truly need—I will be forced to adjust my approach. Your family's safety is not guaranteed if they stand between us. Choose preservation or accept destruction. There is no third option. —V.K.
The phone nearly slipped from my hands.
Eamon caught it. Read the screen.
"She's threatening the family now," Marcus said.
Michael was already pulling out his phone. "I'm calling Ma."
Clairmont held out her hand. "Mr. McCabe, I need your phone. We'll run a trace."
I gave it to her.
She disappeared into the bullpen. Her voice rose—sharp commands to someone in tech.
Eamon spoke. "We assume she can see us now," he said. He used his tactical voice. "She knows we're at the precinct. Knows we're looking at evidence."
"Fuck," Michael muttered.
Marcus moved away from the window. Put his back to the interior wall.
She'd been inside every version of my life. The condo I thought was private. The spring training field. The family gatherings I thought were safe. She'd documented everything and photographed me through windows and across crowded stadiums.
She wanted to strip everything away until I was just a specimen under glass.
Not a person.
An object.
