Page 105 of Beyond Protection
"She picked Christmas week on purpose," I said. "It's when we're open. When we're together."
Eamon glanced at me. "Then we close ranks."
Simple. Direct. Tactical thinking that made sense.
Ma's street appeared ahead.
Lights blazed in every window of her house. Not only the porch light, but every room lit against December dark. Her Christmas tree was visible through the front window—colored bulbs reflecting off the glass.
In other years, it was a comforting sight. Now, it looked like a fortress under siege.
Cars lined the curb. Marcus's truck. Michael's SUV. Claire's sedan. Matthew's Subaru. Miles's Prius. The whole extended McCabe apparatus was mobilizing.
Eamon pulled up behind Michael's vehicle. Killed the engine.
Neither of us moved.
"They're all here," I said.
"Yeah."
"Because of me."
He turned in his seat. "Because you're family. This is what families do."
"Let's go," I said.
We got out. Drizzle was starting to fall. Cold seeped into my bones. Eamon touched my back and guided me up the walkway.
The porch light flickered once. That same loose connection that had persisted for years. Uncle Graham had meant to fix it before he died. Then my father, Ronan. Then Marcus. Now it just flickered.
The door opened before we reached it.
Ma stood framed in the doorway. Small and solid and utterly immovable.
"Everyone's here, sweetheart." She reached for me. Pulled me into a hug that smelled like Christmas cookies. The scent of home. "We've got you."
I held on longer than usual.
When she pulled back, her hands stayed on my shoulders—checking for damage.
"Come inside."
Eamon followed me across the threshold. Ma grabbed his arm as he passed.
"You too. Both of you. Inside."
The house was as overwhelming as I'd expected.
Voices overlapped from every room. Michael had commandeered the dining table, maps and files spread across the surface where Ma usually served Sunday dinner. Marcus stood behind him, phone to his ear, speaking in the clipped tones he used with cops.
"—patrol units every thirty minutes, but I want—" He looked up when we entered. Whatever he saw in my face made him pause mid-sentence. "I'll call you back."
Matthew appeared from the kitchen carrying mugs. Set one in front of me without asking. He'd already doctored the coffee the way I liked it—too much cream, too much sugar.
"Drink," he said.
Miles was in Uncle Graham's chair by the window, but he wasn't reading everyone's emotional state from a distance. He stood when I came in and crossed to me. Didn't say anything, just gripped my upper arm once.
